omanly cheek, sweet and full and rich
as a damask rose with the thick lashes above shining like jet.

Obedient to her silence, he sat still while she dreamed her dream out to
its conclusion, and presently she straightened with a little breath like
a sigh, unclasped her hands from her knees and turned her glance upon
him as if she saw him for the first time.

His head whirled suddenly and he sought for some common word to cover
his rare confusion.

"See, Ma'amselle," he said, pointing, "the well-lashed packs of the fat
winter beaver. Truly they come well laden, these Assiniboines, and
we may well thank le bon Dieu for the wealth of skins. Is it not a
heartening sight?"

The eyes of Maren Le Moyne left his face and swept swiftly down the
gentle slope to where the Indians had piled their bales of furs. At the
sight they darkened like the waters of a lake when a little wind runs
over its surface.

"A heartening sight? Nay, M'sieu," she said, shaking her head, "I can
find no joy in it."

"What?"

The trapper was aghast.

"No pleasure in the fruits of a fat season?"

"See the packs of marten, the dark streaks showing a bit at the edges
where the fur rounds over the dried skin. How were those pelts taken,
M'sieu?"

"How? Why, most cunningly, Ma'amselle,--in traps of the H. B. Company,
set with utmost skill, perhaps on a stump above the line of the heavy
snows, or balanced nicely at the far end of a slender pole set leaning
in the ground. The delicate hand of a seasoned player must match itself
with the forest instinct of these small creatures. The little pole holds
little snow and the scent of the bait calls the marten up, when,
snap! it is fast and waiting for the trapper and the lodge of the
Assiniboines, the women and the drying."

"Yes. And those hundreds of beaver, M'sieu?"

Marc Dupre's eyes were shining and the red in his cheeks flushing with
pleasure.

What more to a man's liking than the exploitation of knowledge gained
first-hand in the pursuit of his life's work?

"Again the trap," he said, "set this time at the edge of a stream where
the beaver huts peek through the ice, or lift their tops above the open
water. Neatly they are set, cunning as an Indian himself; hidden in the
soft slime at the margin if the water runs, waiting with open jaws in
the small runway above the dam where the creatures come out from the
swim. A sleek head lifting above the ripples a scrambling foot or
two,--snap! again t