January dragged slowly by, with dances for the young couples in the
cabins at nights, and little Francette, for the first time in her life,
refused to share in the merry-making of which she had always been the
heart and soul.
Instead, she lay awake in the attic of the Moline cabin and cried in
her hands, listening to the whirl of the nights without.
Alone in those long vigils instinct was telling her that she had
failed. Failed utterly!
The young factor cared no more for her than on that night in spring
when he had kissed her and told her to "play in the sunshine and think
no more of him."
She had played for a man and failed.
Moreover, she had not played fairly, and for her wickedness he lay now
as he had lain so long, drifting slowly but surely toward that land of
shadows whence there is no return.
She clinched her small hands in the darkness and wept, and they were
woman's tears.
Back to her led all the threads of tragedy, of death and danger and
heartbreak, that had so hopelessly tangled themselves in Fort de
Seviere.
But for that one hour at the factory steps what time she lay in
McElroy's arms and saw Maren Le Moyne pause at the corner, all would be
well.
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