It was another thought--or other
thoughts--that stirred him more deeply, and brought a heat into his
blood. His mind leaped back to that scene of years ago, when Marge
O'Doone's mother had run shrieking out in the storm of night to escape
Tavish. _But she had not died!_ That was the thought that burned in
David's brain now. She had lived. She had searched for her
husband--Michael O'Doone; a half-mad wanderer of the forests at first,
she may have been. She had searched for years. And she was still
searching for him when he had met her that night on the
Transcontinental! For it was she--Marge O'Doone, the mother, the wife,
into whose dark, haunting eyes he had gazed from out the sunless depths
of his own despair! _Her_ mother. Alive. Seeking a Michael
O'Doone--seeking--seeking....
He was filled with a great desire to go at once to the Girl and tell her
this wonderful new fact that had come into her life, and he found
himself suddenly at the door of his room, with his fingers on the latch.
Standing there, he shrugged his shoulders, laughing softly at himself as
he realized how absurdly sensational he was becoming all at once.
To-morrow would be time. He filled and lighted his pipe, and in the
whitish fumes of his tobacco he could picture quite easily the gray,
dead face of Tavish, hanging at the end of his meat rack.
Pages:
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303