He cut armful after
armful, and it was growing dusk in the forest by the time he was
done. In the glow and the heat of the fire Jeanne's cheeks were as
pink as an apple. She had turned a big flat rock into a table, and
as she busied herself about this she burst suddenly into a soft
ripple of song; then, remembering that it was not Pierre who was
near her, she stopped. Philip, with his last armful of bedding,
was directly behind her, and he laughed happily at her over the
green mass of balsam when she turned and saw him looking at her.
"You like this?" he asked.
"It is glorious!" cried Jeanne, her eyes flashing. She seemed to
grow taller before him, and stood with her head thrown back, lips
parted, gazing upon the wilderness about her. "It is glorious!"
she repeated, breathing deeply. "There is nothing in the whole
world that could make me give this up, M'sieur Philip. I was born
in it. I want to die in it. Only--"
Her face clouded for a moment as her eyes rested upon his.
"Your civilization is coming north to spoil it all," she added,
and turned to the rock table.
Philip dropped his load.
"Supper is ready," she said, and the cloud had passed.
It was Jeanne's first reference to his own people, to the invasion
of civilization into the north, and there recurred to Philip the
words in which she had cried out her hatred against Churchill.
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