The Alaskan by James Oliver Curwood
page 5 of 277 (01%)
page 5 of 277 (01%)
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exquisitely smooth dark hair, neatly coiled and luxuriant crown of
beauty, reminded him of puritanism in its simplicity. At times he doubted that she was twenty-three. If she had said nineteen or twenty he would have been better satisfied. She puzzled him and roused speculation in him. But it was a part of his business to see many things which others might not see--and hold his tongue. "We are not quite alone," she was saying. "There are others," and she made a little gesture toward two figures farther up the rail. "Old Donald Hardwick, of Skagway," he said. "And the other is Alan Holt." "Oh, yes." She was facing the mountains again, her eyes shining in the light of the moon. Gently her hand touched the old captain's arm. "Listen," she whispered. "Another berg breaking away from Old Thunder. We are very near the shore, and there are glaciers all the way up." "And that other sound, like low wind--on a night so still and calm! What is it?" "You always hear that when very close to the big mountains, Miss Standish. It is made by the water of a thousand streams and rivulets rushing down to the sea. Wherever there is melting snow in the mountains, you hear that song." |
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