uld not see a
great change in her since this afternoon, except that there seemed to
be a little more fire in the glow of her eyes. They were looking at him
steadily as she smiled and nodded, wide, beautiful eyes in which there
was surely no revelation of shame or regret, and no very clear evidence
of unhappiness. David stared, and his tongue clove to the roof of his
mouth.

"Why is it that you sit in darkness?" she asked, stepping within and
closing the door. "Did you not expect me to return and apologize for
leaving you so suddenly this afternoon? It was impolite. Afterward I
was ashamed. But I was excited, M'sieu David. I--"

"Of course," he hurried to interrupt her. "I understand. St. Pierre is
a lucky man. I congratulate you--as well as him. He is splendid, a man
in whom you can place great faith and confidence."

"He scolded me for running away from you as I did, M'sieu David. He
said I should have shown better courtesy than to leave like that one
who was a guest in our--home. So I have returned, like a good child, to
make amends."

"It was not necessary."

"But you were lonesome and in darkness!"

He nodded. "Yes."

"And besides," she added, so quietly and calmly that he was amazed,
"you know my sleeping apartment is also on the bateau. And St. Pierre
made me promise to say good night to you."

"It is an imposition," cried David, the blood rushing to his face. "You
have given up all this to me! Why not let me go into that little room
forward, or sleep on the raft and you and St. Pierre--"

"St. Pierre would not leave the raft," replied Marie-Anne, turning from
him toward the table on which were the books and magazines and her
work-basket. "And I like my little room forward."

"St. Pierre--"

He stopped himself. He could see a sudden color deepening in the cheek
of St. Pierre's wife as she made pretense of looking for something in
her basket. He felt that if he went on he would blunder, if he had not
already blundered. He was uncomfortable, for he believed he had guessed
the truth. It was not quite reasonable to expect that Marie-Anne would
come to him like this on the first night of St. Pierre's homecoming.
Something had happened over in the little cabin on the raft, he told
himself. Perhaps there had been a quarrel--at least ironical
implications on St. Pierre's part. And his sympathy was with St. Pierre.

He caught suddenly a little tremble at the corner of Marie-Anne's mouth
as her face was turn