Now her fingers touched softly the same
notes. A little humming trill came in her throat, and it seemed to
David that she was deliberately recalling his thoughts to the
things that had happened before the coming of St. Pierre. He had
not lighted the lamp over the piano, and for a flash her dark eyes
smiled at him out of the half shadow. After a moment she began to
sing.
Her voice was low and without effort, untrained, and subdued as if
conscious and afraid of its limitations, yet so exquisitely sweet
that to David it was a new and still more wonderful revelation of
St. Pierre's wife. He drew nearer, until he stood close at her
side, the dark luster of her hair almost touching his arm, her
partly upturned face a bewitching profile in the shadows.
Her voice grew lower, almost a whisper in its melody, as if meant
for him alone. Many times he had heard the Canadian Boat Song, but
never as its words came now from the lips of Marie-Anne Boulain.
"Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and
our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll
sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn; Row, brothers, row, the
stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.
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