CASTLE NOWHERE

BY

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON

Not many years ago the shore bordering the head of Lake Michigan, thenorthern curve of that silver sea, was a wilderness unexplored. It isa wilderness still, showing even now on the school-maps nothing savean empty waste of colored paper, generally a pale, cold yellowsuitable to the climate, all the way from Point St. Ignace to the ironports on the Little Bay de Noquet, or Badderknock in lake phraseology, a hundred miles of nothing, according to the map-makers, who, knowingnothing of the region, set it down accordingly, withholding even thoselong-legged letters, 'Chip-pe-was, ' 'Ric-ca-rees, ' that stretchaccommodatingly across so much townless territory farther west. Thisnorthern curve is and always has been off the route to anywhere; andmortals, even Indians, prefer as a general rule, when once started, togo somewhere. The earliest Jesuit explorers and the captains ofyesterday's schooners had this in common, that they could not, beinghuman, resist a cross-cut; and thus, whether bark canoes of twocenturies ago or the high, narrow propellers of to-day, one and all, coming and going, they veer to the southeast or west, and sail gaylyout of sight, leaving this northern curve of ours unvisited and alone. A wilderness still, but not unexplored; for that railroad of thefuture which is to make of British America a garden of roses, and turnthe wild trappers of the Hudson's Bay Company into gently smilingcongressmen, has it not sent its missionaries thither, to theastonishment and joy of the beasts that dwelt therein? According totradition, these men surveyed the territory, and then crossed over(those of them at least whom the beasts had spared) to the lowerpeninsula, where, the pleasing variety of swamps being added to thelabyrinth of pines and sand-hills, they soon lost themselves, and tothis day have never found what they lost. As the gleam of a camp-fireis occasionally seen, and now and then a distant shout heard by thehunter passing along the outskirts, it is supposed, that they are inthere somewhere surveying still. 

Not long ago, however, no white man's foot had penetrated within ourcurve. Across the great river and over the deadly plains, down to theburning clime of Mexico and up to the arctic darkness, journeyed ourcountrymen, gold to gather and strange countries to see; but thislittle pocket of land and water passed they by without a glance, inasmuch as no iron mountains rose among its pines, no copper layhidden in its sand ridges, no harbors dented its shores. Thus itremained an unknown region, and enjoyed life accordingly. But thewhite man's foot, well booted, was on the way, and one fine afternooncame tramping through. 'I wish I was a tree, ' said this white man, oneJarvis Waring by name. 'See that young pine, how lustily it grows, feeling its life to the very tip of each green needle! How it thrillsin the sun's rays, how strongly, how completely it carries out theintention of its existence! It never, has a headache, it--Bah!what a miserable, half-way thing is man, who should be a demigod, andis--a creature for the very trees to pity!' And then he built hiscamp-fire, called in his dogs, and slept the sleep of youth andhealth, none the less deep because of that Spirit of Discontent thathad driven him forth, into the wilderness; probably the Spirit ofDiscontent knew what it was about. Thus for days, for weeks, our whiteman wandered through the forest and wandered at random, for, being anexception, he preferred to go nowhere; he had his compass, but neverused it, and, a practised hunter, eat what came in his way and plannednot for the morrow. 'Now am I living the life of a good, hearty, comfortable bear, ' he said to himself with satisfaction. 

'No, you are not, Waring, ' replied the Spirit of Discontent, 'for youknow you have your compass in your pocket and can direct yourself backto the camps on Lake Superior or to the Sault for supplies, which ismore than the most accomplished bear can do. '

'O come, what do you know about bears?' answered Waring; 'very likelythey too have their depots of supplies, --in caves perhaps--'

'No caves here. '

'In hollow trees, then. '

'You are thinking of the stories about bears and wild honey, ' said thepertinacious Spirit. 

'Shut up, I am going to sleep, ' replied the man, rolling himself inhis blanket; and then the Spirit, having accomplished his object, smiled blandly and withdrew. 

Wandering thus, all reckoning lost both of time and place, our whiteman came out one evening unexpectedly upon a shore; before him waswater stretching away grayly in the fog-veiled moonlight; and sosuccessful had been his determined entangling of himself in the websof the wilderness, that he really knew not whether it was Superior, Huron or Michigan that confronted him, for all three bordered on theeastern end of the upper peninsula. Not that he wished to know;precisely the contrary. Glorifying himself in his ignorance, he builta fire on the sands, and leaning back against the miniature cliffsthat guard the even beaches of the inland seas, he sat looking outover the water, smoking a comfortable pipe of peace, and listeningmeanwhile to the regular wash of the waves. Some people are born withrhythm in their souls, and some not; to Jarvis Waring everythingseemed to keep time, from the songs of the birds to the chance wordsof a friend; and during all this pilgrimage through the wilderness, when not actively engaged in quarrelling with the Spirit, he wasrepeating bits of verses and humming fragments of songs that kept timewith his footsteps, or rather they were repeating and hummingthemselves along through his brain, while he sat apart and listened. At this moment the fragment that came and went apropos of nothing wasShakespeare's sonnet, 'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past. '

Now the small waves came in but slowly, and the sonnet in keeping timewith their regular wash, dragged its syllables so dolorously that atlast the man woke to the realisation that something was annoying him. 

 'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought, '

chanted the sonnet and waves together. 

'O double it, double it, can't you?' said the man impatiently, 'thisway:--

 "When to the ses--sions of sweet si--lent thought, te-tum, --te-tum, te-tum. "

But no; the waves and the lines persisted in their own idea, and thelistener finally became conscious of a third element against him, another sound which kept time with the obstinate two and encouragedthem in obstinacy, --the dip of light oars somewhere out in the graymist. 

 'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought, I sum--mon up--remem--brance of--things past, '

chanted the sonnet and the waves and the oars together, and went dulyon, sighing the lack of many things they sought away down to that'dear friend' who in some unexplained way made all their 'sorrowsend. ' Even then, while peering through the fog and wondering where andwhat was this spirit boat that one could hear but not see, Waringfound time to make his usual objections. 'This summoning upremembrance of things past, sighing the lack, weeping afresh, and soforth, is all very well, ' he remarked to himself, 'we all do it. Butthat friend who sweeps in at the death with his opportune dose ofcomfort is a poetical myth whom I, for one, have never yet met. '

'That is because you do not deserve such a friend, ' answered theSpirit, briskly reappearing on the scene. 'A man who flies in thewilderness to escape--'

'Spirit, are you acquainted with a Biblical personage named David?'interrupted Waring, executing a flank movement. 

The spirit acknowledged the acquaintance, but cautiously, as notknowing what was coming next. 

'Did he or did he not have anything to say about flying towildernesses and mountain-tops? Did he or did he not express wishes tosail thither in person?'

'David had a voluminous way of making remarks, ' replied the Spirit, 'and I do not pretend to stand up for them all. But one thing iscertain; whatever he may have wished, in a musical way, regardingwildernesses and mountain-tops, when it came to the fact he did notgo. And why? Because he--'

'Had no wings, ' said Waring, closing the discussion with a mightyyawn. 'I say, Spirit, take yourself off. Something is coming ashore, and were it old Nick in person I should be glad to see him and shakehis clawed hand. '

As he spoke out of the fog and into the glare of the fire shot aphantom skiff, beaching itself straight and swift at his feet, and sosuddenly that he had to withdraw them like a flash to avoid the crunchof the sharp bows across the sand. 'Always let the other man speakfirst, ' he thought; 'this boomerang of a boat has a shape in it, Isee. '

The shape rose, and, leaning on its oar, gazed at the camp and itsowner in silence. It seemed to be an old man, thin and bent, with barearms, and a yellow handkerchief bound around its head, drawn downalmost to the eyebrows, which, singularly bushy and prominent, shadedthe deep-set eyes, and hid their expression. 

'But supposing he won't, don't stifle yourself, ' continued Waring; thenaloud, 'Well, old gentleman, where do you come from?'

'Nowhere. '

'And where are you going?'

'Back there. '

'Couldn't you take me with you? I have been trying all my life to gonowhere, but never could learn the way: do what I would, I alwaysfound myself going in the opposite direction, namely, somewhere. '

To this the shape replied nothing, but gazed on. 

'Do the nobodies reside in Nowhere, I wonder, ' pursued the smoker;'because if they do, I am afraid I shall meet all my friends andrelatives. What a pity the somebodies could not reside there! Butperhaps they do; cynics would say so. '

But at this stage the shape waved its oar impatiently and demanded, 'Who are you?'

'Well I do not exactly know. Once I supposed I was Jarvis Waring, butthe wilderness has routed that prejudice. We can be anybody we please;it is only a question of force or will; and my latest character hasbeen William Shakespeare. I have been trying to find out whether Iwrote my own plays. Stay to supper and take the other side; it islong since I have had an argument with flesh and blood. And you arethat, --aren't you?'

But the shape frowned until it seemed all eyebrow. 'Young man, ' itsaid, 'how came you here? By water?'

'No; by land. '

'Alongshore?'

'No; through the woods. '

'Nobody ever comes through the woods. '

'Agreed; but I am somebody. '

'Do you mean that you have come across from Lake Superior on foot?'

'I landed on the shore of Lake Superior a month or two ago, and struckinland the same day; where I am now I neither know nor want to know. '

'Very well, ' said the shape, --'very well. ' But it scowled more gently. 'You have no boat?'

'No. '

'Do you start on to-morrow?'

'Probably; by that time the waves and "the sessions of sweet silentthought" will have driven me distracted between them. '

'I will stay to supper, I think, ' said the shape, unbending stillfarther, and stepping out of the skiff. 

'Deeds before words then, ' replied Waring, starting back towards atree where his game-bag and knapsack were standing. When he returnedthe skiff had disappeared; but the shape was warming its moccassinedfeet in a very human sort of way. They cooked and eat with theappetites of the wilderness, and grew sociable after a fashion. Theshape's name was Fog, Amos Fog, or old Fog, a fisherman and a hunteramong the islands farther to the south; he had come inshore to seewhat that fire meant, no person having camped there in fifteen longyears. 

'You have been here all that time, then?'

'Off and on, off and on; I live a wandering life, ' replied old Fog;and then, with the large curiosity that solitude begets, he turned theconversation back towards the other and his story. 

