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Curwood, James Oliver, 1879-1927

"Flower of the North"

If he had
not known, he would have sworn that there was not a drop of
Pierre's blood in her veins.
"We are coming to the first rapids, M'sieur Philip," she
announced. "It is just beyond that ugly mountain of rock ahead of
us, and we will have a quarter-mile portage. It is filled with
great stones and so swift that Pierre and I nearly wrecked
ourselves coming down."
It was the most that had been said since the beginning of that
wonderful hour that had come before the first gleam of sunrise,
and Philip, laying his paddle athwart the canoe, stretched himself
and yawned, as though he had just awakened.
"Poor boy," said Jeanne; and it struck him that her words were
strangely like those which Eileen might have spoken had she been
there, only an artless comradeship replaced what would have been
Miss Brokaw's tone of intimacy. She added, with genuine sympathy
in her face and voice: "You must be exhausted, M'sieur Philip. If
you were Pierre I should insist upon going ashore for a number of
hours. Pierre obeys me when we are together. He calls me his
captain. Won't you let me command you?"
"If you will let me call you--my captain," replied Philip. "Only
there is one thing--one reservation.


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