Young Marc, Dupre would be singing his gay French songs with his red
cap tilted on his curls, that handsome Nor'wester of the Saskatchewan
would be going his merry way, loving here and there,--instead of
bleaching their bones in some distant forest, as the whispers said;
and, last of all, this man she loved with all the intensity of her soul
would be brown and strong with life, not the weary wreck of a man who
gazed into the fire and would not get well.
So the long nights took toll of the little Francette and a purpose grew
in her chastened heart, a purpose far too big for it.
At last the purpose blossomed into full maturity, hastened by the dark
shadows that were beginning to spread beneath McElroy's hopeless eyes,
as if the spirit, so little in the body, were already leaving it to its
earthly end, and one day at dusk, trembling and afraid, she went to the
factory for the last time.
"Rette," she said plaintively, "will you leave me alone with M'sieu the
factor for an hour? Think what you will," she added fiercely, as she
saw the woman's look; "tell all the populace! I care not! Only give me
one hour! Mon Dieu! A little space to pay the debt of life! Leave me,
Rette, as you hope for Heaven!"
And Rette, wondering and vaguely touched, complied.
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