Flower of the North

f pain in the girl's voice. It was the same note, the same spirit crying out against his world that he had listened to in the moaning of the surf as it la

h bared head, filled with a wild desire to make these people underst

oward the figure in the center of the rock. His posture was that of an animal ready to spring. Close beside him gleamed the white fangs of the wolf-dog. The girl leaned over and twisted her fingers in the tawny hair that bristled on the do

sturbed you. Sometimes I come up here-alone-to smoke my pipe and listen to the sea dow

ed to t

y. I beg y

yellow buckskin, as soft as chamois. Her throat was bare. A deep collar of lace fell over her shoulders. One hand, raised to her breast, revealed a wide gauntlet cuff of red or purple plush, of a fashion t

English was excellent, and as he spoke he bowed low to Philip. "I

eld out

"I'm staying at Churchill until the ship comes in

ke a courtier. Philip saw that he, too, wore the same big, old-fashioned cu

-is my sister-Jeanne. We do not belong to Fort Churc

eamed over her shoulders. She spoke no word, but passed quickly with Pierre up the rock, and whi

reamed those dead to be in life. He had never seen people like Pierre and Jeanne. Their strange dress, the rapier at Pierre's side, his courtly bow, the low, graceful courtesy that the girl had made him, all carried him back to the days of the old pictures that hung in the factor's room

for Pierre Couchee when he held the handkerchief and the lace close to his face and the delicate perfume of heliotrope stopped him. There was something familiar about it, something that held him wondering and mystified, until he knew that he had lost the opportunity to recall Pierre and his companion.

the beautiful face of Eileen Brokaw at the Brokaw ball. He remembered now that Eileen Brokaw loved heliotrope, and that she always wore a purple heliotrope at her white throat or in the gold of her hair. For a moment it struck him as singular that so many things had happened this day to remind him of Brokaw's daughter. The thought hastened his steps. He was anxious to lo

? Philip took a step toward Gregson, half determined to awaken him. And yet, on second thought, he knew that Gregson could not explain. Even if the artist had learned of his affair with Miss Brokaw and had secured a picture of her in some way, he would not presume to go this fa

her companion. Even to his inexperienced eyes and touch they gave evidence of a richness that puzzled him, of a fashion that he had never seen. They were of exquisite workmanship. The lace was of a delica

eyes. He saw the girl again, as she stood there; he saw the moonlight shining in her hair, the dark, startled beauty of her eyes as she turned upon him; he heard again the low sobbing note in her voice as she cried out her hatred against Churchill. He forgot Eileen Brokaw now, forgot in these moments all that he and Gregson had talked of that day. His schemes, his fears, his feverish eagerness to begin the fight against his enemies died away in thoughts of the beautiful girl who had co

erchief. He turned and looked steadily at Gregson.

s sister had left behind? The thought set his blood tingling. He would g

handkerchief. The strip of lace with which Jeanne had bound her hair he folded gently and placed in his breast pocket. There was a guilty flush in his face as he stole silently to the door. What would Gregson

e, in which for a few brief moments he bared himself to those whom he knew would understand, and asked that their acquaintance might be continued. He felt that there was something almost boyish in what he was doing; and yet, as he hurried over the ridge and down into Churchill again, he was thrilled as no other adventure had ever thril

h that lay between him and Churchill when from far behind him there came the long howl of a dog. It was the wolf-dog. He knew it by the slow, dismal rising of the cry and the infinite sadness with

. Eagerly he faced the north, whence the wailing cry of the wolf-dog had come. Then he t

n the rock. The han