A couple of days later, Jacob Welse and Frona arrived from a
hazardous trip out of White River, and pitched tent on the high ground
at the upper end of Split-up. A few _chechaquos_, the first of the
spring rush, strung in exhausted and went into camp against the
breaking of the river. Also, there were still men going out who,
barred by the rotten ice, came ashore to build poling-boats and await
the break-up or to negotiate with the residents for canoes. Notably
among these was the Baron Courbertin.
"Ah! Excruciating! Magnificent! Is it not?"
So Frona first ran across him on the following day. "What?" she asked,
giving him her hand.
"You! You!" doffing his cap. "It is a delight!"
"I am sure--" she began.
"No! No!" He shook his curly mop warmly. "It is not you. See!" He
turned to a Peterborough, for which McPherson had just mulcted him of
thrice its value. "The canoe! Is it not--not--what you Yankees
call--a bute?"
"Oh, the canoe," she repeated, with a falling inflection of chagrin.
"No! No! Pardon!" He stamped angrily upon the ground. "It is not
so. It is not you. It is not the canoe. It is--ah! I have it now!
It is your promise. One day, do you not remember, at Madame
Schoville's, we talked of the canoe, and of my ignorance, which was
sad, and you promised, you said--"
"I would give you your first lesson?"
"And is it not delightful? Listen! Do you not hear? The
rippling--ah! the rippling!--deep down at the heart of things! Soon
will the water run free.
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