The other, not unwilling to tell his adventures, began readily; andthe old man listened, smoking meanwhile a second pipe produced fromthe compact stores in the knapsack. In the web of encounters andescapes, he placed his little questions now and then; no, Waring hadno plan for exploring the region, no intention of settling there, wasmerely idling away a summer in the wilderness and would then go backto civilization never to return, at least, not that way; might go westacross the plains, but that would be farther south. They talked on, one much, the other little; after a time, Waring, whose heart had beenwarmed by his flask, began to extol his ways and means. 

'Live? I live like a prince, ' he said. 'See these tin cases; theycontain concentrated stores of various kinds. I carry a little tea, you see, and even a few lumps of white sugar as a special treat nowand then on a wet night. 

'Did you buy that sugar at the Sault?' said the old man, eagerly. 

'O no; I brought it up from below. For literature I have this smalledition of Shakespeare's sonnets, the cream of the whole world'spoetry; and when I am tired of looking at the trees and the sky, Ilook at this, Titian's lovely daughter with her upheld salver offruit. Is she not beautiful as a dream?'

'I don't know much about dreams, ' replied old Fog, scanning the smallpicture with curious eyes 'but isn't she a trifle heavy in build? Theydress like that nowadays, I suppose, --flowered gowns and gold chainsaround the waist?'

'Why, man, that picture was painted more than three centuries ago. '

'Was it now? Women don't alter much, do they?' said old Fog, simply. 'Then they don't dress like that nowadays?'

'I don't know how they dress, and don't care, ' said the younger man, repacking his treasures. 

Old Fog concluded to camp with his new friend that night and be off atdawn. 'You see it is late, ' he said, 'and your fire's all made andeverything comfortable. I've a long row before me to-morrow: I'm on myway to the Beavers. '

'Ah! very intelligent animals, I am told. Friends of yours?'

'Why, they're islands, boy; Big and Little Beaver! What do you know, if you don't know the Beavers?'

'Man, ' replied Waring. 'I flatter myself I know the human animal well;he is a miserable beast. '

'Is he?' said old Fog, wonderingly; 'who'd have thought it!' Then, giving up the problem as something beyond his reach, --'Don't troubleyourself if you hear me stirring in the night, ' he said; 'I am oftenmighty restless. ' And rolling himself in his blanket, he soon became, at least as regards the camp-fire and sociability, a nonentity. 

'Simple-minded old fellow, ' thought Waring, lighting a fresh pipe;'has lived around here all his life apparently. Think of that, --tohave lived around here all one's life! I, to be sure, am here now; butthen, have I not been--' And here followed a revery of remembrances, that glittering network of gayety and folly which only young heartscan weave, the network around whose border is written in a thousandhues, 'Rejoice, young man, in thy youth, for it cometh not again. '

 'Alas, what sighs from our boding hearts The infinite skies have borne away!'

sings a poet of our time; and the same thought lies in many heartsunexpressed, and sighed itself away in this heart of our Jarvis Waringthat still foggy evening on the beach. 

The middle of the night, the long watch before dawn; ten chances toone against his awakening! A shape is moving towards the bags hangingon the distant tree. How the sand crunches, --but he sleeps on. Itreaches the bags, this shape, and hastily, rifles them; then it stealsback and crosses the sand again, its moccasined feet making no sound. But, as it happened, that one chance (which so few of us ever see!)appeared on the scene at this moment and guided these feet directlytowards a large, thin, old shell masked with newly blown sand; itbroke with a crack; Waring woke and gave chase. The old man wasunarmed, he had noticed that; and then such a simple-minded, harmlessold fellow! But simple-minded, harmless old fellows do not run likemad if one happens to wake; so the younger pursued. He was strong, hewas fleet; but the shape was fleeter, and the space between them grewwider. Suddenly the shape turned and darted into the water, runningout until only its head was visible above the surface, a dark spot inthe foggy moonlight. Waring pursued, and saw meanwhile another darkspot beyond, an empty skiff which came rapidly inshore-ward, until itmet the head, which forthwith took to itself a body, clambered in, lifted the oars, and was gone in an instant. 

'Well, ' said Waring, still pursuing down the gradual slope of thebeach, 'will a phantom bark come at my call, I wonder? At any rate Iwill go out as far as he did and see. ' But no; the perfidious beach atthis instant shelved off suddenly and left him afloat in deep water. Fortunately he was a skilled swimmer, and soon regained the shore wetand angry. His dogs were whimpering at a distance, both securelyfastened to trees, and the light of the fire had died down: evidentlythe old Fog was not, after all, so simple as some other people!

'I might as well see what the old rogue has taken, ' thought Waring;'all the tobacco and whiskey, I'll be bound. ' But nothing had beentouched save the lump-sugar, the little book, and the picture ofTitian's daughter! Upon this what do you suppose Waring did? He builta boat. 

When it was done, and it took some days and was nothing but a dug-outafter all (the Spirit said that), he sailed out into the unknown;which being interpreted means that he paddled southward. From theconformation of the shore, he judged that he was in a deep curve, protected in a measure from the force of wind and wave. 'I'll findthat ancient mariner, ' he said to himself, 'if I have tocircumnavigate the entire lake. My book of sonnets, indeed, and myTitian picture! Would nothing else content him? This voyage Iundertake from a pure inborn sense of justice--'

'Now, Waring, you know it is nothing of the kind, ' said the Spirit whohad sailed also. 'You know you are tired of the woods and dread goingback that way, and you know you may hit a steamer off the islands;besides, you are curious about this old man who steals Shakespeare andsugar, leaving tobacco and whiskey untouched. '

'Spirit, ' replied the man at the paddle, 'you fairly corrupt me withyour mendacity. Be off and unlimber yourself in the fog; I see itcoming in. '

He did see it indeed; in it rolled upon him in columns, a soft silverycloud enveloping everything, the sunshine, the shore, and the water, so that he paddled at random, and knew not whither he went, or rathersaw not, since knowing was long since out of the question. 'This ispleasant, ' he said to himself when the morning had turned to afternoonand the afternoon to night, 'and it is certainly new. A stratus oftepid cloud a thousand miles long and a thousand miles deep, and a manin a dug-out paddling through! Sisyphus was nothing to this. ' But hemade himself comfortable in a philosophic way, and went to the onlyplace left to him, --to sleep. 

At dawn the sunshine colored the fog golden, but that was all; it wasstill fog, and lay upon the dark water thicker and softer than ever. Waring eat some dried meat, and considered the possibilities; he hadreckoned without the fog, and now his lookout was uncomfortably misty. The provisions would not last more than a week; and though he mightcatch fish, how could he cook them? He had counted on a shoresomewhere; any land, however desolate, would give him a fire; but thisfog was muffling, and unless he stumbled ashore by chance he might goon paddling in a circle forever. 'Bien, ' he said, summing up, 'my part at any rate is to go on; I, at least can do my duty. '

'Especially as there is nothing else to do, ' observed the Spirit. 

Having once decided, the man kept at his work with finical precision. At a given moment he eat a lunch, and very tasteless it was too, andthen to work again; the little craft went steadily on before thestroke of the strong arms, its wake unseen, its course unguided. Suddenly at sunset the fog folded its gray draperies, spread itswings, and floated off to the southwest, where that night it rested atDeath's Door and sent two schooners to the bottom; but it left behindit a released dug-out, floating before a log fortress which hadappeared by magic, rising out of the water with not an inch of groundto spare, if indeed there was any ground; for might it not be aspecies of fresh-water boat, anchored there for clearer weather?

'Ten more strokes and I should have run into it, ' thought Waring as hefloated noiselessly up to this watery residence; holding on by ajutting beam, he reconnoitred the premises. The building was of logs, square, and standing on spiles, its north side, under which he lay, showed a row of little windows all curtained in white, and from one ofthem peeped the top of a rose-bush; there was but one storey, and theroof was flat. Nothing came to any of these windows, nothing stirred, and the man in the dug-out, being curious as well as hungry, decidedto explore, and touching the wall at intervals pushed his craftnoiselessly around the eastern corner; but here was a blank wall oflogs and nothing more. The south side was the same, with the exceptionof two loopholes, and the dug-out glided its quietest past these. Butthe west shone out radiant, a rude little balcony overhanging thewater, and in it a girl in a mahogany chair, nibbling something andreading. 

'My sugar and my sonnets, as I am alive!' ejaculated Waring tohimself. 

The girl took a fresh bite with her little white teeth, and went onreading in the sunset light. 

'Cool, ' thought Waring. 

And cool she looked truly to a man who had paddled two days in a hotsticky fog, as, clad in white, she sat still and placid on her airyperch. Her hair, of the very light fleecy gold seldom seen afterbabyhood, hung over her shoulders unconfined by comb or ribbon, felling around her like a veil and glittering in the horizontalsunbeams; her face, throat and hands were white as the petals of awhite camellia, her features infantile, her cast-down eyes invisibleunder the full-orbed lids. Waring gazed at her cynically, his boatmotionless; it accorded with his theories that the only woman he hadseen for months should be calmly eating and reading stolen sweets. Thegirl turned a page, glanced up, saw him, and sprang forward smiling;as she stood at the balcony, her beautiful hair fell below her knees. 

'Jacob, ' she cried gladly, 'is that you at last?'

'No, ' replied Waring, 'it is not Jacob; rather Esau. Jacob was tootricky for me. The damsel, Rachel, I presume!'

'My name is Silver, ' said the girl, 'and I see you are not Jacob atall. Who are you, then?'

'A hungry, tired man who would like to come aboard and rest awhile. '

'Aboard? This is not a boat. '

'What then?'

'A castle, --Castle Nowhere. '

'You reside here?'

'Of course; where else should I reside? Is it not a beautiful place?'said the girl, looking around with a little air of pride. 

'I could tell better if I was up there. '

'Come, then. '

'How?'

'Do you not see the ladder?'

'Ah, yes, --Jacob had a ladder, I remember; he comes up this way, Isuppose?'

'He does not; but I wish he would. '

'Undoubtedly. But you are not Leah all this time?'

'I am Silver, as I told you before; I know not--what you mean withyour Leah. '

'But, mademoiselle, your Bible--'

'What is Bible?'

'You have never read the Bible?'

'It is a book, then. I like books, ' replied Silver, waving her handcomprehensively; 'I have read five, and now I have a new one. '

'Do you like it, your new one?' asked Waring, glancing towards hisproperty. 

'I do not understand it all; perhaps you can explain to me?'

'I think I can, ' answered the young man, smiling in spite of himself;'that is, if you wish to learn. '

'Is it hard?'

