Still the
impression strengthened. She slipped out of bed. The door of the
bedroom stood slightly ajar.
Bill stood before the fireplace, his shaggy fur cap pushed far back on
his head, his gauntlets swinging from the cord about his neck. She had
left a great bed of coals on the hearth, and the glow shone redly on
his frost-scabbed face. But the marks of bitter trail bucking, the
marks of frostbite, the stubby beard, the tiny icicles that still
clustered on his eyebrows; while these traces of hardship tugged at her
heart they were forgotten when she saw the expression that overshadowed
his face. Wonder and unbelief and longing were all mirrored there.
She took a shy step forward to see what riveted his gaze. And despite
the choking sensation in her throat she smiled--for she had taken off
her little, beaded house moccasins and left them lying on the bearskin
before the fire, and he was staring down at them like a man
fresh-wakened from a dream, unbelieving and bewildered.
[Illustration: Bill stood before the fireplace, his shaggy fur cap
pushed far back on his head.]
With that she opened the door and ran to him. He started, as if she
had been a ghost. Then he opened his arms and drew her close to him.
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