"
But she glanced wistfully around the new cabin, to be her own for the
length of the four seasons. And who should say what might not happen in
four seasons?
She wondered fretfully what fate had fashioned the glorious creature
beside her in the form of Love itself to put within the soul of the
restless conqueror. Never had she known Maren, though they two had come
from the same lap.
Presently Maren looked down at her, and the shimmering smile, like
light across dark waters, had again returned.
"Nay," she said gently, "fret not. It is spring-and you have at last a
home."
True, it was spring.
Did not each breath of the south wind tell it, each flute-like call
from the budding forest without the post, each burst of song from some
hot-blooded youth with his red cap perched on the back of his head, his
gay sash knotted jauntily?
It stirred the heart in the breast of Maren Le Moyne, but not with the
thought of love. It called to her as she stood at night alone under the
stars, with her head lifted as if to drink the keen, sweet darkness;
called to her from far-distant plains of blowing grass, virgin of man's
foot; from rushing rivers, bare of canoe and raft; from high hills,
smiling, sweet and fair, up to the cloudless sky--and always it called
from the West.
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