That was what he called it--"a peaceful resting-place"--and in
his earnestness to soothe another's grief he blundered still more deeply
into the horror of it all, describing certain details of what flesh and
bone could and could not stand, until Alan felt like clubbing him beyond
the power of speech. He was glad when he saw the McCormick cabin.
Sandy was waiting for them when they waded ashore. Something unusual was
in his face, Alan thought, and for a moment his heart waited in
suspense. But the Scotchman shook his head negatively and went close to
Olaf Ericksen. Alan did not see the look that passed between them. He
went to the cabin, and Ellen McCormick put a hand on his arm when he
entered. It was an unusual thing for her to do. And there was a glow in
her eyes which had not been there last night, and a flush in her cheeks,
and a new, strange note in her voice when she spoke to him. It was
almost exultation, something she was trying to keep back.
"You--you didn't find her?" she asked.
"No." His voice was tired and a little old. "Do you think I shall ever
find her?"
"Not as you have expected," she answered quietly. "She will never come
like that." She seemed to be making an effort. "You--you would give a
great deal to have her back, Mr. Holt?"
Her question was childish in its absurdity, and she was like a child
looking at him as she did in this moment.
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