words, and he knew that he had won. Still lower he bent his head,
until for an instant his lips touched the soft, living warmth of
her hair. And then he leaned back, freeing her hand, and into his
face had leaped soul and life and fighting strength; and under his
breath he gave new thanks to God, and to the sun, and the blue sky
above, while from behind them came skimming over the water the
slim birchbark canoe of Jean Jacques Croisset.





CHAPTER SIX


At the touch of Weyman's lips to her hair Josephine lay very
still, and Philip wondered if she had felt that swift, stolen
caress. Almost he hoped that she had. The silken tress where for
an instant his lips had rested seemed to him now like some
precious communion cup in whose sacredness he had pledged himself.
Yet had he believed that she was conscious of his act he would
have begged her forgiveness. He waited, breathing softly, putting
greater sweep into his paddle to keep Jean well behind them.

Slowly the tremulous unrest of Josephine's shoulders ceased. She
raised her head and looked at him, her lovely face damp with
tears, her eyes shimmering like velvety pools through their mist.
She did not speak. She was woman now--all woman. Her strength, the
bearing which had made him think of her as a queen, the fighting
tension which she had been under, were gone. Until she looked at