They are not like your people in Montreal and Ottawa and
Quebec, M'sieu David. They are like children. And yet they are
glorious children!"
She ran to the wall and took down the banner of St. Pierre
Boulain. "St. Pierre is behind us," she explained. "He is coming
down with a raft of timber such as we can not get in our country,
and we are waiting for him. But each day we must float down with
the stream a few miles nearer the homes of my people. It makes
them happier, even though it is but a few miles. They are coming
now for my bateau. We shall travel slowly, and it will be
wonderful on a day like this. It will do you good to come outside,
M'sieu David--with me. Would you care for that? Or would you
rather be alone?"
In her face there was no longer the old restraint. On her lips was
the witchery of a half-smile; in her eyes a glow that flamed the
blood in his veins. It was not a flash of coquetry. It was
something deeper and warmer than that, something real--a new
Marie-Anne Boulain telling him plainly that she wanted him to
come. He did not know that his hands were still clenched at his
side. Perhaps she knew. But her eyes did not leave his face, eyes
that were repeating the invitation of her lips, openly asking him
not to refuse.
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