He had twirled in his fingers the first little spray
of the saskatoon, brought in by Henri Corlier to show how the woods
were answering the call of the spring.
"Why," he said, astounded beyond measure, "why, Francette,--little one,
what does this mean?"
But Francette had lost her tongue and there was no answer from the
bowed figure at his knees.
He put out a hand and laid it on her shoulder and it was shaken with
sobs,--the sobs of a woman who has cast her all on the throw of the die
and in a panic would have it back.
Off in the forest a night bird called to its mate and the squeaky
fiddle whined dolorously and a profound pity began to well in the
factor's heart. She was such a little maid, such a childish thing, a
veritable creature of the sunlight, like those great golden butterflies
that danced in the flowered glades of the woods, and she had brought
her one great gift to him unasked.
Some thought of Maren Le Moyne and of that reckless cavalier with his
curls and his red flowers crept into his voice and made it wondrously
tender with sympathy.
"Sh, little one," he comforted, as he had comforted that day on the
river bank when she had wept over Loup; "come up and let us talk of
this.
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