'That depends upon the scholar; now, some minds--' Here a hideous facelooked out through one of the little windows, and then vanished. 'Ah, 'said Waring, pausing, 'one of the family?'

'That is Lorez, my dear old nurse. '

The face now came out on to the balcony and showed itself as part ofan old negress, bent and wrinkled with age. 

'He came in a boat, Lorez, ' said Silver, 'and yet you see he is notJacob. But he says he is tired and hungry, so we will have supper, now, without waiting for father. '

The old woman smiled and nodded, stroking the girl's glittering hairmeanwhile with her black hand. 

'As soon as the sun has gone it will be very damp, ' said Silver, turning to her guest; 'you will come within. But you have not toldme-your name. '

'Jarvis, ' replied Waring promptly. 

'Come, then, Jarvis. ' And she led the way through a low door into along narrow room with a row of little square windows on each side allcovered with little square white curtains. The walls and ceiling wereplanked and the workmanship of the whole rude and clumsy; but a gaycarpet covered the floor, a chandelier adorned with lustres, hung froma hook in the ceiling, large gilded vases and a mirror in a tarnishedgilt frame adorned a shelf over the hearth, mahogany chairs stood inranks against the wall under the little windows and a long narrowtable ran down the centre of the apartment from end to end. It allseemed strangely familiar; of what did it remind him? His eyes fellupon the table-legs; they were riveted to the floor. Then it came tohim at once, --the long narrow cabin of a lake steamer. 

'I wonder if it is not anchored after all, ' he thought. 

'Just a few shavings and one little stick, Lorez, ' said Silver;'enough to give us light and drive away the damp. '

Up flared the blaze and spread abroad the dear home feeling. (Ohearth-fire, good genius of home, with thee a log-cabin is cheery andbright, without thee the palace a dreary waste!)

'And now, while Lorez is preparing supper, you will come and see mypets, ' said Silver, in her soft tone of unconscious command. 

'By all means, ' replied Waring. 'Anything in the way of mermaidens?'

'Mermaidens dwell in the water, they cannot live in houses as we can;did you not know that? I have seen them on moonlight nights, and sohas Lorez; but Aunt Shadow never saw them. '

'Another member of the family, --Aunt Shadow?'

'Yes, ' replied Silver; 'but she is not here now. She went away onenight when I was asleep. I do not know why it is, ' she added sadly, 'but if people go away from here in the night they never come back. Will it be so with you, Jarvis?'

'No; for I will take you with me, ' replied the young man lightly. 

'Very well; and father will go too, and Lorez, ' said Silver. 

To this addition, Waring, like many another man in similarcircumstances, made no reply. But Silver did not notice the omission. She had opened a door, and behold, they stood together in a bower ofgreenery and blossom, flowers growing everywhere, --on the floor, upthe walls, across the ceiling, in pots, in boxes, in baskets, onshelves, in cups, in shells, climbing, crowding each other, swinging, hanging, winding around everything, --a riot of beauty with perfumesfor a language. Two white gulls stood in the open window and gravelysurveyed the stranger. 

'They stay with me almost all the time, ' said the water-maiden; 'everymorning they fly out to sea for a while, but they always come back. '

Then she flitted to and fro, kissed the opening blossoms and talked tothem, tying back the more riotous vines and gravely admonishing them. 

'They are so happy here, ' she said; 'it was dull for them on shore. Iwould not live on the shore! Would you?'

'Certainly not, ' replied Waring, with an air of having spent hisentire life upon a raft. 'But you did not find all these blossoms onthe shores about here, did you?'

'Father found them, --he finds everything; in his boat almost everynight is something for me. I hope he will come soon; he will be soglad to see you. '

'Will he? I wish I was sure of that, ' thought Waring. Then aloud, 'Has he any men with him?' he asked carelessly. 

'O no; we live here all alone now, --father, Lorez, and I. '

'But you were expecting a Jacob?'

'I have been expecting Jacob for more than two years. Every night Iwatch for him, but he comes not. Perhaps he and Aunt Shadow will cometogether, --do you think they will?' said Silver, looking up into hiseyes with a wistful expression. 

'Certainly, ' replied Waring. 

'Now am I glad, so glad! For father and Lorez will never say so. Ithink I shall like you, Jarvis. ' And, leaning on a box of mignonette, she considered him gravely with her little hands folded. 

Waring, man of the world, --Waring, who had been, under fire, --Waring, the impassive, --Waring, --the unflinching, --turned from this scrutiny. 

Supper was eaten at one end of the long table; the dishes, tablecloth, and napkins were marked with an anchor, the food simple but wellcooked. 

'Fish, of course, and some common supplies I can understand, ' said thevisitor; 'but how do you obtain flour like this, or sugar?'

'Father brings them, ' said Silver, 'and keeps them locked in hisstoreroom. Brown sugar we have always, but white not always, and Ilike it so much! Don't you?'

'No; I care nothing for it, ' said Waring, remembering the few lumpsand the little white teeth. 

The old negress waited, and peered at the visitor out of her smallbright eyes; every time Silver spoke to her, she broke into a radianceof smiles and nods, but said nothing. 

'She lost her voice some years ago, ' explained the little mistresswhen the black had gone out for more coffee; 'and now she seems tohave forgotten how to form words, although she understands us. '

Lorez returned, and, after refilling Waring's cup, placed somethingshyly beside his plate, and withdrew into the shadow. 'What is it?'said the young man, examining the carefully folded parcel. 

'Why, Lorez, have you given him that!' exclaimed Silver as he drew outa scarlet ribbon, old and frayed, but brilliant still. 'We think itmust have belonged to her young master, ' she continued in a low tone. 'It is her most precious treasure, and long ago she used to talk abouthim, and about her old home in the South. '

The old woman came forward after a while, smiling and nodding like ananimated mummy, and taking the red ribbon threw it around the youngman's neck, knotting it under the chin. Then she nodded with trebleradiance and made signs; of satisfaction. 

'Yes, it is becoming, ' said Silver, considering the effectthoughtfully, her small head with its veil of hair bent to one side, like a flower swayed by the wind. 

The flesh-pots of Egypt returned to Jarvis Waring's mind: heremembered certain articles of apparel left behind in civilization, and murmured against the wilderness. Under the pretence of examiningthe vases, he took an early opportunity of, looking into the roundmirror. 'I am hideous, ' he said to himself, uneasily. 

'Decidedly so, ' echoed the Spirit in a cheerful voice. But he was not;only a strong dark young man of twenty-eight, browned by exposure, clad in a gray flannel shirt and the rough attire of a hunter. 

The fire on the hearth sparkled gayly. Silver had brought one of herlittle white gowns, half finished, and sat sewing in its light, whilethe old negress came and went about her household tasks. 

'So you can sew?' said the visitor. 

'Of course I can. Aunt Shadow taught me, ' answered the water-maiden, threading her needle deftly. 'There is no need to do it, for I have somany dresses; but I like to sew, don't you?'

'I cannot say that I do. Have you so many dresses then?'

'Yes; would you like to see them? Wait. '

Down went the little gown trailing along the floor, and away she flew, coming back with her arms full, --silks, muslins, laces, and evenjewelry. 'Are they not beautiful?' she asked, ranging her splendorover the chairs. 

'They are indeed, ' said Waring, examining the garments with curiouseyes. 'Where did you get them?'

'Father brought them. O, there he is now, there he is now! I hear theoars. Come, Lorez. '

She ran out; the old woman hastened, carrying a brand from the hearth;and after a moment Waring followed them. 'I may as well face the oldrogue at once, ' he thought. 

The moon had not risen and the night was dark; under the balconyfloated a black object, and Lorez, leaning over, held out her flamingtorch. The face of the old rogue came out into the light under itsyellow handkerchief, but so brightened and softened by loving gladnessthat the gazer above hardly knew it. 'Are you there, darling, safe andwell?' said the old man, looking up fondly as he fastened his skiff. 

'Yes, father; here I am and so glad to see you, ' replied thewater-maiden, waiting at the top of the ladder. 'We have a visitor, father dear; are you not glad, so glad to see him?'

The two men came face to face, and the elder started back. 'What areyou doing here?' he said sternly. 

'Looking for my property. '

'Take it, and begone!'

'I will, to-morrow. '

All this apart, and with the rapidity of lightning. 

'His name is Jarvis, father, and we must keep him with us, ' saidSilver. 

'Yes, dear, as long as he wishes to stay; but no doubt he has home andfriends waiting for him. '

They went within, Silver leading the way. Old Fog's eyes gleamed andhis hands were clinched. The younger man watched him warily. 

'I have been showing Jarvis all my dresses, father, and he thinks thembeautiful. '

'They certainly are remarkable, ' observed Waring, coolly. 

Old Fog's hands dropped, he glanced nervously towards the visitor. 

'What have you brought for me to-night, father dear?'

'Nothing, child; that is, nothing of any consequence. But it isgrowing late; run off to your nest'

'O no, papa, you have had no supper, nor--'

'I am not hungry. Go, child, go; do not grieve me, ' said the old manin a low tone. 

'Grieve you? Dear papa, never!' said the girl, her voice softening totenderness in a moment. 'I will run straight to my room. --Come, Lorez. '

The door closed. 'Now for us two, ' thought Waring. 

But the cloud had passed from old Fog's face, and he drew up his chairconfidentially. 'You see how it is, ' he began in an apologetic tone;'that child is the darling of my life, and I could not resist takingthose things for her; she has so few books, and she likes those littlelumps of sugar. '

'And the Titian picture?' said Waring, watching him doubtfully. 

'A father's foolish pride; I knew she was lovelier, but I wanted tosee the two side by side. She is lovelier, isn't she?'

'I do not think so. '

'Don't you?' said old Fog in a disappointed tone. 'Well, I suppose Iam foolish about her; we live here all alone, you see: my sisterbrought her up. '

'The Aunt Shadow who has gone away?'

'Yes; she was my sister, and--and she went away last year, ' said theold man. 'Have a pipe?'

'I should think you would find it hard work to live here. '

'I do; but a poor man cannot choose. I hunt, fish, and get out a fewfurs sometimes; I traffic with the Beaver people now and then. Ibought all this furniture in that way; you would not think it, butthey have a great many nice things down at Beaver. '

'It looks like steamboat furniture. '

'That is it; it is. A steamer went to pieces down there, and theysaved almost all her furniture and stores; they are very good sailors, the Beavers. '

'Wreckers, perhaps?'

