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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Ah, if I was only Jan Thoreau a Jan Thoreau with the heart of Jean de Gravois what a surprise I'd give that foreigner!" he said to himself, leaping quickly from the trail into the thicket. He peered forth from the bushes, his loyal heart beating a wrathful tattoo when he saw that Dixon dared put his hand on Melisse's arm.
Jan's soul rejoiced, and in his silent way Cummins offered up wordless prayers of thankfulness. So matters stood at Post Lac Bain in the beginning of Melisse's ninth year, when up from the south there came a rumor.
Melisse's hair was brown and soft, and it shone with a sunny glory that reached far back into their conception of things dreamed of but never seen. Her eyes were as blue as the early wild flowers that came after the spring floods, and her voice was the sweetest sound that had ever fallen upon their ears.
Then Jan gathered in his whip and ran close to the leader, his moccasined feet taking the short, quick, light steps of the trained forest runner, his chest thrown a little out, his eyes upon the twisting trail ahead. It was a glorious ride, and Melisse's eyes danced with joy. Her blood thrilled to the tireless effort of the grayish-yellow pack of magnificent brutes ahead of her.
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