He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. “I shall never be able to thank you. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me. He is in the care of those who will not leave the task assigned to them—the utter perversion of his principles—half-finished. “But I wanted to see you. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. "A missioner! That illuminates everything. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. Mr. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. I will make her my Grail, and some day, perhaps, if God wills, she shall become my wife!’” He looked very hard before him as he said this, and his voice was full of deep feeling. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to.
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