Mary Josephine leaned a little over the table. Not once did she
interrupt Keith. Never had he dreamed of a glory that might reflect his
emotions as did her eyes. As he swept from pathos to storm, from the
madness of long, black nights to starvation and cold, as he told of
flight, of pursuit, of the merciless struggle that ended at last in the
capture of John Keith, as he gave to these things words and life
pulsing with the beat of his own heart, he saw them revisioned in those
wonderful gray eyes, cold at times with fear, warm and glowing at other
times with sympathy, and again shining softly with a glory of pride and
love that was meant for him alone. With him she was present in the
little cabin up in the big Barren. Until he told of those days and
nights of hopeless desolation, of racking cough and the nearness of
death, and of the comradeship of brothers that had come as a final
benediction to the hunter and the hunted, until in her soul she was
understanding and living those terrible hours as they two had lived
them, he did not know how deep and dark and immeasurably tender that
gray mystery of beauty in her eyes could be. From that hour he
worshiped them as he worshiped no other part of her.
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