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The Courage of Marge O'Doone by James Oliver Curwood
page 40 of 291 (13%)
into my house ahead of a stranger."

David went in. An Indian woman stood with her back to him, bending over
a table. She was as slim as a reed, and had the longest and sleekest
black hair he had ever seen, done in two heavy braids that hung down her
back. In another moment she had turned her round, brown face, and her
teeth and eyes were shining, but she spoke no word. Thoreau did not
introduce his wild-flower wife. He had opened his cabin door, and had
let David enter before him, which was accepting him as a friend in his
home, and therefore, in his understanding of things, an introduction was
unnecessary and out of place. Father Roland chuckled, rubbed his hands
briskly, and said something to the woman in her own language that made
her giggle shyly. It was contagious. David smiled. Father Roland's face
was crinkled with little lines of joy. The Frenchman's teeth gleamed. In
the big cook-stove the fire snapped and crackled and popped. Marie
opened the stove door to put in more wood and her face shone rosy and
her teeth were like milk in the fire-flash. Thoreau went to her and laid
his big, heavy hand fondly on her sleek head, and said something in soft
Cree that brought another giggle into Marie's throat, like the curious
note of a bird.

In David there was a slow and wonderful awakening. Every fibre of him
was stirred by the cheer of this cabin builded from logs rough-hewn out
of the forest; his body, weakened by the months of mental and physical
anguish which had been his burden, seemed filled with a new strength.
Unconsciously he was smiling and his soul was rising out of its dark
prison as he saw Thoreau's big hand stroking Marie's shining hair. He
was watching Thoreau when, at a word from Marie, the Frenchman suddenly
swung open the oven door and pulled forth a huge roasting pan.

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