At
the last one of all, which was more ragged and worn than the others,
he gazed for a long time. It was a little Bible, his wife's Bible,
finger-worn, patched, pathetic in its poverty. The man gulped hard.
"She loved this, Jan," he said huskily. "She loved this worn, old book
more than anything else, and little Melisse must love it also. Melisse
must be a Christian."
"Ah, yes, ze leetle Melisse mus' love ze great God!" said Jan softly.
Cummins rose to his feet and stood for a moment looking at the
sleeping baby.
"A missionary is coming over from Fort Churchill to talk to our
trappers when they come in. She shall be baptized!"
Like a cat Jan was on his feet, his eyes flashing, his long, thin
fingers clenched, his body quivering with a terrible excitement.
"No--no--not baptize by missioner!" he cried. "She shall be good, an'
love ze great God, but not baptize by missioner! No--no--no!"
Cummins turned upon him in astonishment. Before him Jan Thoreau stood
for a minute like one gone mad, his whole being consumed in a passion
terrible to look upon. Lithe giant of muscle and, fearlessness that he
was, Cummins involuntarily drew back a step, and the mainspring of
instinct within him prompted him to lift a hand, as if to ward off a
leaping thing from his breast.
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