At the door Marie met him, her bright eyes sparkling with the honour of this visit of him who was the Law, the Head of De Seviere, and at her eager greeting the first abating of the flush within took hold upon him.

He stood like a boy, the gorgeous garment hanging in his hand and the word on his lips forgotten.

“Madame,” he stammered, “I would—­” and got no further.

Sudden embarrassment took him and he grew angry with himself.

What could he say, how dared he do what he had done?

He could have thrown the white garment into the river in his sudden vexation.  Factor of the post, he had made of himself a stammering youth, all for sake of the compelling beauty of a woman’s eyes.

But at that moment, while Marie stood blankly on the sill holding to the doorside and the silence grew unbearable, there was a step within the cabin and Maren Le Moyne came from the inner room.

In one moment, so keen was the perception of her, she had seen the red blood in McElroy’s face, the wonder on Marie’s, and she, too, stood in the open door.

“Ah, M’sieu!” she said quickly, “do some of them, by chance, come from the west?”

The tone of her deep voice broke the spell, so subtly natural was it, and McElroy found his tongue.

“No, Ma’amselle,” he smiled, the ease coming back to his blue eyes, “but I have found something very beautiful among them which I wish you to have.  It is more beautiful than a red flower.”

He held up to her the doeskin garment and his eyes were very anxious.

For a moment Maren stared as she had stared at De Courtenay and a curious expression of perplexity spread on her face.

Truly men were different here in this wilderness from those who lived at the Grand Portage, and for a moment she drew herself up and the straight brows began to frown.  But as she had felt the whimsical charm of De Courtenay, so now she felt the eagerness, the taut anxiety of this man, and she noticed that there was no smile on his face as she hesitated.

Moreover, Marie was watching, sharp as a little hawk.

“Why, M’sieu,” she said, and there was a baffling note to the voice this time, “why,—­you wish me to have this?”

“Yes, Ma’amselle,” said McElroy simply.

The girl stooped and took it from him, and for a moment her hand lay against his palm, a smooth warm hand.

“And you wish me to wear it?” she asked.

“If it shall please you.”

“Then it shall please me,” she said quite easily, “and I thank you.”

McElroy turned away and walked back to the factory, and all the way he did not know what he had done.  It had been an impulse, and he had rushed to its fulfilling without a thought.  Had he bungled in giving her a garment where De Courtenay had played on a wind-harp in giving her a little red flower?

He was hot and cold alternately, and the memory of that momentary frown came turn and turn with that of the gentle manner in which she had reached down for the lifted gift.