'Well I would not like to say that; you know we do have terriblestorms on these waters. And then there is the fog; this part of LakeMichigan is foggy half the time, why, I never could guess: but twelvehours out the twenty-four the gray mist lies on the water here andoutside, shifting slowly backwards and forwards from Little Traverseto Death's Door, and up into this curve, like a waving curtain. Thosesilks, now, came from the steamer; trunks, you know. But I have nevertold Silver; she might ask where were the people to whom theybelonged. You do not like the idea? Neither do I. But how could wehelp the drowning when we were not there, and these things were goingfor a song down at Beaver. The child loves pretty things; what could apoor man do? Have a glass of punch; I'll get it ready in no time. ' Hebustled about, and then came back with the full glasses. 'You won'ttell her? I may have done wrong in the matter, but it would kill me tohave the child lose faith in me, ' he said, humbly. 

'Are you going to keep the girl shut up here forever?' said Waring, half touched, half disgusted; the old fellow had looked abject as hepleaded. 

'That is it; no, ' said Fog, eagerly. 'She has been but a child allthis time, you see, and my sister taught her well. We did the best wecould. But as soon as I have a little more, just a little more, Iintend to move to one of the towns down the lake, and have a smallhouse and everything comfortable. I have planned it all out, I shallhave--'

He rambled on, garrulously detailing all his fancies and projectswhile the younger man sipped his punch (which was very good), listeneduntil he was tired, fell into a doze, woke and listened awhile longer, and then, wearied out, proposed bed. 

'Certainly. But, as I was saying--'

'I can hear the rest to-morrow, ' said Waring, rising with scantcourtesy. 

'I am sorry you go so soon; couldn't you stay a few days?' said theold man, lighting a brand. 'I am going over to-morrow to the shorewhere I met you. I have some traps there; you might enjoy a littlehunting. '

'I have had too much of that already. I must get my dogs, and then Ishould like to hit a steamer or vessel going below. '

'Nothing easier; we'll go over after the dogs early in the morning, and then I'll take you right down to the islands if the wind is fair. Would you like to look around the castle, --I am going to draw up theladders. No? This way, then; here is your room. '

It was a little side-chamber with one window high up over the water;there was an iron bolt on the door, and the walls of bare logs weresolid. Waring stood his gun in one corner, and laid his pistols by theside of the bed, --for there was a bed, only a rude framework like alow-down shelf, but covered with mattress and sheets none theless, --and his weary body longed for those luxuries with a longingthat only the wilderness can give, --the wilderness with its beds ofboughs, and no undressing. The bolt and the logs shut him in safely;he was young and strong, and there were his pistols. 'Unless they burndown their old castle, ' he said to himself, 'they cannot harm me. ' Andthen he fell to thinking of the lovely childlike girl, and his heartgrew soft. 'Poor old man, ' he said, 'how he must have worked andstolen and starved to keep her safe and warm in this far-away nest ofhis hidden in the fogs! I won't betray the old fellow, and I'll goto-morrow. Do you hear that, Jarvis Waring? I'll go to-morrow!'

And then the Spirit, who had been listening as usual, folded himselfup silently and flew away. 

To go to sleep in a bed, and awake in an open boat drifting out tosea, is startling. Waring was not without experiences, startling andso forth, but this exceeded former sensations; when a bear had him, for instance, he at least understood it, but this was not a bear, buta boat. He examined the craft as well as he could in the darkness. 'Evidently boats in some shape or other are the genii of this region, 'he said; 'they come shooting ashore from nowhere, they sail in at asignal without oars, canvas, or crew, and now they have taken tokidnapping. It is foggy too, I'll warrant; they are in league withthe fogs. ' He looked up, but could see nothing, not even a star. 

'What does it all mean anyway? Where am I? Who am I? Am I anybody? Orhas the body gone and left me only as an any?' But no one answered. Finding himself partly dressed, with the rest of his clothes at hisfeet, he concluded that he was not yet a spirit; in one of his pocketswas a match, he struck it and came back to reality in a flash. Theboat was his own dug-out, and he himself and no other was in it: sofar, so good. Everything else, however, was fog and night. He foundthe paddle and began work. 'We shall see who will conquer, ' hethought, doggedly, 'Fate or I!' So he paddled on an hour for more. 

Then the wind arose and drove the fog helter-skelter across to GreenBay, where the gray ranks curled themselves down and lay hidden untilmorning. 'I'll go with the wind, ' thought Waring, 'it must take mesomewhere in time. ' So he changed his course and paddled on. The windgrew strong, then stronger. He could see a few stars now as theragged dark clouds scudded across the heavens, and he hoped for thelate moon. The wind grew wild, then wilder. It took all his skill tomanage his clumsy boat. He no longer asked himself where he was orwho; he knew, --a man in the grasp of death. The wind was a gale now, and the waves were pressed down flat by its force as it flew along. Suddenly the man at the paddle, almost despairing, espied a light, high up, steady, strong. 'A lighthouse on one of the islands, ' hesaid, and steered for it with all his might. Good luck was with him;in half an hour he felt the beach under him, and landed on the shore;but the light he saw no longer. 'I must be close in under it, ' hethought. In the train of the gale came thunder and lightning. Waringsat under a bush watching the powers of the air in conflict, he sawthe fury of their darts and heard the crash of their artillery, andmused upon the wonders of creation, and the riddle of man's existence. Then a flash came, different from the others in that it brought thehuman element upon the scene; in its light he saw a vessel drivinghelplessly before the gale. Down from his spirit-heights he came atonce, and all the man within him was stirred for those on board, who, whether or not they had ever perplexed themselves over the riddle oftheir existence, no doubt now shrank from the violent solution offeredto them. But what could he do? He knew nothing of the shore, and yetthere must be a harbor somewhere, for was there not the light? Anotherflash showed the vessel still nearer, drifting broadside on;involuntarily he ran out on the long sandy point where it seemed thatsoon she must strike. But sooner came a crash, then a grinding sound;there was a reef outside then, and she was on it, the rocks cuttingher, and the waves pounding her down on their merciless edges. 'Strange!' he thought. 'The harbor must be on the other side Isuppose, and yet it seems as though I came this way. ' Looking around, there was the light high up behind him, burning clearly and strongly, while the vessel was breaking to pieces below. 'It is a lure, ' hesaid, indignantly, 'a false light. ' In his wrath he spoke aloud;suddenly a shape came out of the darkness, cast him down, andtightened a grasp around his throat. 'I know you, ' he muttered, strangling. One hand was free, he drew out his pistol, and fired; theshape fell back. It was old Fog. Wounded? Yes, badly. 

Waring found his tinder-box, made a blaze of driftwood, and bound upthe bleeding arm and leg roughly. 'Wretch, ' he said, 'you set thatlight. '

Old Fog nodded. 

'Can anything be done for the men on board? Answer or I'll end yourmiserable life at once; I don't know why, indeed, I have tried to saveit. '

Old Fog shook his head. 'Nothing, ' he murmured; 'I know every inch ofthe reef and shore. '

Another flash revealed for an instant the doomed vessel, and Waringraged at his own impotence as he strode to and fro, tears of anger andpity in his eyes. The old man watched him anxiously. 'There are notmore than six of them, ' he said; 'it was only a small schooner. '

'Silence!' shouted Waring; 'each man of the six now suffering anddrowning is worth a hundred of such as you!'

'That may be, ' said Fog. 

Half an hour afterwards he spoke again. 'They're about gone now, thewater is deadly cold up here. The wind will go down soon, and bydaylight the things will be coming ashore; you'll see to them, won'tyou?'

'I'll see to nothing, murderer. '

'And if I die what are you?'

'An avenger. '

'Silver must die too then; there is but little in the house, she willsoon starve. It was for her that I came out to-night. '

'I will take her away; not for your sake, but for hers. '

'How can you find her?'

'As soon as it is daylight I will sail over. '

'Over? Over where? That is it, you do not know, ' said the old man, eagerly, raising himself on his unwounded arm. 'You might row andsail about here for days, and I'll warrant you'd never find thecastle; it's hidden away more carefully than a nest in the reeds, trust me for that. The way lies through a perfect tangle of channelsand islands and marshes, and the fog is sure for at least a good halfof the time. The sides of the castle towards the channel show no lightat all; and even when you're once through the outlying islets, theonly approach is masked by a movable bed of sedge which I contrived, and which turns you skilfully back into the marsh by another way. No;you might float around there for days but you'd never find thecastle. '

'I found it once. '

'That was because you came from the north shore. I did not guard thatside, because no one has ever come that way; you remember how quicklyI saw your light and rowed over to find out what it was. But you aremiles away from there now. '

The moon could not pierce the heavy clouds, and the night continueddark. At last the dawn come slowly up the east and showed an angrysea, and an old man grayly pallid on the sands near the dying fire; ofthe vessel nothing was to be seen. 

'The things will be coming ashore, the things will be coming. Ashore, ' muttered the old man, his anxious eyes turned towards thewater that lay on a level with his face; he could not raise himselfnow. 

'Do you see things coming ashore?'

Waring looked searchingly at him. 'Tell me the truth, ' he said, 'hasthe girl no boat?'

'No. '

'Will any one go to rescue her; does any one know of the castle?'

'Not a human being on this earth. '

'And that aunt, --that Jacob?'

'Didn't you guess it? They are both dead. I rowed them out by nightand buried them, --my poor old sister and the boy who had been ourserving-lad. The child knows nothing of death. I told her they hadgone away. '

'Is there no way for her to cross, to the islands or mainland?'

'No; there is a circle of deep water all around the castle, outside. '

'I see nothing for it, then, but to try to save your justly forfeitedlife, ' said Waring, kneeling down with an expression of repugnance. Hewas something of a surgeon, and knew what he, was about. His taskover, he made up the fire, warmed some food, fed the old man, andhelped his waning strength with the contents of his flask. 'At leastyou placed all my property in the dug-out before you set me adrift, 'he said; 'may I ask your motive?'

'I did not wish to harm you; only to get rid of you. You hadprovisions, and your chances were as good as many you had had in thewoods. '

'But I might have found my way back to your castle?'

'Once outside, you could never do that, ' replied the old man, securely. 

'I could go back along-shore. '

'There are miles of piny-wood swamps where the streams come down; no, you could not do it, unless you went away round to Lake Superioragain, and struck across the country as you did before. That wouldtake you a month or two, and the summer is almost over. You would notrisk a Northern snowstorm, I reckon. But say, do you see things comingashore?'

