In one of these rooms he sought
among the titles of dusty rows of books until he came to one and opened
it. And there he found what had been in the corner of his mind when the
sun rose to give him courage after the night of his dream. The
daughters of Achelous had lost in the end. Ulysses had tricked them.
Ulysses had won. And in this day and age it was up to him, John Keith,
to win, and win he would!
Always he felt this mastering certainty of the future when alone with
Mary Josephine in the open day. With her at his side, her hand in his,
and his arm about her waist, he told himself that all life was a
lie--that there was no earth, no sun, no song or gladness in all the
world, if that world held no hope for him. It was there. It was beyond
the rim of forest. It was beyond the yellow plains, beyond the farthest
timber of the farthest prairie, beyond the foothills; in the heart of
the mountains was its abiding place. As he had dreamed of those
mountains in boyhood and youth, so now he dreamed his dreams over again
with Mary Josephine. For her he painted his pictures of them, as they
wandered mile after mile up the shore of the Saskatchewan--the little
world they would make all for themselves, how they would live, what
they would do, the mysteries they would seek out, the triumphs they
would achieve, the glory of that world--just for two.
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