Five days had passed since the episode beside the stockade, and Bois
DesCaut had said no word, of his property. In fact, the great dog was
seemingly scarce worth a thought, much less a word. Helpless, bruised
from tip to tip, one side flat under its broken ribs, he lay sullenly
in the shade; of the cabin where McElroy had put him down, covered at
night from the cool air by Francette's' own blanket of the gorgeous
stripes, fed by her small loving hands bit by bit, submitting for the
first time in his hard and eventful life to the touch of woman,
thrilling in his savage heart to the word of tenderness.

Gently the little maid stroked the rough grey fur and scowled toward
the factory.

So intent was she with her thought that she did not hear the step
beside her, springing quickly up when a voice spoke, cool and amused,
behind. "Well said, little maid," it praised; "that was a neat turn."

The tall stranger, Maren Le Moyne, stood smiling down upon her.

Francette, sharpest of tongue in all the settlement, was at sudden loss
before this woman. She looked up into her face and stood silent,
searching it with the gaze of a child.

It was a wondrous face, dark as her own, its cheeks as dusky red, but
in it was a baffling something that held her quick tongue mute, a look
as of great depth, of wondrous strength, and yet of fitful tenderness,
--the one playing through the other as flame about black marble, and
with the rest a smile.