'The poor bodies will come, no doubt, ' said Waring, sternly. 

'Not yet; and they don't often come in here, anyway; they're morelikely to drift out to sea. '

'Miserable creature, this is not the first time, then?'

'Only four times, --only four times in fifteen long years, and thenonly when she was close to starvation, ' pleaded the old man. 'Thesteamer was honestly wrecked, --the Anchor, of the Buffaloline, --honestly, I do assure you; and what I gathered from her--shedid not go to pieces for days--lasted me a long time, besidesfurnishing the castle. It was a godsend to me, that steamer. You mustnot judge me, boy; I work, I slave, I go hungry and cold, to keep herhappy and warm. But times come when everything fails and starvationis at the door. She never knows it, none of them ever knew it, for Ikeep the keys and amuse them with little mysteries; but, as God is myjudge, the wolf has been at the door, and is there this moment unlessI have luck. Fish? There are none in shore where they can catch them. Why do I not fish for them? I do; but my darling is not accustomed tocoarse fare, her delicate life must be delicately nourished. O, you donot know, you do not know! I am growing old, and my hands and eyes arenot what they were. That very night when I came home and found youthere, I had just lost overboard my last supplies, stored so long, husbanded so carefully! If I could walk, I would show you my cellarand storehouse back in the woods. 

'Many things that they have held were honestly earned, by my fish andmy game, and one thing and another. I get out timber and raft it downto the islands sometimes, although the work is too hard for an old manalone; and I trade my furs off regularly at the settlements on theislands and even along the mainland, --a month's work for a littleflour or sugar. Ah, how I have labored! I have felt my muscles crack, I have dropped like a log from sheer weariness. Talk of tortures;which of them have I not felt, with the pains and faintness ofexposure and hunger racking me from head to foot? Have I stopped forsnow and ice? Have I stopped for anguish? Never; I have worked, worked, worked, with the tears of pain rolling down my cheeks, with mybody gnawed by hunger. That night, in some way, the boxes slipped andfell overboard as I was shifting them; just slipped out of my grasp asif on purpose, they knowing all the time that they were my last. HomeI came, empty-handed, and found you there! I would have taken yoursupplies, over on the north beach, that night, yes, without pity, hadI not felt sure of those last boxes; but I never rob needlessly. Youlook at me with scorn? You are thinking of those dead men! But whatare they to Silver, --the rough common fellows, --and the wolf standingat the castle door! Believe me, though, I try everything before Iresort to this, and only twice out of the four times have I caughtanything with my tree-hung light; once it was a vessel loaded withprovisions, and once it was a schooner with grain from Chicago, whichwashed overboard and was worthless. O, the bitter day when I stoodhere in the biting wind and watched it float by out to sea! But say, has anything come ashore? She will be waking soon, and we have milesto go. '

But Waring did not answer; he turned away. The old man caught at hisfeet. 'You are not going, ' he cried in a shrill voice, '--you are notgoing? Leave me to die, --that is well; the sun will come and burn me, thirst will come and madden me, these wounds will torture me, and allis no more than I deserve. But Silver? If I die, she dies. If youforsake me, you forsake her. Listen; do you believe in your Christ, the dear Christ? Then, in his name I swear to you that you cannotreach her alone, that only I can guide you to her. O save me, for hersake! Must she suffer and linger and die? O God, have pity and softenhis heart!' The voice died away in sobs, the weak slow sobs of an oldman. 

But Waring, stern in avenging justice, drew himself from the feeblegrasp, and walked down towards the boats. He did not intend fairly todesert the miserable old creature. He hardly knew what he intended, but his impulse was to put more space between them, between himselfand this wretch who gathered his evil living from dead men's bones. Sohe stood gazing out to sea. A faint cry roused him, and, turning, hesaw that the old man had dragged himself half across the distancebetween them, marking the way with his blood, for the bandages wereloosened by his movements. As Waring turned, he held up his hands, cried aloud, and fell as if dead on the sands. 'I am a brute, ' saidWaring. Then he went to work and brought back consciousness, reboundthe wounds, lifted the body in his strong arms and bore it down thebeach. A sail-boat lay in a cove, with a little skiff in tow. Waringarranged a couch in the bottom, and placed the old man in an easyposition on an impromptu pillow made of his coat. Fog opened his eyes. 'Anything come ashore?' he asked faintly, trying to turn his headtowards the reef. Conquering his repugnance, the young man walked outon the long point. There was nothing there; but farther down the coastbarrels were washing up and back in the surf, and one box had strandedin shallow water. 'Am I, too, a wrecker?' he asked himself, as withmuch toil and trouble he secured the booty and examined it. Yes, thebarrels contained provisions. 

Old Fog, revived by the sight, lay propped at the stern, givingdirections. Waring found himself a child obeying the orders of a wiserhead. The load on board, the little skiff carrying its share behind, the young man set sail and away they flew over the angry water; oldFog watching the sky, the sail, and the rudder, guiding their coursewith a word now and then, but silent otherwise. 

'Shall we see the castle soon?' asked Waring, after several hours hadpassed. 

'We may be there by night, if the wind doesn't shift. '

'Have we so far to go, then? Why, I came across in the half of anight. '

'Add a day to the half and you have it. I let you down at dawn andtowed you out until noon; I then spied that sail beating up, and Iknew there would be a storm by night, and--and things were desperatewith me. So I cast you off and came over to set the light. It was achance I did not count on, that your dug-out should float this way; Icalculated that she would beach you safely on an island farther to thesouth. '

'And all this time, when you were letting me down--By the way, howdid you do it?'

'Lifted a plank in the floor. '

'When you were letting me down, and towing me out, and calculatingchances, what was I, may I ask?'

'O, just a body asleep, that was all; your punch was drugged, and welldone too! Of course I could not have you at the castle; that wasplain. '

They flew on a while longer, and then veered short to the left. 'Thisboat sails well, ' said Waring, 'and that is your skiff behind I see. Did you whistle for it that night?'

'I let it out by a long cord while you went after the game bag, and theshore-end I fastened to a little stake just under the edge of thewater on that long slope of beach. I snatched it up as I ran out, andkept hauling in until I met it. You fell off that ledge, didn't you? Icalculated on that. You see I had found out all I wanted to know; theonly thing I feared was some plan for settling along that shore, orexploring it for something. It is my weak side; if you had climbed upone of those tall trees you might have caught sight of thecastle, --that is, if there was no fog. '

'Will the fog come up now?'

'Hardly; the storm has been too heavy. I suppose you know what day itis?' continued the old man, peering up at his companion from under hisshaggy eyebrows. 

'No; I have lost all reckonings of time and place. '

'Purposely?'

'Yes. '

'You are worse than I am, then; I keep a reckoning, although I do notshow it. To-day is Sunday, but Silver does not know it; all days arealike to her. Silver has never heard of the Bible, ' he added, slowly. 

'Yes, she has, for I told her. '

'You told her!' cried old Fog, wringing his hands. 

'Be quiet, or you will disturb those bandages again. I only asked herif she had read the book, and she said no; that was all. But supposingit had not been all, what then? Would it harm her to know of theBible?'

'It would harm her to lose faith in me. '

'Then why have you not told her yourself?'

'I left her to grow up as the flowers grow, ' said old Fog, writhing onhis couch. 'Is she not pure and good? Ah, a thousand times more thanany church or school could make her!'

'And yet you have taught her to read?'

'I knew not what might happen. I could not expose her defenceless in ahard world. Religion is fancy, but education is like an armor. Icannot tell what may happen. '

'True. You may die, you know; you are an old man. '

The old man turned away his face. 

They sailed on, eating once or twice; afternoon came, and then anarchipelago closed in around them; the sail was down, and the oarsout. Around and through, across and back, in and out they wound, nowrowing, now poling, and now and then the sail hoisted to scud across aspace of open water. Old Fog's face had grown gray again, and thelines had deepened across his haggard cheek and set mouth; hisstrength was failing. At last they came to a turn, broad and smoothlike a canal. 'Now I will hoist the sail again, ' said Waring. 

But old Fog shook his head. 'That turn leads directly back into themarsh, ' he said, 'Take your oar and push against the sedge in front. '

The young man obeyed, and lo! it moved slowly aside and disclosed anarrow passage westward; through this they poled their way along toopen water, then set the sail, rounded a point, and came suddenly uponthe castle. 'Well, I am glad we are here, ' said Waring. 

Fog had fallen back. 'Promise, ' he whispered with gray lips, --'promisethat you will not betray me to the child. ' And his glazing eyes fixedthemselves on Waring's face with the mute appeal of a dying animal inthe hands of its captor. 

'I promise, ' said Waring. 

But the old man did not die; he wavered, lingered, then slowlyrallied, --very slowly. The weeks had grown into a month and two beforehe could manage his boat again. In the mean time Waring hunted andfished for the household, and even sailed over to the reef with Fog ona bed in the bottom of the boat, coming back loaded with the spoil;not once only, not twice did he go; and at last he knew the way, eventhrough, the fog, and came and went alone, bringing home the veryplanks and beams of the ill-fated schooner. 'They will make a brightfire in the evenings, ' he said. The dogs lived on the north shore, went hunting when their master came over and the rest of the timepossessed their souls in patience. And what possessed Waring, do youask? His name for it was 'necessity. ' 'Of course I cannot leave themto starve, ' he said to himself. 

Silver came and went about the castle, at first wilfully, thensubmissively, then shyly. She had folded away all her finery inwondering silence, for Waring's face had shown disapproval, and nowshe wore always her simple white gown, 'Can you not put up your hair?'he had asked one day; and from that moment the little head appearedcrowned with braids. She worked among her flowers and fed her gulls asusual, but she no longer talked to them or told them stories. In theevenings they all sat around the hearth, and sometimes the littlemaiden sang; Waring had taught her new songs. She knew the sonnetsnow, and chanted them around the castle to tunes of her own;Shakespeare would not have known his stately measures, dancing alongto her rippling melodies. 

The black face of Orange shone and simmered with glee; she noddedperpetually, and crooned and laughed to herself over her tasks by thehour together, --a low chuckling laugh of exceeding content. 

And did Waring ever stop to think? I know not. If he did, he forgotthe thoughts when Silver came and sat by him in the evening with thelight of the hearth-fire shining over her. He scarcely saw her atother times, except on her balcony, or at her flower window as he cameand went in his boat below; but in the evenings she sat beside him inher low chair, and laid sometimes her rose leaf palm in his roughbrown hand, or her pretty head against his arm. Old Fog sat by always;but he said little, and his face was shaded by his hand. 

