“All right, Ray,” she said, extending her hand. “This eliminates the first ten chapters. Now I must gallop home and have your suppers ready.” And almost before he knew he had released her hand the cloud of dust trailed again down the valley.
The McKay farmhouse was built of logs, with an upper story over the main section. The board floors were white and bare, save where a wolf skin or other trophy of the chase served as ornament and carpet. The hard, clean floors, the whitewashed, bulging logs, the bare joists and rafters, afforded a charm of rustic simplicity which no display of wealth can provide. Even as he ate his supper with a relish of his long drive Burton’s eyes stole about into the shadowy corners of the room, where the firelight from the wood stove flickered along the floor and lost itself in the darkness. There was everywhere an air of comfort; of peace; of simplicity; yet what tales might those lurking corners repeat of the pioneers who for twenty years had shared the McKay hospitality as they related exploits of the early days more wonderful than any fiction!
The meal was ended. Burton felt that at least he had not been a bright conversationalist. Several times the farmer’s daughter had addressed a remark to him a second time, and he answered almost in monosyllables. His mind was too busy with the past—with the far, vague, distant past, when he sat before the wood fire and felt his young frame thrill as he listened to tales of adventure in the shanties of the Madawaska—tales of the river drive and the faction-fight, of the cry of the wolverine by lonely moonlit shores and the weird romances of loup-garou and windigo. How he thrilled with a deep wonder of the mystery of the untrod path which lay before him, leading into the far, strange fields of manhood, where he too should do great deeds and win great victories and fear nothing. But even as he dreamed of future bravery he would snuggle nearer to the centre of the group. He could almost hear the wolverine baying out beyond the stables!... Then there was the evening prayer and the good-night kiss, and the ascent up the creaking stairs; the bed under the bare rafters, where through the broken shingles a single star watched until his eyes closed with the sweet weariness of early childhood, and he knew that the angels were guarding his sleep. God! How far had he travelled since then!