To him alone was the devastation within
them apparent. He stretched out a timid hand and touched her sleeve.
"What is it, Ma'amselle?" he begged abjectly. "I would heal it with my
blood!"
Extravagant, impulsive, the boy was in deadly earnest, and Maren Le
Moyne was conscious of it as simply as that she lived.
Just as simply she acknowledged to him what she would have to none
other in De Seviere, that something had fallen from a clear sky.
"Nay," she said, and the deep voice was lifeless, "I am beyond help."
Dupre's fingers slipped, trembling, around her arm.
"But I am a stone to your foot, Ma'amselle,--always remember that. When
the way becomes too hard there shall be a stone to your foot. I ask no
better fate and you have said."
The miserable eyes were not dead to everything. At his swift words they
glowed a moment.
"Aye,--I have said, and I thank God, M'sieu, for such friendship. I am
rich, indeed."
"Oho! Marc Dupre does better at the lovemaking than at the trapping!
His account at the factory suffers from les amours!"
A childish voice broke in upon them, and Francette's mpish face peeped
round the corner of the nearest cabin.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126