The girl stooped and took it from him, and for a moment her hand lay
against his palm, a smooth warm hand.
"And you wish me to wear it?" she asked.
"If it shall please you."
"Then it shall please me," she said quite easily, "and I thank you."
McElroy turned away and walked back to the factory, and all the way he
did not know what he had done. It had been an impulse, and he had
rushed to its fulfilling without a thought. Had he bungled in giving
her a garment where De Courtenay had played on a wind-harp in giving
her a little red flower?
He was hot and cold alternately, and the memory of that momentary frown
came turn and turn with that of the gentle manner in which she had
reached down for the lifted gift.
And Maren Le Moyne?
Within the cabin she had turned to that portion which was her own, the
while Marie's sharp eyes followed her with questions that were ripe on
her tongue.
"Maren," she cried, as the girl passed the inner door, unable to longer
hold herself, "know you the factor well?"
But Maren only shook her head and closed the slab door between.
Once alone she laid the gift on the bed, covered with a patchwork quilt
made from the worn garments that had seen the long trail, and stood
bending above, looking closely at each beauty of colour, of softness
and design.
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