And Gregory Thorne, his native insolence standing him in no stead, said very humbly:
“You are that sylvan maid, that princess—ah, is this fair to me, is it fair, I ask you?”
“You really mean that about the trophies”? she replied. “And shall you return like the mighty khans, with captive tigers and lions, led by stalwart slaves, in your train, or shall they be captive moose or grizzlies?”
“Grizzlies are not possible here,” he said, with cheerful seriousness, “but the moose is possible, and more, if you would be kinder—Margaret.”
“Your supper, see, is ready,” she said. “I venture to hope your appetite has not suffered because of long absence from your friends.”
He could only dumbly answer by a protesting motion of the hand, and his smile was not remarkably buoyant.
The next morning they started on their moose-hunt. Gregory Thorne was cast down when he crossed the threshold into the winter morning without hand-clasp or god-speed from Margaret Malbrouck; but Mrs. Malbrouck was there, and Gregory, looking into her eyes, thought how good a thing it would be for him, if some such face looked benignly out on him every morning, before he ventured forth into the deceitful day. But what was the use of wishing! Margaret evidently did not care. And though the air was clear and the sun shone brightly, he felt there was a cheerless wind blowing on him; a wind that chilled him; and he hummed to himself bitterly a song of the voyageurs:
“O, O, the winter wind, the North wind,
My snow-bird, where art thou gone?
O, O, the wailing wind the night wind,
The cold nest; I am alone.
O, O, my snow-bird!
“O, O, the waving sky, the white sky,
My snow-bird thou fliest far;
O, O, the eagle’s cry, the wild cry,
My lost love, my lonely star.
O, O, my snow-bird!”
He was about to start briskly forward to join Malbrouck and his Indians, who were already on their way, when he heard his name called, and, turning, he saw Margaret in the doorway, her fingers held to the tips of her ears, as yet unused to the frost. He ran back to where she stood, and held out his hand. “I was afraid,” he bluntly said, “that you wouldn’t forsake your morning sleep to say good-bye to me.”
“It isn’t always the custom, is it,” she replied, “for ladies to send the very early hunter away with a tally-ho? But since you have the grace to be afraid of anything, I can excuse myself to myself for fleeing the pleasantest dreams to speed you on your warlike path.”