The early autumn gales swept over the hikes, leaving wreck anddisaster behind, but the crew of the castle stayed safely at home andlistened to the tempest cosily, while the flowers bloomed on, and thegulls brought all their relations and colonized the balcony and windowsills, fed daily by the fair hand of Silver. And Waring went not. 

Then the frosts came, and turned the forests into splendor; they rowedover and brought out branches, and Silver decked the long room withscarlet and gold. And Waring went not. 

The dreary November rains began, the leaves fell, and the dark watersurged heavily; but a store of wood was piled on the flat roof, andthe fire on the hearth blazed high. And still Waring went not. 

At last the first ice appeared, thin flakes forming around the logfoundations of the castle; then old Fog spoke. 'I am quite well now, quite strong again; you must go to-day, or you will find yourselffrozen in here. As it is, you may hit a late vessel off the islandsthat will carry you below. I will sail over with you, and bring backthe boat. '

'But you are not strong enough yet, ' said Waring, bending over hiswork, a shelf he was carving for Silver; 'I cannot go and leave youhere alone. '

'It is either go now, or stay all winter. You do not, I presume, intend to make Silver your wife, --Silver, the daughter of Fog thewrecker. '

Waring's hands stopped; never before had the old man's voice takenthat tone, never before had he even alluded to the girl as anythingmore than a child. On the contrary, he had been silent, he had beenhumble, he had been openly grateful to the strong young man who hadtaken his place on sea and shore, and kept the castle full and warm. 'What new thing is this?' thought Waring, and asked the same. 

'Is it new?' said Fog. 'I thought it old, very old, I mean no mystery, I speak plainly. You helped me in my great strait, and I thank you;perhaps it will be counted unto you for good in the reckoning up ofyour life. But I am strong again, and the ice is forming. You can haveno intention of making Silver your wife?'

Waring looked up, their eyes met. 'No, ' he replied slowly, as thoughthe words were being dragged out of him by the magnetism of the oldman's gaze, 'I certainly have no such intention. '

Nothing more was said; soon Waring rose and went out. But Silverspied him from her flower-room, and came down to the sail-boat whereit lay at the foot of the ladder. 'You are not going out this coldday, ' she said, standing by his side as he busied himself over therigging. She was wrapped in a fur mantle, with a fur cap on her head, and her rough little shoes were fur-trimmed. Waring made no reply. 'But I shall not allow it, ' continued the maiden, gayly. 'Am I notqueen of this castle? You yourself have said it many a time. Youcannot go, Jarvis; I want you here. ' And with her soft hands sheblinded him playfully. 

'Silver, Silver, ' called old Fog's voice above, 'come within; I wantyou. '

After that the two men were very crafty in their preparations. 

The boat ready, Waring went the rounds for the last time. He broughtdown wood for several days and stacked it, he looked again at all theprovisions and reckoned them over; then he rowed to the north shore, visited his traps, called out the dogs from the little house he hadmade for them, and bade them good by. 'I shall leave you for old Fog, 'he said; 'be good dogs, and bring in all you can for the castle. '

The dogs wagged their tails, and waited politely on the beach until hewas out of sight; but they did not seem to believe his story, and wentback to their house tranquilly without a howl. The day passed asusual. Once the two men happened to meet in the passage-way. 'Silverseems restless, we must wait till darkness, ' said Fog in a low tone. 

'Very well, ' replied Waring. 

At midnight they were off, rowing over the black water in thesail-boat, hoping for a fair wind at dawn, as the boat was heavy. Theyjourneyed but slowly through the winding channel, leaving thesedge-gate open; no danger now from intruders; the great giant, Winter, had swallowed all lesser foes. It was cold, very cold, andthey stopped awhile at dawn on the edge of the marsh, the last shore, to make a fire and heat some food before setting sail for the islands. 

'Good God!' cried Waring. 

A boat was coming after them, a little skiff they both knew, and in itpaddling, in her white dress, sat Silver, her fur mantle at her feetwhere it had fallen unnoticed. They sprang to meet her knee-deep inthe icy water; but Waring was first, and lifted her slight form in hisseems. 

'I have found you, Jarvis, ' she murmured, laying her head down uponhis shoulder; then the eyes closed, and the hand she had tried toclasp around his neck fell lifeless. Close to the fire, wrapped infurs, Waring held her in his arms, while the old man bent over her, chafing her hands and little icy feet, and calling her name in anagony. 

'Let her but come back to life, and I will say not one word, more, ' hecried with tears. 'Who am I that I should torture her? You shall goback with us, and I will trust it all to God, --all to God. '

'But what if I will not go back, what if I will not accept your trust?said Waring, turning his head away from the face pillowed on hisbreast. 

'I do not trust you, I trust God; he will guard her. '

'I believe he will, ' said the young man, half to himself. And thenthey bore her home, not knowing whether her spirit was still withthem, or already gone to that better home awaiting it in the nextcountry. 

That night the thick ice came, and the last vessels fled southward. But in the lonely little castle there was joy; for the girl was saved, barely, with fever, with delirium, with long prostration, but saved!

When weeks had passed, and she was in her low chair again, proppedwith cushions, pallid as a snow-drop, weak and languid, but stillthere, she told her story, simply and without comprehension ofits meaning. 

'I could not rest that night, ' she said, 'I know not why; so I dressedsoftly and slipped past Orange asleep on her mattress by my door, andfound you both gone, --your father, and you, Jarvis. You never go out atnight, and it was very cold; and Jarvis had taken his bag andknapsack, and all the little things I know so well. His gun was gonefrom the wall, his clothes from his empty room, and that picture ofthe girl holding up the fruit was not on his table. From that I knewthat something had happened; for it is dear to Jarvis, that picture ofthe girl, ' said Silver with a little quiver in her voice. With aquick gesture Waring drew the picture from his pocket and threw itinto the fire; it blazed, and was gone in a moment. 'Then I wentafter you, ' said Silver with a little look of gratitude. 'I know thepassage through the south channels, and something told me you hadgone that way. It was very cold. '

That was all, no reasoning, no excuse, no embarrassment; the flight ofthe little sea-bird straight to its mate. 

Life flowed on again in the old channel, Fog quiet, Silver happy, andWaring in a sort of dream. Winter was full upon them, and the castlebeleaguered with his white armies both below and above, on the waterand in the air. The two men went ashore on the ice now, and trappedand hunted daily, the dogs following. Fagots were cut and rough roadsmade through the forest. One would have supposed they were planningfor a lifelong residence, the young man and the old, as they came andwent together, now on the snow-crust, now plunging through breast-deepinto the light dry mass. One day Waring said, 'Let me see yourreckoning. Do you know that to-morrow will be Christmas?'

'Silver knows nothing of Christmas, ' said Fog, roughly. 

'Then she shall know, ' replied Waring. 

Away he went to the woods and brought back evergreen. In the night hechecked the cabin-like room, and with infinite pains constructed alittle Christmas-tree and hung it with everything he could collect orcontrive. 

'It is but a poor thing, after all, ' he said, gloomily, as he stoodalone surveying his work. It was indeed a shabby little tree, onlyredeemed from ugliness by a white cross poised on the green summit;this cross glittered and shone in the firelight, --it was cut fromsolid ice. 

'Perhaps I can help, you, ' said old Fog's voice behind. 'I did notshow you this, for fear it would anger you, but--but there must havebeen a child on board after all. ' He held a little box of toys, carefully packed as if by a mother's hand, --common toys, for she wasonly the captain's wife, and the schooner a small one; the little waifhad floated ashore by itself, and Fog had seen and hidden it. 

Waring said nothing, and the two men began to tie on the toys insilence. But after a while they warmed to their work and grew eager tomake it beautiful; the old red ribbon that Orange had given wasconsidered a precious treasure-trove, and, cut into fragments, itgayly held the little wooden toys in place on the green boughs. 

Fog, grown emulous, rifled the cupboards and found small cakes bakedby the practised hand of the old cook; these he hung exultingly on thehigher boughs. And now the little tree was full, and stood bravely inits place at the far end of the long room, while the white crosslooked down on the toys of the drowned child and the ribbon of theslave, and seemed to sanctify them for their new use. 

Great was the surprise of Silver the next morning, and many thequestions she asked. Out in the world, they told her, it was so; treeslike that were decked for children. 

'Am I a child?' said Silver, thoughtfully; 'what do you think, papa?'

'What do you think?' said Waring, turning the question. 

'I hardly know; sometimes I think I am, and sometimes not; but it isof no consequence what I am as long as I have you, --you and papa. Tellme more about the little tree, Jarvis. What does it mean? What isthat white shining toy on the top? Is there a story about it?'

'Yes, there is a story; but--but it is not I who should tell it toyou, ' replied the young man, after a moment's hesitation. 

'Why not! Whom have I in all the world to tell me, save you?' saidfondly the sweet child-voice. 

They did not take away the little Christmas-tree, but left it on itspedestal at the far end of the long room through the winter; and asthe cross melted slowly, a new one took its place, and shone aloft inthe firelight. But its story was not told. 

February came, and with it a February thaw; the ice stirred a little, and the breeze coming over the floes was singularly mild. The arcticwinds and the airs from the Gulf Stream had met and mingled, and thegray fog appeared again, waving to and fro. 'Spring has come, ' saidSilver; 'there is the dear fog. ' And she opened the window of theflower room, and let out a little bird. 

'It will find no resting-place for the sole of its foot, for the snowis over the face of the whole earth, ' said Waring. 'Our ark has keptus cosily through bitter weather, has it not, little one?' (He hadadopted a way of calling her so. )

'Ark, ' said Silver; 'what is that?'

'Well, ' answered Waring, looking down into her blue eyes as they stoodtogether at the little window, 'it was a watery residence like this, and if Japheth, --he was always my favorite of the three--had had youthere, my opinion is that he would never have come down at all, butwould have resided permanently on Ararat. '

Silver looked up into his face with a smile, not understanding what hesaid, nor asking to understand; it was enough for her that he wasthere. And as she gazed her violet eyes grew so deep, so soft, thatthe man for once (give him credit, it was the first time) took herinto his arms. 'Silver, ' he whispered, bending over her, 'do you loveme?'

'Yes, ' she answered in her simple, unconscious way, 'you know I do, Jarvis. '

No color deepened in her fair face under his ardent gaze; and, after amoment, he released her, almost roughly. The next day he told old Fogthat he was going. 

