CHAPTER XLI.
A lump rose in Maud's throat, and a spasm crossed her features as she closed the door. Then she stopped to put a tray in order, making a noise in getting it even. It took her more than a minute to arrange it properly, but when she entered the parlor again her face was as though nothing had happened.
For a moment Beaumont looked at her keenly, but her features told no tale. The human heart is inscrutable, and a true woman never tells everything, even to her dearest. So, hidden in Maud's bosom was a little story of man's devotion, which ever after remained unspoken, and unforgotten, too.
Beaumont bowed over her hand and led her to a seat again.
"For months and months I have longed for this hour," he said. "Even after I started, three weeks of a journey seemed almost like years; but now that I see you, I know that I have not come in vain."
"Please don't talk in that way," said Maud, with a half-frightened look in her face. "Speak of anything, but not of that to-night."
"Mon Dieu! Surely I am not wrong?"
"Oh, something else, just for to-night," she pleaded. "You came so unexpectedly, without a moment's warning," and then she added archly, "You expect too much, sir, you must remember that I am the same Maud Maxwell that I was a year ago."
"Mon ami, forgive me!" he exclaimed, penitently. "I will do whatever you say."
And they talked of many things, but chiefly of Penetang, of the journey to York by trail, then by schooner to the St. Lawrence, down the rapids in a rowboat, guided by Indians, to Montreal; schooner again to Quebec, and then on the North King with Sir George.