this thing that the good God wished her to
learn, where was the lesson?

Given to reason and plain judgment of all things, the girl tried to
think out her problem, to fathom the meaning of this which had befallen
her, and to find if there was any good in it. But everywhere she looked
there was the laughing face of the factor with his sunburnt hair and his
blue eyes. The spring days were heavy as those steel-grey stretches that
pass for the days in winter.

Too dull for sharp pain, she went about in a sort of apathy.

For several days McElroy watched uneasily for her, hoping for a chance
meeting. He was anxious to speak about his boyish jealousy, to beg
forgiveness for that abrupt leaving at the gate. So close did she stay
at the cabin, however, that at last he was forced to go to her. It was
twilight again, soft, filled with the breath of the forest, vibrant with
the call of birds off in some marshy land to the south, and he found her
alone, sitting upon the step, staring into the gathering dusk, listening
to the laughter of the young married folk from the cabin next where
Marie and Henri were loudest.

A lump rose in his throat as he caught the outline of the braided head
bowed lower than he had ever seen it, saw the whole attitude of the
strong figure, every line relaxed as if in a great weariness.

"Maren," he said, with the wonder of love in his voice, "Maren--my
maid!"

And he strode forward swiftly, stooped, and laid his hand on her
shoulder.

With a jerk the drooped head came up. She drew from his touch as if it
burned her.

"If you please, M'sieu," she said coldly, "go away."

McElroy sprang back.

"What? Go away! You wish that,--Ma'amselle?"

The tone more than the words drove out of him all daring of her sweet
name, took away in a flash all the personal.

"Of a surety,--go away."

The factor stood a moment in amazed silence. Did the red flower mean so
much to her, then? Had she accepted its message? And yet he knew in his
heart that the look in her eyes, the smile on her lips had told their
own tale of awakening to his touch. What but the red flower in its
birchbark case had wrought the change?

He thought swiftly of De Courtenay's beauty, of his sparkling grace, his
braided blue coat, his wide hat, and the long golden curls sweeping his
shoulder. Truly a figure to turn a woman's head. But within him there
rose a tide of rage, blind vent of the hurt of love, that boded ill for
the dashing N