"I don't want to leave it, Bobs," she sighed. "I love every brawling
rapid and sulky, ragged old peak. Did you ever see a more perfect
night?"
Through the gloom the younger girl's answer lashed back, reckless of
what hurt she might do.
"I hate it!" she gasped vehemently. "I hate it--hate it! And I must
ask you, please--I want to go to bed."
There is a poise which comes only with hard-bought knowledge of one's
self. It was Miss Sarah's; Miriam had acquired it, too. Without a
hint of resentment in her manner she rose and withdrew. But Barbara
did not go to bed. She took that vacated seat at the window. And long
after her breathing had ceased to be quick and sharp she was still
wondering why the odor of stale alcohol should recall to her, with
elusive vagueness, the threatening face of a red-haired riverman who
found it hard to keep his feet.
CHAPTER XIX
SOME LETTERS AND A REPLY
Her letter came to him a week later, though she had posted it the
morning she took the train from Morrison. It had lain for days in the
post-office box of the East Coast Company, waiting the day when one of
the teamsters should call and carry it in overland. Steve had never
before seen her handwriting. It was his first letter from her; yet he
recognized it the instant Big Louie put it in his hand. And he was
glad that night that both Fat Joe and Garry were absent from the
up-river camp--glad that he was to have the next hour alone.
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