'Where. '

'Somewhere, this time. I've had enough of Nowhere. '

'Why do you go?'

'Do you want the plain truth, old man? Here it is, then; I am growingtoo fond of that girl, --a little more and I shall not be able to leaveher. '

'Then stay; she loves you. '

'A child's love. '

'She will develop--'

'Not into my wife if I know myself, ' said Waring, curtly. 

Old Fog sat silent a moment. 'Is she not lovely and good?' he said ina low voice. 

'She is; but she is your daughter as well. '

'She is not. '

'She is not! What then?'. 

'I--I do not know; I found her, a baby, by the wayside. '

'A foundling! So much the better, that is even a step lower, ' said theyounger man, laughing roughly. And the other crept away as though hehad been struck. 

Waring set about his preparations. This time Silver did not suspecthis purpose. She had passed out of the quick, intuitive watchfulnessof childhood. During these days she had taken up the habit of sittingby herself in the flower-room, ostensibly with her book or sewing; butwhen they glanced in through the open door, her hands were lying idleon her lap and her eyes fixed dreamily on some opening blossom. Hoursshe sat thus, without stirring. 

Waring's plan was a wild one; no boat could sail through the ice, nofoot could cross the wide rifts made by the thaw, and weeks of thebitterest weather still lay between them and the spring. 'Along-shore, ' he said. 

'And die of cold and hunger, ' answered Fog. 

'Old man, why are you not afraid of me?' said Waring, pausing in hiswork with a lowering glance. 'Am I not stronger than you, and themaster, if I so choose, of your castle of logs?'

'But you will not so choose. '

'Do not trust me too far. '

'Do not trust you, --but God. '

'For a wrecker and murderer, you have, I must say, a remarkably sereneconscience, ' sneered Waring. 

Again the old man shrank, and crept silently away. 

But when in the early dawn a dark figure stood on the ice adjustingits knapsack, a second figure stole down the ladder. 'Will you go, then, ' it said, 'and leave the child?'

'She is no child, ' answered the younger man, sternly; 'and you knowit. '

'To me she is. '

'I care not what she is to you; but she shall not be more tome. '

'More to you?'

'No more than any other pretty piece of wax-work, ' replied Waring, striding away into the gray mist. 

Silver came to breakfast radiant, her small head covered from foreheadto throat with the winding braids of gold, her eyes bright, her cheeksfaintly tinged with the icy water of her bath. 'Where is Jarvis?' sheasked. 

'Gone hunting, ' replied old Fog. 

'For all day?'

'Yes; and perhaps for all night. The weather is quite mild, you know. '

'Yes, papa. But I hope it will soon be cold again; he cannot stay outlong then, ' said the girl, gazing out over the ice with wistful eyes. 

The danger was over for that day; but the next morning there it wasagain, and with it the bitter cold. 

'He must come home soon now, ' said Silver, confidently, melting thefrost on one of the little windows so that she could see out and watchfor his coming. But be came not. As night fell the cold grew intense;deadly, clear, and still, with the stars shining brilliantly in thesteel-blue of the sky. Silver wandered from window to window, wrappedin her fur mantle; a hundred times, a thousand times she had scannedthe ice-fields and the snow, the lake and the shore. When the nightclosed down, she crept close to the old man who sat by the fire insilence, pretending to mend his nets, but furtively watching her everymovement. 'Papa, ' she whispered, 'where is he, where is he?' And hertears fell on his hands. 

'Silver, ' he said, bending over her tenderly, 'do I not love you? Am Inot enough for you? Think, dear, how long we have lived here and howhappy we have been. He was only a stranger. Come, let us forget him, and go back to the old days. '

'What! Has he gone, then? Has Jarvis gone?'

Springing to her feet she confronted him with clinched hands anddilated eyes. Of all the words she had heard but one; he had gone! Thepoor old man tried to draw her down again into the shelter of hisarms, but she seemed turned to stone, her slender form was rigid. 'Where is he? Where is Jarvis? What have you done with him, --you, you!'

The quick unconscious accusation struck to his heart. 'Child, ' he saidin a broken voice, 'I tried to keep him. I would have given him myplace in your love, in your life, but he would not. He has gone, hecares not for you; he is a hard, evil man. '

'He is not! But even if he were, I love him, ' said the girl, defiantly. 

Then she threw up her arms towards heaven (alas! it was no heaven toher, poor child) as if in appeal. 'Is there no one to help me?' shecried aloud. 

'What can we do, dear?' said the old man, standing beside her andsmoothing her hair gently. 'He would not stay, --I could not keep him!'

'I could have kept him. '

'You would not ask him to stay, if he wished to go?'

'Yes, I would; he must stay, for my sake. '

'But if he had loved you, dear, he would not have gone. '

'Did he say he did not love me?' demanded Silver, with gleaming eyes. 

Old Fog hesitated. 

'Did he say he did not love me? Did Jarvis say that?' she repeated, seizing his arm with grasp of fire. 

'Yes; he said that. '

But the lie meant to rouse her pride, killed it; as if struck by avisible hand, she swayed and fell to the floor. 

The miserable old man watched her all the night. She was delirious, and raved of Waring through the long hours. At daylight he left herwith Orange, who, not understanding these white men's riddles, andsorely perplexed by Waring's desertion, yet cherished her darling withdumb untiring devotion, and watched her every breath. 

Following the solitary trail over the snow-covered ice and thencealong-shore towards the east journeyed old Fog all day in the teeth ofthe wind, dragging a sledge loaded with furs, provisions, and drywood; the sharp blast cut him like a knife, and the dry snow-pelletsstung as they touched his face, and clung to his thin beard coatedwith ice. It was the worst day of the winter, an evil, desolate, piercing day; no human creature should dare such weather. Yet the oldman journeyed patiently on until nightfall, and would have gonefarther had not darkness concealed the track; his fear was that newsnow might fall deeply enough to hide it, and then there was no morehope of following. But nothing could be done at night, so he made hiscamp, a lodge under a drift with the snow for walls and roof, and ahot fire that barely melted the edges of its icy hearth. As the blazeflared out into the darkness, he heard a cry, and followed; it wasfaint, but apparently not distant, and after some search he found thespot; there lay Jarvis Waring, helpless and nearly frozen. 'I thoughtyou farther on, ' he said, as he lifted the heavy, inert body. 

'I fell and injured my knee yesterday; since then I have been freezingslowly, ' replied Waring in a muffled voice. 'I have been crawlingbackwards and forwards all day to keep myself alive, but had justgiven it up when I saw your light. '

All night the old hands worked over him, and they hated the body theytouched; almost fiercely they fed and nourished it, warmed its blood, and brought back life. In the dawning Waring was himself again; weak, helpless, but in his right mind. He said as much, and added, with atouch of his old humor, 'There is a wrong mind you know, oldgentleman. '

The other made no reply; his task done; he sat by the fire waiting. Hehad gone after this fellow, driven by fate; he had saved him, drivenby fate. Now what had fate next in store? He warmed his wrinkled handsmechanically and waited, while the thought came to him with bitternessthat his darling's life lay at the mercy of this man who had nothingbetter to do, on coming back from the very jaws of death, than makejests. But old Fog was mistaken; the man had something better to do, and did it. Perhaps he noted the expression of the face before him;perhaps he did not, but was thinking, young man fashion, only ofhimself; at any rate this is what he said: 'I was a fool to go. Helpme back, old man; it is too strong for me, --I give it up. '

'Back, --back where?' said the other, apathetically. 

Waring raised his head from his pillow of furs. 'Why do you ask whenyou know already! Back to Silver, of course; have you lost your mind?'

His harshness came from within; in reality it was meant for himself;the avowal had cost him something as it passed his lips in the form ofwords; it had not seemed so when in the suffering, and the cold, andthe approach of death, he had seen his own soul face to face andrealized the truth. 

So the two went back to the castle, the saved lying on the sledge, thesavior drawing it; the wind was behind them now, and blew them along. And when the old man, weary and numb with cold, reached the ladder atlast, helped Waring, lame and irritable, up to the little snow-coveredbalcony, and led the way to Silver's room, --when Silver, hearing thestep, raised herself in the arms of the old slave and looked eagerly, not at him, no, but at the man behind, --did he shrink? He did not; butled the reluctant, vanquished, defiant, half-angry, half-shamed loverforward, and gave his darling into the arms that seemed again almostunwilling, so strong was the old opposing determination that lay boundby love's bonds. 

Silver regained her life as if by magic; not so Waring, who laysuffering and irritable on the lounge in the long room, while the girltended him with a joy that shone out in every word, every tone, everymotion. She saw not his little tyrannies, his exacting demands, hissurly tempers; or rather she saw and loved them as women do when menlie ill and helpless in their hands. And old Fog sat apart, or cameand went unnoticed; hours of the cold days he wandered through theforests, visiting the traps mechanically, and making tasks for himselfto fill up the time; hours of the cold evenings, he paced thesnow-covered roof alone. He could not bear to see them, but left thepost to Orange, whose black face shone with joy and satisfaction overWaring's return. 

But after a time fate swung around (as she generally does if impatienthumanity would but give her a chance). Waring's health grew, and sodid his love. He had been like a strong man armed, keeping his palace;but a stronger than he was come, and, the combat over, he went as farthe other way and adored the very sandals of the conqueror. The gateswere open, and all the floods were out. 

And Silver? As he advanced, she withdrew. (It is always so in love, upto a certain point; and beyond that point lies, alas! the broadmonotonous country of commonplace. )

This impetuous, ardent lover was not the Jarvis she had known, theJarvis who had been her master, and a despotic one at that. Frightened, shy, bewildered, she fled away from all her dearest joys, and stayed by herself in the flower-room with the bar across the door, only emerging timidly at mealtimes and stealing into the long roomlike a little wraith; a rosy wraith now, for at last she had learnedto blush. Waring was angry at this desertion, but only the more inlove; for the violet eyes veiled themselves under his gaze, and theunconscious child-mouth began to try to control and conceal itschanging expressions, and only succeeded in betraying them morehelplessly than ever. Poor little solitary maiden-heart!

