He had never seen her more radiant than when she turned toward the piano.  What the deuce did it mean?  Had St. Pierre been making a fool of him?  She actually appeared unable to restrain her elation at the thought that Bateese would surely beat him up!  He stood without moving and made no effort to answer her.  Just before they had started on that thrilling adventure into the forest, which had ended with his carrying her in his arms, she had gone to the piano and had played for him.  Now her fingers touched softly the same notes.  A little humming trill came in her throat, and it seemed to David that she was deliberately recalling his thoughts to the things that had happened before the coming of St. Pierre.  He had not lighted the lamp over the piano, and for a flash her dark eyes smiled at him out of the half shadow.  After a moment she began to sing.

Her voice was low and without effort, untrained, and subdued as if conscious and afraid of its limitations, yet so exquisitely sweet that to David it was a new and still more wonderful revelation of St. Pierre’s wife.  He drew nearer, until he stood close at her side, the dark luster of her hair almost touching his arm, her partly upturned face a bewitching profile in the shadows.

Her voice grew lower, almost a whisper in its melody, as if meant for him alone.  Many times he had heard the Canadian Boat Song, but never as its words came now from the lips of Marie-Anne Boulain.

“Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.  Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn; Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past.”

She paused.  And David, staring down at her shining head, did not speak.  Her fingers trembled over the keys, he could see dimly the shadow of her long lashes, and the spirit-like scent of crushed violets rose to him from the soft lace about her throat and her hair.

“It is your music,” he whispered.  “I have never heard the Boat Song like that!”

He tried to drag his eyes from her face and hair, sensing that he was a near-criminal, fighting a mighty impulse.  The notes under her fingers changed, and again—­by chance or design—­she was stabbing at him; bringing him face to face with the weakness of his flesh, the iniquity of his desire to reach out his arms and crumple her in them.  Yet she did not look up, she did not see him, as she began to sing “Ave Maria.”

“Ave, Maria, hear my cry!  O, guide my path where no harm, no harm is nigh—­”

As she went on, he knew she had forgotten to think of him.  With the reverence of a prayer the holy words came from her lips, slowly, softly, trembling with a pathos and sweetness that told David they came not alone from the lips, but from the very soul of St, Pierre’s wife.  And then—­

“Oh, Mother, hear me where thou art, And guard and guide my aching heart, my aching heart!”