He did not turn toward Marie-Anne when he had lighted the first of the
great brass lamps hanging at the side of the bateau. He went to the
second, and struck another match, and flooded the cabin with light.
She still stood silhouetted against the darkness beyond the cabin door
when he faced her. She was watching him, her eyes intent, her face a
little pale, he thought. Then he smiled and nodded. He could not see a
great change in her since this afternoon, except that there seemed to
be a little more fire in the glow of her eyes. They were looking at him
steadily as she smiled and nodded, wide, beautiful eyes in which there
was surely no revelation of shame or regret, and no very clear evidence
of unhappiness. David stared, and his tongue clove to the roof of his
mouth.
"Why is it that you sit in darkness?" she asked, stepping within and
closing the door. "Did you not expect me to return and apologize for
leaving you so suddenly this afternoon? It was impolite. Afterward I
was ashamed. But I was excited, M'sieu David. I--"
"Of course," he hurried to interrupt her. "I understand. St. Pierre is
a lucky man. I congratulate you--as well as him. He is splendid, a man
in whom you can place great faith and confidence."
"He scolded me for running away from you as I did, M'sieu David. He
said I should have shown better courtesy than to leave like that one
who was a guest in our--home. So I have returned, like a good child, to
make amends."
"It was not necessary."
"But you were lonesome and in darkness!"