She
was his world, his life, and at Post Lac Bain there was nothing to
come between the two. Jan noticed that in her thirteenth year she
could barely stand under his outstretched arm. The next year she had
grown so tall that she could not stand there at all. Very soon she
would be a woman!
The thought leaped from his heart, and he spoke it aloud. It was on
the girl's fifteenth birthday. They had come up to the top of the
ridge on which he had fought the missionary, to gather red sprigs of
the bakneesh for the festival that they were to have in the cabin that
night. High up on the face of a jagged rock, Jan saw a bit of the
crimson vine thrusting itself out into the sun, and, with Melisse
laughing and encouraging him from below, he climbed up until he had
secured it. He tossed it down to her.
"It's the last one," she cried, seeing his disadvantage, "and I'm
going home. You can't catch me!"
She darted away swiftly along the snow-covered ridge, taunting him
with merry laughter as she left him clambering in cautious descent
down the rock. Jan followed in pursuit, shouting to her in French, in
Cree, and in English, and their two voices echoed happily in their
wild frolic.
Jan slackened his steps. It was a joy to see Melisse springing from
rock to rock and darting across the thin openings close ahead of him,
her hair loosening and sweeping out in the sun, her slender figure
fleeing with the lightness of the pale sun-shadows that ran up and
down the mountain.
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