"Bien! We shall speak no more of it then, Ma'm'selle Breton. But this you shall hear. I am sorry that I acted like a boy about M'sieu Wallace. You will forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive," she answered. "I know you were hurt. It was natural for you to feel the way you did."
"But I showed little of the man, Julie. I was hurt here," and he placed his hand on his heart, "and I was a child."
She smiled wistfully, slowly shaking her head. "I fear you were very like a man, Jean. But you are going away and I may not be here in the spring—may not see you for a long time—so I want to tell you now how proud I have been of you this summer."
He looked up quizzically.
"Yes, you have made a great name on the East Coast this summer, Jean Marcel. When you were ill the Crees talked of little else—of your travelling where no Indian had dared to go until you found the caribou; your winning, over those terrible Lelacs and proving your innocence; your fighting them with bare hands, because you knew no fear."
The face of Marcel reddened as the girl continued.
"You are brave and you have a great heart and a wise head, Jean Marcel; some day you will be a factor of the Company. Wherever I may be, I shall think of you and always be proud that you are my friend."
Inarticulate, numb with the torture of hopeless love, Marcel listened to Julie Breton's farewell.