It was a thick letter, and time and again he held it in
his hand, and wondered why it was that Josephine could have so much to
say to the lonely fox-hunter up on the edge of the Barren.
One night, as he sat alone by their fire in the chill of September
darkness, he took the letter from its sack and saw that the contents of
the bulging envelope had sprung one end of the flap loose. Before he went
to bed Pierre had set a pail of water on the coals. A cloud of steam was
rising from it. Those two things--the steam and the loosened flap--sent a
thrill through Philip. What was in the letter? What had Josephine McCloud
written to Peter God?
He looked toward sleeping Pierre; the pail of water began to bubble and
sing--he drew a tense breath, and rose to his feet. In thirty seconds the
steam rising from the pail would free the rest of the flap. He could read
the letter, and reseal it.
And then, like a shock, came the thought of the few notes Josephine had
written to him. On each of them she had never failed to stamp her seal in
a lavender-colored wax. He had observed that Colonel McCloud always used
a seal, in bright red. On this letter to Peter God there was no seal! She
trusted him. Her faith was implicit. And this was her proof of it. Under
his breath he laughed, and his heart grew warm with new happiness and
hope. "I have faith in you," she had said, at parting; and now, again,
out of the letter her voice seemed to whisper to him, "I have faith in
you.
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