She told him how St.
Pierre had brought the piano down from Edmonton, and how he had
saved it from pitching in the river by carrying the full weight of
it on his shoulders when they met with an accident in running
through a dangerous rapids bringing it down. St. Pierre was a very
strong man, she said, a note of pride in her voice. And then she
added,
"Sometimes, when he picks me up in his arms, I feel that he is
going to squeeze the life out of me!"
Her words were like a sharp thrust into his heart. For an instant
they painted a vision for him, a picture of that slim and adorable
creature crushed close in the great arms of St. Pierre, so close
that she could not breathe. In that mad moment of his hurt it was
almost a living, breathing reality for him there on the golden
fore-deck of the scow. He turned his face toward the far shore,
where the wilderness seemed to reach off into eternity. What a
glory it was--the green seas of spruce and cedar and balsam, the
ridges of poplar and birch rising like silvery spume above the
darker billows, and afar off, mellowed in the sun-mists, the
guardian crests of Trout Mountains sentineling the country beyond!
Into that mystery-land on the farther side of the Wabiskaw
waterways Carrigan would have loved to set his foot four days ago.
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