“You have been very good to me.  How can I ever thank you?” cried the girl, impulsively extending her hand.  Lapierre took the hand, bowed over it, and—­was it fancy, or did his lips brush her finger-tips?  Chloe withdrew the hand, laughing in slight confusion.  To her surprise she realized she was not in the least annoyed.  “How can I thank you,” she repeated, “for—­for throwing aside your own work to attend to mine?”

“Do not speak of thanking me.”  Once more the man’s eyes seemed to burn into her soul, “I love you!  And one day my work will be your work and your work will be mine.  It is I who am indebted to you for bringing a touch of heaven into this drab hell of Northern brutishness.  For bringing to me a breath of the bright world I have not known since Montreal—­and the student days, long past.  And—­ah—­more than that—­something I have never known—­love.  And, it is you who are bringing a ray of pure light to lighten the darkness of my people.”

Chloe was deeply touched.  “But I—­I thought,” she faltered, “when we were discussing the buildings that day, you spoke as if you did not really care for the Indians.  And—­and you made them work so hard——­”

“To learn to work would be their salvation!” exclaimed the man.  “And I beg you to forget what I said then.  I feared for your safety.  When you refused to allow me to build the stockade, I could think only of your being at the mercy of Brute MacNair.  I tried to frighten you into allowing me to build it.  Even now, if you say the word——­”

Chloe interrupted him with a laugh.  “No, I am not afraid of MacNair—­really I am not.  And you have already neglected your own affairs too long.”

The man assented.  “If I am to get my furs to the railway, do my own trading, and yours, and return before the lake freezes, I must, indeed, be on my way.”

“You will wait while I write some letters?  And you will post them for me?”

Lapierre bowed.  “As many as you wish,” he said, and together they walked to the girl’s cabin whose quaint, rustic veranda overlooked the river.  The veranda was an addition of Lapierre’s, and the cabin had five rooms, instead of three.

The quarter-breed waited, whistling softly a light French air, while Chloe wrote her letters.  He breathed deeply of the warm spruce-laden breeze, slapped lazily at mosquitoes, and gazed at the setting sun between half-closed lids.  Pierre Lapierre was happy.

“Things are coming my way,” he muttered.  “With a year’s stock in that warehouse—­and LeFroy to handle it—­I guess the Indians won’t pick up many bargains—­my people!—­damn them!  How I hate them.  And as for MacNair—­lucky Vermilion thought of painting his name on that booze—­I hated to smash it—­but it paid.  It was the one thing needed to make me solid with her.  And I’ve got time to run in another batch if I hurry—­got to get those rifles into the loft, too.  When MacNair hits, he hits hard.”