She was still young, and the little face among the coarse homespun blankets looked almost childish.

Heavy masses of black hair lay on the pillow, and the depth of its darkness increased the pallor of her brow.

But the cheeks were flushed, and the deep hazel eyes were burning with a slow fire....
For a week the milk-sick fever had raged furiously, and in the few hours free from delirium she had been racked with omnipresent pain and deadly sickness.

Now those had gone, and she was drifting out to sea on a tide of utter weakness.

Her husband, Tom Linkhorn, thought she mending, and was even now whistling--the first time for weeks--by the woodpile.