It was the little Francette. At her heels the great dog, Loup, halted
and glowered at the strangers.
CHAPTER XXVIII THE OLD DREAM ONCE MORE
They led her through the new day, between the staring, whispering
people, this comer from beyond the grave, to the little new cabin
beside the northern wall, across its step and into its sweet, fresh
cleanliness of home; and when Henri had shut the door they stood
together in a group, their arms inwound, and Marie wept helplessly
while Maren looked down with moist and weary eyes.
"There! There! Hush, ma cherie! Hush!" she was saying, but Henri was
reading with amaze the change in her glorious face.
"It has been a long trail, Prix, but a longer one beckons with
ceaseless insistence. No longer can I sit in idleness. Can we, think
you, raise the debt to carry us on at once? My heart is sick for the
Athabasca."
Maren stood by the factory door conversing earnestly with Laroux.
From every point of the post curious eyes looked upon her. Here and
there groups of women whispered in the doorways, and once and again a
laugh, quick hushed, broke on the evening air.
Somehow they struck upon the girl's ears with an ugly sound, reminding
her vaguely of the fair woman who travelled eastward with Sheila
O'Halloran, and her voice grew more earnest.
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