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Updated: June 4, 2025
My team," he waved an introducing hand at the two great cross-bred sled-dogs that unhooked from their traces had followed him in and now sat gravely on their haunches, staring at the fire. "You are an overseer for the company?" suggested the Curé, politely curious "or perhaps you cruise?" Crossman shook his head. "No, mon père. I came up here to get well."
It was a silent meal. The Curé sighed and shook his head at intervals, and the Boss grumbled a few comments in answer to an occasional question concerning his lumberjacks. Crossman sat in a dream. Could he have understood aright when Antoine had spoken of the dawn? Jakapa dropped a plate with a curse and a clatter. The sudden sound ripped the sick man's nerves like an exploding bomb.
Crossman marvelled at his temerity, yet he hung on the answer. "Why not? For him, as I have say, she is not for me, for you, ma frien', that is different." Antoine turned on him eyes as impersonal as those of Fate; where Crossman had expected to see animosity there was none, only a strange brotherhood of pitying understanding.
"You are right." Meditatively the Priest threw aside his cape and began unfastening the safety-pins that held up his cassock. "You say well. It strikes at the heart." Crossman nodded. "Yet it passes, my son, and Nature heals; as long as the hurt be in Nature, Nature will take care. And you have come where Nature and God work together.
They're going to take up a back block and do the thing regular: Marston, Starlight, and Company that's the fakement. They want us out to make dams or put up a woolshed or something. I don't see why they shouldn't, as well as Crossman and Fakesley. It's six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, as far as being on the square goes. Depend upon it, dad's turned over a new leaf.
"There!" said Dotty, bravely, "I'm going right along now, and no more fuss about it." It was hard work; Dotty limped badly; and all the while the cruel thorn was triumphantly working its way farther in. The Crossman orchard was not very far away now; but when they had reached it, and had crept under the fence, why, where were the strawberries?
From Pictorial Review "Your name! Votre nom?" Crossman added, for in the North Country not many of the habitants are bilingual. She looked at him and smiled slowly, her teeth white against cardinal-flower lips. "Ma name? Aurore," she answered in a voice as mystically slow as her smile, while the mystery of her eyes changed and deepened. Crossman watched her, fascinated.
It looked like it. His heart sank. Not to see her again! Not to feel her strange, thrilling presence! Not to sense that indomitable, insolent soul, throwing its challenge before it as it walked through the world! Crossman came out, returned to the office, busied himself in tidying the living room and solving the disorder of his desk.
Crossman nodded. "Trench pneumonia, and then the rat at the lung; but of shock, something also. But I think it was not concussion, as the doctors said, but soul-shock. It has left me, Father, like Mohammed's coffin, suspended. I think I have lost my grip on the world and not found my hold on another." "Shock of the soul," the Priest ruminated. "Your soul is bruised, my son.
There are for me no more dawns. You love her, too, Monsieur, therefore, I come to tell you the end. Bon soir, Monsieur." He was gone. Again there was silence. Crossman sat rigid. What had happened? His mind refused to understand.
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