The fair woman, wife of a Scotchman who acted as some sort of secretary to O'Halloran, sat apart in cold silence.
“M'sieu,” said Maren, at the last, “I have no words to thank you for this that you have done. I but cast it into the balance of God, which must hang heavy with your goodness.”
She had given her hand to the leader, and that impulsive son of the ould sod kissed it gallantly.
“'Tis little we did, lass, for you and your poor lad yonder, and 'twas in our hearts to do more. But here's luck to you both,—an early weddin' an' sturdy sons!”
And, as the morning sun glittered on the ripples of the departing boats, Maren stood long looking after them, a mist in her eyes and her full lips quivering.
She looked until the gathering dimness hid the waving kerchief of the only woman friend who had ever truly reached her heart.
Then she sat down and took up a paddle.
“Last lap, Messieurs,” she said, above the mutter of McElroy at her feet, and they turned toward where the familiar river came rushing to the lake.
The summer lay heavy on the land when they reached the Assiniboine.
Deep green of the forests, deep green of fern and bush and understuff, told of the full tide of the year. Here and there a leaf trailed in the shallows, yellow as gold in an early death.