loam,
and presently it turned deeper into the great woods and he swung forward
into those depths whose sweetness had called him subtly for these many
days.

She was a strong traveller, that straight young creature of the open
ways, and a full hour went swiftly before he caught the sight he wanted.

At sight of her he halted and stood a moment in hushed joy, looking with
eyes that knew their glory, for with every passing second Anders McElroy
was learning that nowhere in all the world, as had said that flaming
youth Marc Dupre, was there another woman like this Maren Le Moyne.

She stood in a little glade, cool, high-canopied, where the sunlight
came in little spots to play over the soft carpet of the pale forest
grass thick-starred with frail white flowers, and her back was to a tree
that towered to heaven in its height. At her sides her brown arms hung,
palms out in an utter abandon of pleasure, while her lifted face, with
its closed eyes, communed with the very Spirit of the Wild. Like some
priestess she was, and McElroy felt an odd sensation of unworthiness
sweep over him as he stood silent, his sober blue eyes on the beauty of
her face. He cast swiftly back across his life. Was there anything there
which might forbid him now, when he would go forward to so pure a thing
as this maid, dreaming her dreams of prowess in the wilderness?

Nay, he saw no unworthy deed, nothing to spoil the page of a commonplace
life spent at his old father's side across the sea, nothing of the so
common evils of the settlement. Within him there was that which thanked
its Maker unashamed that he had kept himself from one or two temptations
which had beset him in these stirring years of service on the fringes of
the great country spreading from the bay.

With that thought he went forward, and Maren did not hear his step on
the soft grass, so far was she on her well-worn trail of dreams, until
he stood near and the feeling of a presence finally brought back the
wandering soul.

Then she opened her eyes and they fell full upon the factor, his light
head bared to the dancing sun-spots, his blue eyes sober and touched
again with that anxiety which had compelled her to take his gift.

There was no sudden start of fear, no little startled breath, for this
woman was calm as the dreaming woods and as serene.

"Bon jour, M'sieu," she said, and at sound of her voice, so deep and
full of those sliding minors, McElroy felt her power sweep over h