The chill of the northern evening was already in the air. The sunlight fell athwart the great fringe of foliage which crowned the lank trunks of primordial pine woods. It lit the clearing with a mellow radiance, and left the scene tempered with a shadowed beauty, which in all Jessie's girlhood had never failed to appeal to her. Now it passed her by. She saw only the crude outline of the great log home, which, for her, had been desolated. About her were the equally crude Mission buildings, with Father José's hut a few yards away. Then there was the light smoke haze from the Indian camp-fires, rising heavily on the still air, and a smell of cooking was painfully evident. Here and there a camp dog prowled, great powerful brutes reared to the burden of the trail. The sound of human voice, too, came from the woodlands, chanting the droning song of labor which the squaws love to voice without tune or meaning.
Jessie moved slowly off in the direction of her home. Half-way across the clearing she paused. Then, in a moment of inspiration, she turned away and passed down the narrow avenue which led to the landing on the river. There was an hour to supper. The twilight of her home was less attractive now than the music of the river, which had so often borne the burden of Allan Mowbray's laden canoes.
Jessie had lost none of her youthful grace of movement. Her tall figure, so round with the charms of womanhood, yet so supple, so full of natural, unfettered grace, made her a delight to the eye. Her beauty was unquestioned. But the change in her expression was marked. Her ripe young lips were firmer, harder even. There was, too, a slight down drooping at the corners of her mouth. Then her eyes had lost something of their inclination to smile. They were the grave eyes of one who has passed through an age of suffering.
She moved swiftly to the landing and took up a position on one of the timber balks set for mooring. She drew her coat about her. The dying sun lit her ruddy brown hair with its wintry smile, and the song of the flowing waters caught and lulled her spirit.
Murray McTavish approached her. He came with bristling step and an air of virile energy. He dragged forward an empty crate, and, setting it near her, used it for a seat.
She withdrew her gaze from the glacial field beyond the river, and looked into the man's smiling eyes, as he greeted her.
"There's just about two things liable to hold a young girl sitting around on the bank of the Snake River, with a spring breeze coming down off the glacier. One of them's dreams, the sort of romance that don't belong to these latitudes."
"And the other?"
"Mostly foolishness."
There was no offence in the man's manner. Jessie was forced to smile. His words were so characteristic.