oubt in his mind that she was already heaping the
ignominy of blame upon him. That was the woman of it.

A knock at his door drew him about. It was a light, quick TAP, TAP,
TAP--not like the fist of either Bateese or Nepapinas. In another
moment the door swung open, and in the flood of sunlight that poured
into the cabin stood St. Pierre's wife!

It was not her presence, but the beauty of her, that held him
spellbound. It was a sort of shock after the vivid imaginings of his
mind in which he had seen her beaten and tortured by storm. Her hair,
glowing in the sun and piled up in shining coils on the crown of her
head, was not wet. She was not the rain-beaten little partridge that
had passed in tragic bedragglement through his mind. Storm had not
touched her. Her cheeks were soft with the warm flush of long hours of
sleep. When she came in, her lips greeting him with a little smile, all
that he had built up for himself in the hours of the night crumbled
away in dust. Again he forgot for a moment that she was St. Pierre's
wife. She was woman, and as he looked upon her now, the most adorable
woman in all the world.

"You are better this morning," she said. Real pleasure shone in her
eyes. She had left the door open, so that the sun filled the room. "I
think the storm helped you. Wasn't it splendid?"

David swallowed hard. "Quite splendid," he managed to say. "Have you
seen Bateese this morning?"

A little note of laughter came into her throat. "Yes. I don't think he
liked it. He doesn't understand why I love storms. Did you sleep well,
M'sieu Carrigan?"

"An hour or two, I think. I was worrying about you. I didn't like the
thought that I had turned you out into the storm. But it doesn't seem
to have touched you."

"No. I was there--quite comfortable." She nodded to the forward
bulkhead of the cabin, beyond the wardrobe closets and the piano.
"There is a little dining-room and kitchenette ahead," she explained.
"Didn't Bateese tell you that?"

"No, he didn't. I asked him where you were, and I think he told me to
shut up."

"Bateese is very odd," said St. Pierre's wife. "He is exceedingly
jealous of me, M'sieu David. Even when I was a baby and he carried me
about in his arms, he was just that way. Bateese, you know, is older
than he appears. He is fifty-one."

She was moving about, quite as if his presence was in no way going to
disturb her usual duties of the day. She rearranged the damask curtains
which he had