Every word he uttered was pungent with bitterness to McLean. The swamp
had lost its flavor without Freckles; and yet, as Lord O'More talked,
McLean fervently wished himself in the heart of it. As he entered
Freckles' room he almost lost his breath. Everything was changed.
Freckles lay beside a window where he could follow Lake Michigan's
blue until the horizon dipped into it. He could see big soft clouds,
white-capped waves, shimmering sails, and puffing steamers trailing
billowing banners of lavender and gray across the sky. Gulls and curlews
wheeled over the water and dipped their wings in the foam. The room was
filled with every luxury that taste and money could introduce.
All the tan and sunburn had been washed from Freckles' face in sweats
of agony. It was a smooth, even white, its brown rift scarcely showing.
What the nurses and Lady O'More had done to Freckles' hair McLean could
not guess, but it was the most beautiful that he ever had seen. Fine as
floss, bright in color, waving and crisp, it fell around the white face.
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