It recalled to him the strange
spirit which had once moved him at Fort Churchill, and which had
remained with him for a time at Lac Bain. That spirit was now gone,
luring him no longer. Time had drawn a softening veil over things that
had passed. He was happy.
The wilderness became more beautiful to him as Melisse grew older.
Each summer increased his happiness; each succeeding winter made it
larger and more complete. Every fiber of his being sang in joyful
response as he watched Melisse pass from childhood into young
girlhood. He marked every turn in her development, the slightest
change in her transformation, as if she had been a beautiful flower.
He possessed none of the quick impetuosity of Jean de Gravois. Years
gave the silence of the North to his tongue, and his exultation was
quiet and deep in his own heart. With an eagerness which no one
guessed he watched the growing beauty of her hair, marked its
brightening luster when he saw it falling in thick waves over her
shoulders, and he knew that at last it had come to be like the
woman's. The changing lights in her eyes fascinated him, and he
rejoiced again when he saw that they were deepening into the violet
blue of the bakneesh flowers that bloomed on the tops of the ridges.
To him, Melisse was growing into everything that was beautiful.
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