He had told a great many things about Peter God that night; of the man's
life in the little cabin, his loneliness, his aloofness, and the mystery
of him. Philip had asked no questions of Josephine and her father, and
more than once he had caught that almost tender gratitude in Josephine's
eyes. And at least twice he had seen the swift, haunting fear--the first
time when he told of Peter God's coming and goings at Port MacPherson,
and again when he mentioned a patrol of the Royal Northwest Mounted
Police that had passed Peter God's cabin while Philip was there, laid up
during those weeks of darkness and storm with a fractured leg.
Philip told how tenderly Peter God nursed him, and how their acquaintance
grew into brotherhood during the long gray nights when the stars gleamed
like pencil-points and the foxes yapped incessantly. He had seen the dewy
shimmer of tears in Josephine's eyes. He had noted the tense lines in
Colonel McCloud's face. But he had asked them no questions, he had made
no effort to unmask the secret which they so evidently desired to keep
from him.
Now, alone in the cool night, he asked himself a hundred questions, and
yet with a feeling that he understood a great deal of what they had kept
from him. Something had whispered to him then--and whispered to him
now--that Peter God was not Peter God's right name, and that to Josephine
McCloud and her father he was a brother and a son.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236