“Her daughter—her daughter!” he said softly. “And I never knew! Now I have come too late—she will never know, and how can I tell her? Metaminens is no more—his work is done, his heart is broken and dead, his body is outworn, his spirit is weary. Oh, Star Woman, you who have gone across the horizon—wait for me! Your daughter has found her destiny in this man—leave the future to them, and wait for me, Star Woman! I shall not be long in coming to you. Not what has been, my Star Woman, but what will be—what will be——”
So Perrot stood there, with bowed head, until Crawford groaned and stirred. Then, brushing the tears from his grey beard, Sieur Nicholas Perrot knelt to his work. And above him the morning breeze lifted the singing pine-needles of the crooked tree, as though up there a voice whispered back to him——
“What will be!”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.