While they were eating, Mukoki
and another Indian had brought in his trunk and bags, and he went now to
one of the bags, opened it, and got his own pipe and tobacco. As he
stuffed the bowl of his English briar, and lighted the tobacco, Father
Roland's glowing face beamed at him through the fragrant fumes of his
Hudson's Bay Mixture.
Against the wall, a little in shadow, so that she would not be a part of
their company or whatever conversation they might have, Marie had seated
herself, her round chin in the cup of her brown hand, her dark eyes
shining at this comfort and satisfaction of men. Such scenes as this
amply repaid her for all her toil in life. She was happy. There was
content in this cabin. David felt it. It impinged itself upon him, and
through him, in a strange and mysterious way. Within these log walls he
felt the presence of that spirit--the joy of companionship and of
life--which had so terribly eluded and escaped him in his own home of
wealth and luxury. He heard Marie speak only once that night--once, in a
low, soft voice to Thoreau. She was silent with the silence of the Cree
wife in the presence of a stranger, but he knew that her heart was
throbbing with the soft pulse of happiness, and for some reason he was
glad when Thoreau nodded proudly toward a closed door and let him know
that she was a mother.
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