she knew now that it was a moment out of life
that they two would share forever. There had been other times when
they had sung together under the golden winter stars--fleeting,
rapturous spaces when she had been conscious that not only their
voices, but in some way their spirits blended. But now . . . he was
going away into the gravest danger--into death perhaps. . . .

She overcame a quick impulse to reach out, to feel him under her hands,
to hold him back.

Gregg rose to place another log on the fire. He brushed his hands one
against the other and thrust them deep into his pockets. She felt his
dark eyes compelling her own, and raised her face from her hands.
Neither spoke, but for a long tempestuous moment they looked at each
other. Something perilously sweet and magnetic drew her. Even as she
rose Gregg was at her side. She felt his arms close about her with
eager tenderness. She stood against him within his hold, tremulous,
thrilling to his nearness, yet even in the ecstasy of it, realizing
that their separation was now made more poignantly unbearable.

"Jean . . ." a little hoarsely he said her name, and she was aware that
his heart was beating as wildly as her own. "Jean, you--you are so
dear to me! When I come back, could you--will you marry me?"

His arms tightened about her as his head bent to hers. In answer she
raised her face to his, and in the first joyous enchantment of young
love met his kiss.

Two hours later she lay in her little bunk steeped in glad tumultuous
memories of those last moments on the Lookout. Her spirit fared forth
on the wings of her love into the future--a future made beautiful
beyond her girlish dreams. She told herself it was not possible that
other men and women loved as she and Gregg; not Ellen and Shane, . . .
not anyone. . . . All at once she became conscious that in the
living-room her sister and brother-in-law were still talking, though
everyone else had long since gone to bed. The indistinct murmur of
their voices mingled with the metallic clicking sound that informed her
Shane was again oiling his revolver. Then his words came to her with
low distinctness:

"El, I'm going to leave this with you. There are three cartridges left
in it, and if--if--I don't come back and no help comes to you before
another winter . . . you know--little fellow--you know what to do."

CHAPTER XXXI

THE JUSTICE OF THE SEA

Because there is no night in the Northland