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Curwood, James Oliver, 1879-1927

"Flower of the North"

"
She was laughing now, though her breast was rising and falling a
little excitedly and the deep color was still in her cheeks.
"Will you?" she entreated.
"Until I die," he exclaimed.
She was fumbling under the luggage, and dragged forth a second
paddle.
"I've had an easy time with you, M'sieur Philip," she said,
turning so that she was kneeling with her back to him. "Pierre
makes me work. Always I kneel here, in the bow, and paddle. I am
ashamed of myself. You have worked all night."
"And I feel as fresh as though I had slept for a week," declared
Philip, his eyes devouring the slim figure a paddle's length in
front of him.
For an hour they continued up the river, with scarcely a word
between them to break the silence. Their paddles rose and fell
with a rhythmic motion; the water rippled like low music under
their canoe; the spell of the silent shores, of voiceless beauty,
of the wilderness awakening into day appealed to them both and
held them quiet. The sun broke faintly through the drawn mists
behind. Its first rays lighted up Jeanne's rumpled hair, so that
her heavy braid, partly undone and falling upon the luggage behind
her, shone in rich and changing colors that fascinated Philip.


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