Flower of the North

Flower of the North

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Flower of the North, by James Oliver Curwood #6 in our series by James Oliver Curwood
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Title: Flower of the North
Author: James Oliver Curwood
Release Date: December, 2003 [Etext #4703] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on March 3, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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FLOWER OF THE NORTH
A MODERN ROMANCE
BY JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD
AUTHOR OF THE DANGER TRAIL, PHILIP STEELS, ETC.

TO MY COMRADES OF THE GREAT NORTHERN WILDERNESS, THOSE FAITHFUL COMPANIONS WITH WHOM I HAVE SHARED THE JOYS AND HARDSHIPS OF THE "LONG SILENT TRAIL," AND ESPECIALLY TO THAT "JEANNE D'ARCAMBAL." WHO WILL FIND IN HERSELF THE HEROINE OF THIS STORY, THE WRITER GRATEFULLY DEDICATES THIS VOLUME.
DETROIT. MICHIGAN
JANUARY, 1912

FLOWER OF THE NORTH

I
"Such hair! Such eyes! Such color! Laugh if you will, Whittemore, but I swear that she was the handsomest girl I've ever laid my eyes upon!"
There was an artist's enthusiasm in Gregson's girlishly sensitive face as he looked across the table at Whittemore and lighted a cigarette.
"She wouldn't so much as give me a look when I stared," he added. "I couldn't help it. Gad, I'm going to make a full-page 'cover' of her to-morrow for Burke's. Burke dotes on pretty women for the cover of his magazine. Why, demmit, man, what the deuce are you laughing at?"
"Not at this particular case, Tom," apologized Whittemore. "But-- I'm wondering--"
His eyes wandered ruminatively about the rough interior of the little cabin, lighted by a single oil-lamp hanging from a cross- beam in the ceiling, and he whistled softly.
"I'm wondering," he went on, "if you'll ever strike a place where you won't see 'one of the most beautiful things on earth.' The last one was at Rio Piedras, wasn't it, Tom? A Spanish girl, or was she a Creole? I believe I've got your letter yet, and I'll read it to you to-morrow. I wasn't surprised. There are pretty women down in Porto Rico. But I didn't think you'd have the nerve to discover one up here--in the wilderness."
"She's got them all beat," retorted the artist, flecking the ash from the tip of his cigarette.
"Even the Valencia girl, eh?"
There was a chuckling note of pleasure in Philip Whittemore's voice as he leaned half across the table, his handsome face, bronzed by snow and wind, illumined in the lamp-glow. Gregson, in strong contrast, with his round, smooth cheeks, slim hands, and build that was almost womanish, leaned over his side to meet him. For the twentieth time that evening the two men shook hands.
"Haven't forgotten Valencia, eh?" chuckled the artist, gloatingly. "Lord, but I'm glad to see you again, Phil. Seems like a century since we were out raising the Old Ned together, and yet it's less than three years since we came back from South America. Valencia! Will we ever forget