They spoke little as they
swept forward over the white snow-wastes. The spell of the great North
was over her. Its mystery was stirring in her heart, just as it had
been when her lips had turned to his at the sunrise. As for him, love
ran through his veins like old wine. But he allowed his feelings no
expression. For though she had come to him of her own accord for that
one blessed minute at dawn, he could not be sure what had moved her so
deeply. She was treading a world primeval, the wonder of it still in
her soft eyes. Would she waken to love or to disillusion?
He took care to see that she did not tire. Presently he stopped and held
out his hand to say good-bye.
"Will you come back this way?" she asked.
"Yes. I ought to get here soon after dark. Will you meet me?"
She gave him a quick, shy little nod, turned without shaking hands, and
struck out for the cabin. All through the day happiness flooded her
heart. While she waited on Holt or helped Mrs. Olson cook or watched
Swiftwater while he put up the tent in the lee of the cabin, little
snatches of song bubbled from her lips. Sometimes they were bits of old
Irish ballads that popped into her mind. Once, while she was preparing
some coffee for her patient, it was a stanza from Burns:--
"Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
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