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Curwood, James Oliver, 1879-1927

"Flower of the North"

So I'm going back with the ship, which leaves in
three or four days. Was going to tell you this on the night you
disappeared. Am sorry I couldn't shake hands with you before I
left. Write and let me know how things come out. As ever,
TOM.
Stunned, Philip dropped the letter. He lifted his eyes, and a
strange cry burst from his lips. Nothing that Gregson had written
could have wrung that cry from him. It was Jeanne. She stood in
the open door of the tent. But it was not the Jeanne he had known.
A terrible grief was written in her face. Her lips were bloodless,
her eyes lusterless; deep suffering seemed to have put hollows in
her cheeks. In a moment she had fallen upon her knees beside him
and clasped one of his hands in both of her own.
"I am so glad," she whispered, chokingly.
For an instant she pressed his hands to her face.
"I am so glad--"
She rose to her feet, swaying slightly. She turned to the door,
and Philip could hear her sobbing as she left him.


XV

Not until the silken flap of the tent had fallen behind Jeanne did
power of movement and speech return to Philip. He called her name
and straggled to a sitting posture. Then he staggered to his feet.
He could scarcely stand.


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