es of men between whom had suddenly
come the faith and understanding of a brotherhood as strong as life
itself.

Then Nepapinas wheeled St. Pierre from the room and David straightened
himself against his pillows, and waited, and listened, until it seemed
two hearts were thumping inside him in the place of one.

It was an interminable time, he thought, before Marie-Anne stood in the
doorway. For a breath she paused there, looking at him as he stretched
out his bandaged arm to her, moved by every yearning impulse in her
soul to come in, yet ready as a bird to fly away. And then, as he
called her name, she ran to him and dropped upon her knees at his side,
and his arms went about her, insensible to their hurt--and her hot face
was against his neck, and his lips crushed in the smothering sweetness
of her hair. He made no effort to speak, beyond that first calling of
her name. He could feel her heart throbbing against him, and her hands
tightened at his shoulders, and at last she raised her glorious face so
near that the breath of it was on his lips. Then, seeing what was in
his eyes, her soft mouth quivered in a little smile, and with a broken
throb in her throat she whispered,

"Has it all ended--right--David?"

He drew the red mouth to his own, and with a glad cry which was no word
in itself he buried his face in the lustrous tresses he loved.
Afterward he could not remember all it was that he said, but at the end
Marie-Anne had drawn a little away so that she was looking at him, her
eyes shining gloriously and her cheeks beautiful as the petals of a
wild rose. And he could see the throbbing in her white throat, like the
beating of a tiny heart.

"And you'll take me with you?" she whispered joyously.

"Yes; and when I show you to the old man--Superintendent Me Vane, you
know--and tell him you're my wife, he can't go back on his promise. He
said if I settled this Roger Audemard affair, I could have anything I
might ask for. And I'll ask for my discharge, I ought to have it in
September, and that will give us time to return before the snow flies.
You see--"

He held out his arms again. "You see," he cried, his face smothered in
her hair again, "I've found the place of my dreams up here, and I want
to stay--always. Are you a little glad, Marie-Anne?"

In a great room at the end of the hall, with windows opening in three
directions upon the wilderness, St. Pierre waited in his wheel-chair,
grunting uneasily now and