Against the wall, a little in shadow, so that she would not be a part of their company or whatever conversation they might have, Marie had seated herself, her round chin in the cup of her brown hand, her dark eyes shining at this comfort and satisfaction of men.  Such scenes as this amply repaid her for all her toil in life.  She was happy.  There was content in this cabin.  David felt it.  It impinged itself upon him, and through him, in a strange and mysterious way.  Within these log walls he felt the presence of that spirit—­the joy of companionship and of life—­which had so terribly eluded and escaped him in his own home of wealth and luxury.  He heard Marie speak only once that night—­once, in a low, soft voice to Thoreau.  She was silent with the silence of the Cree wife in the presence of a stranger, but he knew that her heart was throbbing with the soft pulse of happiness, and for some reason he was glad when Thoreau nodded proudly toward a closed door and let him know that she was a mother.  Marie heard him, and in that moment David caught in her face a look that made his heart ache—­a look that should have been a part of his own life, and which he had missed.

A little later Thoreau led the way into the room which David was to occupy for the night.  It was a small room, with a sapling partition between it and the one in which the Missioner was to sleep.  The fox breeder placed a lamp on the table near the bed, and bade David good-night.

It was past two o’clock, and yet David felt at the present moment no desire for sleep.  After he had taken off his shoes and partially undressed, he sat on the edge of his bed and allowed his mind to sweep back over the events of the last few hours.  Again he thought of the woman in the coach—­the woman with those wonderful, dark eyes and haunting face—­and he drew forth from his coat pocket the package which she had forgotten.  He handled it curiously.  He looked at the red string, noted how tightly the knot was tied, and turned it over and over in his hands before he snapped the string.  He was a little ashamed at his eagerness to know what was within its worn newspaper wrapping.  He felt the disgrace of his curiosity, even though he assured himself there was no reason why he should not investigate the package now when all ownership was lost.  He knew that he would never see the woman again, and that she would always remain a mystery to him unless what he held in his hands revealed the secret of her identity.

A half minute more and he was leaning over in the full light of the lamp, his two hands clutching the thing which the paper had disclosed when it dropped to the floor, his eyes staring, his lips parted, and his heart seeming to stand still in the utter amazement of the moment!

CHAPTER V