Lane. Had this rustle of fine trappings been made for him? No; the
woman had a mind above such snobbishness, he thought. He suffered for
a moment the pang of a cynical idea; but the eyes of Mrs. Malbrouck were
on him and he knew that he was as nothing before her. Her eyes--how they
were fixed upon him! Only two women had looked so truthfully at him
before: his dead mother and--Margaret. And Margaret--why, how strangely
now at this instant came the thought that she was like his Margaret!
Wonder sprang to his eyes. At that moment a door opened and a girl
entered the room--a girl lissome, sweet-faced, well-bred of manner,
who came slowly towards them.

"My daughter, Mr. Thorne," the mother briefly remarked. There was no
surprise in the girl's face, only an even reserve of pleasure, as she
held out her hand and said: "Mr. Gregory Thorne and I are old enemies."
Gregory Thorne's nerve forsook him for an instant. He knew now the
reason of his vague presentiments in the woods; he understood why, one
night, when he had been more childlike than usual in his memory of the
one woman who could make life joyous for him, the voice of a voyageur,
not Jacques's nor that of any one in camp, sang:

"My dear love, she waits for me,
None other my world is adorning;
My true love I come to thee,
My dear, the white star of the morning.
Eagles spread out your wings,
Behold where the red dawn is breaking!
Hark, 'tis my darling sings,
The flowers, the song-birds awaking;
See, where she comes to me,
My love, ah, my dear love!"