"It haunts
Tavish. It is with him always. _And he is afraid of it!_"
David rose slowly to his feet and went toward the door, slipping on his
coat and cap. "I'm going to whistle for Baree," he said, and went out.
The white world was brilliant under the glow of a full moon and a
billion stars. It was the most wonderful night he had ever seen, and yet
for a few moments he was as oblivious of its amazing beauty, its almost
startling vividness, as though he had passed out into darkness.
"A girl ... Firepan ... dead ... haunting Tavish...."
He did not hear the whining of the dogs. He was again piecing together
in his mind that picture--the barefooted girl standing on the rock,
disturbed, startled, terrified, poised as if about to fly from a great
danger. What had happened after the taking of that picture? Was it
Tavish who had taken it? Was it Tavish who had surprised her there? Was
it Tavish--Tavish--Tavish....?
His mind could not go on. He steadied himself, one hand clutching at the
breast of his coat, where the picture lay.
The cabin door opened behind him. The Missioner came out. He coughed,
and looked up at the sky.
"A splendid night, David," he said softly. "A splendid night!"
He spoke in a strange, quiet voice that made David turn.
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