The leaves were wilted with the heat of the man's body and came easily
off in her fingers, disclosing a small square box cunningly made from
birchbark and stained after the Indian fashion in brilliant colours. A
tiny lid was fastened with a thong of braided grass.
Wonderingly she slipped the little catch and lifted the cover.
Inside upon a bed of dampened moss there lay a wee red flower, the
exact counterpart of that one which Alfred de Courtenay had fastened in
her hair that morning by the well.
McElroy, at her shoulder, looked down upon it, and instantly the warmth
in his heart cooled.
When Maren looked up it was to find his eyes fixed on the messenger
whose tall figure swung away up the river's bank toward the north
forest, and they were coolly impersonal.
She was unversed in the ways of men where a maid is concerned, this
woman of the trail and portage, and she only knew vaguely that
something had gone wrong with sight of the little flower.
She stood, holding the box in her hand, among the women craning their
necks for a glimpse of the contents, and looked in open perplexity at
McElroy until a light laugh from the fringe behind her broke the
silence.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112