"Before the most provoking but worshipful lady that I know."
"Who is the sylvan maid? What princess of the glade has now the homage of your impressionable heart, Mr. Thorne?"
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!