The first week in February Julie Breton was sitting up, and Mr. Hunter bade good-bye to the staunch friends he had made at Whale River. Not always are the relations between Oblat or Jesuit, and Protestant missionaries, unduly cordial in the land of their labors, but when the Reverend Hunter left the Mission House at Whale River, there remained in the hearts of Père Breton, his sister and Jean Marcel, a love for the doctor, clergyman and man which the years did not dim.
One day, later on, Marcel and Fleur were making their afternoon call on Julie, who was propped in bed, her hair hanging in two thick braids.
"We leave in a few days," Jean said in French. "Michel is anxious to get back to his traps."
"Oh, don't go so soon, Jean. I haven't yet had an opportunity to talk to you as I wished."
"If you mean to thank me, I am glad of that," he said, his lips curling in a faint smile.
"Why should I not thank you, Jean Marcel, who risked your life like a madman to help me? I do now thank you with all my heart. But for you, I would not be here. Dr. Hunter told me I could not have lived had he arrived one day later."
With a gesture of impatience Marcel turned in his chair and gazed through the window on the world of snow.
The dark eyes in the pale face of the girl were strangely soft as they rested on the sinewy strength of the man's figure; then lifted to the strong profile, with its bony jaw and bold, aquiline nose.
"You do not care for my thanks, Jean?" she asked.
"Please!" he begged. "It is over, that! You are well again! I am happy; and will go back to my trap-lines."