Home that might make a lass forget
such a haythen land as this, though God knew if it would ever get out
av th' bad dreams at night!
"An' now will ye be afther tellin' us th' sthory av yer adventures, my
dear?"
Maren was cooking a broth of wild hen in the little pail of poor Marc
Dupre, across the fire, and the little woman was busy watching a bit of
bread baking on a smoothed plank. Her companion, a tall, fair-haired
woman with pale eyes, light as the grey-green sheen sometimes seen on
the waters before a storm, was reclining in tired idleness beside her.
This woman had not spoken to Maren, but her cold eyes followed her now
with an odd persistence.
"Or is it too wild and sad? If it gives ye pain, don't say a word,--
though, wurra! 'tis woild I am to hear!"
Maren looked up, and once more the smile that was stranger to her
features played over them in its old-time beauty.
"Nay,--why should I not tell so good a heart as yours?" said the girl
simply, and she began at the beginning and told the sorry tale through
to its end.
"And so he died, this young trapper with the soul of pearl, and I alone
go back to De Seviere with--with M'sieu the factor," she concluded
heavily.
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