r song.
It is what we call our home, away up there in the lost wilderness where
people never come--the Last Domain. Their wives and sweethearts and
families are up there, and they are happy in knowing that today we
shall travel a few miles nearer to them. They are not like your people
in Montreal and Ottawa and Quebec, M'sieu David. They are like
children. And yet they are glorious children!"

She ran to the wall and took down the banner of St. Pierre Boulain.
"St. Pierre is behind us," she explained. "He is coming down with a
raft of timber such as we can not get in our country, and we are
waiting for him. But each day we must float down with the stream a few
miles nearer the homes of my people. It makes them happier, even though
it is but a few miles. They are coming now for my bateau. We shall
travel slowly, and it will be wonderful on a day like this. It will do
you good to come outside, M'sieu David--with me. Would you care for
that? Or would you rather be alone?"

In her face there was no longer the old restraint. On her lips was the
witchery of a half-smile; in her eyes a glow that flamed the blood in
his veins. It was not a flash of coquetry. It was something deeper and
warmer than that, something real--a new Marie-Anne Boulain telling him
plainly that she wanted him to come. He did not know that his hands
were still clenched at his side. Perhaps she knew. But her eyes did not
leave his face, eyes that were repeating the invitation of her lips,
openly asking him not to refuse.

"I shall be happy to come," he said.

The words fell out of him numbly. He scarcely heard them or knew what
he was saying, yet he was conscious of the unnatural note in his voice.
He did not know he was betraying himself beyond that, did not see the
deepening of the wild-rose flush in the cheeks of St. Pierre's wife. He
picked up his pipe from the table and moved to accompany her.

"You must wait a little while," she said, and her hand rested for an
instant upon his arm. Its touch was as light as the touch of his lips
had been against her shining hair, but he felt it in every nerve of his
body. "Nepapinas is making a special lotion for your hurt. I will send
him in, and then you may come."

The wild chant of the rivermen was near as she turned to the door. From
it she looked back at him swiftly.

"They are happy, M'sieu David," she repeated softly. "And I, too, am
happy. I am no longer afraid. And the world is beautiful again. Can