An-ina's eyes were shining with the joy of a triumph no less than the man's. It was the greatest moment of her life. Had not her idol proved himself even beyond her dreams? Her gladness only deepened at his sharp question. She had her great story to tell. The story which no woman's heart can resist.
"Him go," she said, with a little gesture of the hands. "An-ina send him. Oh, yes."
"Gone? Where?"
Steve was startled. For a moment a sickening doubt flashed through his mind, and robbed his eyes of the shining joy of his return.
"It Keeko. She call—call. All the time she call to Marcel, who is great man like to Boss Steve. Yes. Oh, yes. She call—this white girl, Keeko. And An-ina say, 'Go! Marcel go! Bring this white girl.' But Marcel say, 'No. Uncle Steve not come back. An-ina alone. Oh, no. Marcel go bimeby.' Then An-ina say, 'Go.' She know. Him all sick for Keeko. So. Marcel go."
An-ina's low, gentle laugh came straight from the woman in her. Just as her account of Marcel's reluctance to leave her was a touch of the mother defending her offspring.
But Steve missed these things. He was amazed. He was wondering—searching.
"White girl? Keeko?" he exclaimed sharply. "What crazy story—Tell me!" he commanded. "Tell me quick!"
He flung aside his cap, and the furs which encased his sturdy body. Then he caught up a bench, and set it beside the stove. He sat down, and held out his strong hands to the warmth with that habit which belongs to the North.
An-ina remained standing. It was her way to stand before him. She would tell her story thus. Was she not in the presence of the man whose smile was her greatest joy on earth?