“Tell me about the lakes and the woods; I long to see them, to feel the air, and to smell the pines,” she said quietly.
They paddled on and on, sometimes talking; and it seemed like a triumphal journey into a far-away world, with the sun and the rippling water, glorious movement and peace, and, above all, it was perfect because they were alone together, and away from the rest of the world.
Paul made no pretence to himself of not knowing why he was happy and why he was miserable—happy while with Launa, miserable when away from her—while the knowledge that she belonged to someone else was always obtruding itself.
And Launa? To her Paul meant the old life (so she assured herself with great frequency), her father, the Indians, the woods—everything she loved. She was glad to have Paul with her. It was a good ending to the chapter of singleness. And though perhaps it was not quite as she would have liked to have planned things, perhaps all would be for the best. The present was full of joy, the future—she could not bear to think of it—would be blank.
“How long have you been in England?” she inquired at last.
It was odd she had never asked this question before.
“I spent two months here in the summer, then I had to go home. My cousin, Jim Harvey—you remember him?”
“I never heard of him.”
“I thought you knew all about him. He got himself mixed up in some row with the Indians, and so I went back. There was an Indian girl, too; he should have married her.”
“And his name was Harvey?”