He saw the sunlight in them; in the lampglow they seemed to
move; the throb of her breast seemed to give them life; one hand seemed
about to fling them back from her face; her lips quivered as if about to
speak to him. Against the savage background of mountain and gorge she
stood out clear-cut as a cameo, slender as a reed, wild, palpitating,
beautiful. She was more than a picture. She was life. She was
there--with David in his room--as surely as the woman had been with him
in the coach.
He drew a deep breath and sat back on the edge of his bed. He heard
Father Roland getting into his creaky bed in the adjoining room. Then
came the Missioner's voice.
"Good-night, David."
"Good-night, Father."
For a space after that he sat staring blankly at the log of his room.
Then he leaned over again and held the photograph a second time in the
lampglow. The first strange spell of the picture was broken, and he
looked at it more coolly, more critically, a little disgusted with
himself for having allowed his imagination to play a trick on him. He
turned it over in his hands, and on the back of the cardboard mount he
saw there had been writing. He examined it closely, and made out faintly
the words, "Firepan Creek, Stikine River, August.
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