When the expedition departed to Sturgeon Lake, but two white women had been left—Mrs. Gates, the missionary's wife, and Laura Fitzpatrick. The latter, a maiden upward of thirty-five, had decided to remain in solitary glory as mistress of the factor's house, feeling amply protected by the few white men left at the post.
The captive had reasons for not desiring this visit, outside of the possible impropriety. The summer before, during his happy weeks in Jean's company, circumstances often shaped themselves so that there were three persons on their little canoe trips and picnics—and the third was Miss Fitzpatrick. Her ingenuity in these matters had been positively remarkable. And the entire post had grinned up its sleeve, knowing old Fitzpatrick's declaration that Jean should not marry until Laura had been taken off his hands.
For the first time in her life, Laura had evinced an interest in the genus man. Consequently, Donald now awaited her arrival with some trepidation.
About eleven o'clock she came, unaccompanied except by the old Indian who looked after McTavish's wants. She was small and spare, and wore glasses that enlarged her mild blue eyes. She had overcome nature's delinquency in the matter of luxurious hair by the application of a “transformation,” done into numerous elastic curls. Because of the difficulty of communication with the outside world, this was now several shades lighter than her own, a fact which gave her great pain, but was really quite unavoidable.
Leaving the door open, she sat down in the one chair, while Donald leaned on his elbow in the deep window embrasure.
“Oh,” she gasped breathlessly, “I suppose you think I'm awful, don't you, Captain?”
Her curls bobbed, and a faint color showed in her cheeks.
“Quite the contrary, Miss Fitzpatrick,” he replied, gravely. “I feel that only the highest motives of—well—er—pity, have actuated you to look in upon a man forced to take a month's rest. It was really kind of you, but have you—er—that is, thought of yourself, and what people might say when it becomes known?”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “of course that will have to be faced, won't it? But I guess I'm old enough to be past scandal. Really, you have no idea how old I'm getting to be, Captain McTavish.”
“A woman is only as old as her impulses, Miss Fitzpatrick,” replied the captain, gallantly. “And your impulse this morning could hardly place you above—let's see—twenty at the outside.”