r through which she had fled, his lips parted as if to
call her name, and yet motionless, dumb. A moment before he was
intoxicated by a joy that was almost madness. He had held Jeanne in his
arms; he had looked into her eyes, filled with surrender under his
caresses and his avowal of love. For a moment he had possessed her, and
now he was alone. The cry that had wrung itself from her lips, breaking
in upon his happiness like a blow, still rang in his ears, and there
was something in the exquisite pain of it that left him in torment.
Heart and soul, every drop of blood in him, had leaped in the joy of
that glorious moment, when Jeanne's eyes and sweet lips had accepted
his love, and her arms had clung about his shoulders. Now these things
had been struck dead within him. He felt again the fierce pressure of
Jeanne's arms as she had thrust him away, he saw the fright and torture
that had leaped into her eyes as she sprang from him, as though his
touch had suddenly become a sacrilege. He lowered his arms slowly, and
went to the hall. It was empty. He heard no sound, and closed the door.

It was so still that he could hear the excited throbbing of his own
heart. He looked at the picture again, and a strange fancy impressed
him with the idea that it was no longer smiling at him, but that its
eyes were turned to the door through which Jeanne had disappeared. He
moved his position, and the illusion was gone. It was Jeanne looking
down upon him again, an older and happier Jeanne than the one whom he
loved. For the first time he examined it closely. In one corner of the
canvas he found the artist's name, Bourret, and after it the date,
1888. Could it be the picture of Jeanne's mother? He told himself that
it was impossible, for Jeanne's mother had been found dead in the snow,
five years later than the date of the canvas, and Pierre, the
half-breed, had buried her somewhere out on the barren, so that she was
a mystery to all but him. Even the master of Fort o' God, to whom he
had brought the child, had never seen the woman upon whose cold breast
Pierre had found the little Jeanne.

With nervous hands he replaced the picture with its face to the wall,
and began to pace up and down the room, wondering if D'Arcambal would
send for him. He had hope of seeing Jeanne again that night. He felt
sure that she had gone to her room, and that even D'Arcambal might not
know that he was alone. In that event he had a long night ahead of him,
f