It seemed to Alan that in an instant a sudden change
had come over the world. There was silence in
the cabin, except for the breath which came like a
sob to the girl’s lips as she turned to the window
and looked out into the blaze of golden sunlight that
filled the tundra. He heard Tautuk’s voice,
calling to Keok away over near the reindeer corral,
and he heard clearly Keok’s merry laughter as
she answered him. A gray-cheeked thrush flew
up to the roof of Sokwenna’s cabin and began
to sing. It was as if these things had come as
a message to both of them, relieving a tension, and
significant of the beauty and glory and undying hope
of life. Mary Standish turned from the window
with shining eyes.
“Every day the thrush comes and sings on our
cabin roof,” she said.
“It is—possibly—because
you are here,” he replied.
She regarded him seriously. “I have thought
of that. You know, I have faith in a great many
unbelievable things. I can think of nothing more
beautiful than the spirit that lives in the heart of
a bird. I am sure, if I were dying, I would like
to have a bird singing near me. Hopelessness
cannot be so deep that bird-song will not reach it.”
He nodded, trying to answer in that way. He felt
uncomfortable. She closed the door which he had
left partly open, and made a little gesture for him
to resume the chair which he had left a few moments
before. She seated herself first and smiled at
him wistfully, half regretfully, as she said:
“I have been very foolish. What I am going
to tell you now I should have told you aboard the
Nome. But I was afraid. Now I am not
afraid, but ashamed, terribly ashamed, to let you
know the truth. And yet I am not sorry it happened
so, because otherwise I would not have come up here,
and all this—your world, your people, and
you—have meant a great deal to me.
You will understand when I have made my confession.”
“No, I don’t want that,” he protested
almost roughly. “I don’t want you
to put it that way. If I can help you, and if
you wish to tell me as a friend, that’s different.
I don’t want a confession, which would imply
that I have no faith in you.”
“And you have faith in me?”
“Yes; so much that the sun will darken and bird-song
never seem the same if I lose you again, as I thought
I had lost you from the ship.”
“Oh, you mean that!”
The words came from her in a strange, tense, little
cry, and he seemed to see only her eyes as he looked
at her face, pale as the petals of the tundra daises
behind her. With the thrill of what he had dared
to say tugging at his heart, he wondered why she was
so white.
“You mean that,” her lips repeated slowly,
“after all that has happened—even
after—that part of a letter—which
Stampede brought to you last night—”
He was surprised. How had she discovered what
he thought was a secret between himself and Stampede?
His mind leaped to a conclusion, and she saw it written
in his face.
