For love of him,--what would she not have done, what would she not do
still for love of him,--he who had sold her for a kiss; and for it
there came something,--she could not define it,--something that seemed
to live in the atmosphere, to taint the glory of the sunshine, to speak
under every word and whisper.
Never again did she cook at the fire with the others, but had her own
on the outskirts, and Sheila O'Halloran came and cooked with her,
talked and comforted and hovered about Anders McElroy where he lay in a
silence like death, his fair face flushed with fever and his strong
hands plucking at everything within their reach.
"Don't ye worry, dear, he'll not die. 'Twouldn't be accordin' to th'
rights av life,--not afther all ye've done f'r him. He'll opin his
blessid eyes some day an' know ye, an' Heaven itself will not be like
thim f'r glory."
But Maren only looked tragically down upon him.
What would they say, those eyes that she had thought so earnest, so
all-deserving in their eager honesty, if they should open to her alone?
Would they lie as they had done before, with the thought of Francette
behind their blue clearness?
Ah, well,--it was all in the day's march.
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