Spring was near now; soft airs came over the ice daily, and stirredthe water beneath; then the old man spoke. He knew what was coming, hesaw it all, and a sword was piercing his heart; but bravely he playedhis part. 'The ice will move out soon, in a month or less you can sailsafely, ' he said, breaking the silence one night when they two sat bythe fire, Waring moody and restless, for Silver had openly repulsedhim, and fled away early in the evening. 'She is trifling with me, ' hethought, 'or else she does not know what love is. By heavens, I willteach her though--' As far as this his mind had journeyed when Fogspoke. 'In a month you can sail safely, and I suppose you will go forgood this time?'

'Yes. '

Fog waited. Waring kicked a fallen log into place, lit his pipe thenlet it go out, moved his chair forward, then pushed it backimpatiently, and finally spoke. 'Of course I shall take Silver; Iintend to make Silver. '

'At last?'

'At last. No wonder you are glad--'

'Glad, ' said Fog, --'glad!' But the words were whispered, and the youngman went on unheeding. 

'Of course it is a great thing for you to have the child off yourhands and placed in a home so high above your expectations. Love is astrange power. I do not deny that I have fought against it, but--butwhy should I conceal? I love Silver with all my soul, she seems tohave grown into my very being. '

It was frankly and strongly uttered; the good side of Jarvis Waringcame uppermost for the moment. 

Old Fog leaned forward and grasped his hand. 'I know you do, ' he said. 'I know something of men, and I have watched you closely, Waring. Itis for this love that I forgive--I mean that I am glad and thankfulfor it, very thankful. '

'And you have reason to be, ' said the younger man, withdrawing intohis pride again. 'As my wife, Silver will have a home, a circle offriends, which--But you could not understand; let it pass. And now, tell me all you know of her. '

The tone was a command, and the speaker leaned back in his chair withthe air of an owner as he relighted his pipe. 

But Fog did not shrink. 'Will you have the whole story?' he askedhumbly. 

'As well now as ever, I suppose, but be as brief as possible, ' saidthe young man in a lordly manner. Had he not just conferred anenormous favor, an alliance which might be called the gift of aprince, on this dull old backwoodsman?

'Forty years ago or thereabouts, ' began Fog in a low voice, 'a crimewas committed in New York City. I shall not tell you what it was, thereis no need; enough that the whole East was stirred, and a heavy rewardwas offered for the man who did the deed. I am that man. '

Waring pushed back his chair, a horror came over him, his hand soughtfor his pistol; but the voice went on unmoved. 'Shall I excuse thedeed to you, boy? No, I will not. It was done and I did it, that isenough, the damning fact that confronts and silences all talk ofmotive or cause. This much only will I say; to the passion of the actdeliberate intention was not added, and there was no gain for thedoer; only loss, the black eternal loss of everything in heaven above, on the earth beneath, or in the waters that are under the earth, forhell itself seemed to spew me out. At least so I thought as I fledaway, the mark of Cain upon my brow; the horror was so strong upon methat I could not kill myself, I feared to join the dead. I went to andfro on the earth, and walked up and down in it; I fled to theuttermost parts of the sea, and yet came back again, moved by astrange impulse to be near the scene of my crime. After years hadpassed, and with them the memory of the deed from the minds of others, though not from mine, I crept to the old house where my one sister wasliving alone, and made myself known to her. She left her home, aforlorn place, but still a home, and followed me with a sort of dumbaffection, --poor old woman. She was my senior by fifteen years, and Ihad been her pride; and so she went with me from the old instinct, which still remained, although the pride was dead, crushed by slowhorror. We kept together after that, two poor hunted creatures insteadof one; we were always fleeing, always imagining that eyes knew us, that fingers pointed us out. I called her Shadow, and together we tookthe name of Fog, a common enough name, but to us meaning that we werenothing, creatures of the mist, wandering to and fro by night, but inthe morning gone. At last one day the cloud over my mind seemed tolighten a little, and the thought came to me that no punishment canendure forever, without impugning the justice of our great Creator. Acrime is committed, perhaps in a moment; the ensuing suffering, theresults, linger on earth, it may be for some years; but the end of itsurely comes sooner or later, and it is as though it had never been. Then, for that crime, shall a soul suffer forever, --not a thousandyears, a thousand ages if you like, but forever? Out upon themonstrous idea! Let a man do evil every moment of his life, and lethis life be the full threescore years and ten; shall there not come aperiod in the endless cycles of eternity when even his punishmentshall end? What kind of a God is he whom your theologians have held upto us, --a God who creates us at his pleasure, without asking whetheror not we wish to be created, who endows us with certain wildpassions and capacities for evil, turns us loose into a world ofsuffering, and then, for our misdeeds there, our whole lives beingless than one instant's time in his sight, punishes us forever!Never-ending tortures throughout the countless ages of eternity forthe little crimes of threescore years and ten! Heathendom shows no godso monstrous as this. O great Creator, O Father of our souls, of allthe ills done on the face of thy earth, this lie against thy justiceand thy goodness, is it not the greatest? The thought came to me, asI said, that no punishment could endure forever, that somewhere is thefuture I, even I, should meet pardon and rest. That day I found by thewayside a little child, scarcely more than a baby; it had wandered outof the poorhouse, where its mother had died the week before, astranger passing through the village. No one knew anything about hernor cared to know, for she was almost in rags, fair and delicate oncethey told me, but wasted with illness and too far gone to talk. Then asecond thought came to me, --expiation. I would take this forlornlittle creature and bring her up as my own child, tenderly, carefully, --a life for a life. My poor old sister took to itwonderfully, it seemed to brighten her desolation into something thatwas almost happiness; we wandered awhile longer, and then camewestward through the lakes, but it was several years before we werefairly settled here. Shadow took care of the baby and made her littledresses; then, when the time came to teach her to sew and read, shesaid more help was needed, and went alone to the towns below to find afit servant, coming back in her silent way with old Orange; anotherstray lost out of its place in the world, and suffering from want inthe cold Northern city. You must not think that Silver is totallyignorant; Shadow had the education of her day, poor thing, for ourswas a good old family as old families go in this new country of ours, where three generations of well-to-do people constitute aristocracy. But religion, so called, I have not taught her. Is she any the worsefor its want?

'I will teach her, ' said Waring, passing over the question (which wasa puzzling one), for the new idea, the strange interest he felt in thetask before him, the fair pure mind where his hand, and his alone, would be the first to write the story of good and evil. 

'That I should become attached to the child was natural, ' continuedold Fog; 'but God gave it to me to love her with so great a love thatmy days have flown; for her to sail out over the stormy water, for herto hunt through the icy woods, for her to dare a thousand deaths, tolabor, to save, to suffer, --these have been my pleasures through allthe years. When I came home, there she was to meet me, her sweet voicecalling me father, the only father she could ever know. When my poorold sister died, I took her away in my boat by night and buried her indeep water; and so I did with the boy we had here for a year or two, saved from a wreck. My darling knows nothing of death; I could nottell her. '

'And those wrecks, ' said Waring; 'how do you make them balance withyour scheme of expiation?'

The old man sat silent a moment; then he brought his hand downviolently on the table by his side. 'I will not have them brought upin that way, I tell you I will not! Have I not explained that I wasdesperate?' he said in an excited voice. 'What are one or twomiserable crews to the delicate life of my beautiful child? And themen had their chances, too, in spite of my lure. Does not every stormthreaten them with deathly force? Wait until you are tempted, beforeyou judge me, boy. But shall I tell you the whole? Listen, then. Those wrecks were the greatest sacrifices, the most bitter tasks of myhard life, the nearest approach I have yet made to the expiation. Doyou suppose I wished to drown the men? Do you suppose I did not knowthe greatness of the crime? Ah, I knew it only too well, and yet Isailed out and did the deed! It was for her, --to keep her fromsuffering; so I sacrificed myself unflinchingly. I would murder athousand men in cold blood, and bear the thousand additionalpunishments without a murmur throughout a thousand ages of eternity, to keep my darling safe and warm. Do you not see that the whole was aself-immolation, the greatest, the most complete I could make? Ivowed to keep my darling tenderly. I have kept my vow; see that youkeep yours. '

The voice ceased, the story was told, and the teller gone. Thecurtain over the past was never lifted again; but often, in afteryears, Waring thought of this strange life and its strangerphilosophy. He could never judge them. Can we?

The next day the talk turned upon Silver. 'I know you love her, ' saidthe old man, 'but how much?'

'Does it need the asking?' answered Waring with a short laugh; 'am Inot giving up my name, my life, into her hands?'

'You could not give them into hands more pure. '

'I know it; I am content. And yet, I sacrifice something, ' replied theyoung man, thinking of his home, his family, his friends. 

Old Fog looked at him. 'Do you hesitate?' he said, breaking the pause. 

'Of course I do not; why do you ask?' replied Waring, irritably. 'Butsome things may be pardoned, I think, in a case like mine. '

'I pardon them. '

'I can teach her, of course, and a year or so among cultivated peoplewill work wonders; I think I shall take her abroad, first. How soondid you say we could go?'

'The ice is moving. There will be vessels through the straits in twoor three weeks, ' replied Fog. His voice shook. Waring looked up; theold man was weeping. 'Forgive me, ' he said brokenly, 'but the littlegirl is very dear to me. '

The younger man was touched. 'She shall be as dear to me as she hasbeen to you, ' he said; 'do not fear. My love is proved by the verystruggle I have made against it. I venture to say no man ever foughtharder against himself than I have in this old castle of yours. I keptthat Titian picture as a countercharm. It resembles a woman who, at aword, will give me herself and her fortune, --a woman high in thecultivated circles of cities both here and abroad, beautiful, accomplished, a queen in her little sphere. But all was useless. Thatlong night in the snow, when I crawled backwards and forwards to keepmyself from freezing, it came to me with power that the whole of earthand all its gifts compared not with this love. Old man, she will behappy with me. '

'I know it. '

'Did you foresee this end?' asked Waring after a while, watching, ashe spoke, the expression of the face before him. He could not ridhimself of the belief that the old man had laid his plans deftly. 

'I could only hope for it: I saw that she loved you. '

'Well, well, ' said the younger man magnanimously, 'it was natural, after all. Your expiation has ended better than you hoped; for thelittle orphan child you have reared has found a home and friends, andyou yourself need work no more. Choose your abode here or anywhereelse in the West, and I will see that you are comfortable. '

'I will stay on here. '

'As you please. Silver will not forget you; she will write often. Ithink I will go first up the Rhine and then into Switzerland, 'continued Waring, going back to himself and his plans with thematter-of-course egotism of youth and love. And old Fog listened. 

What need to picture the love-scene that followed? The next morning astrong hand knocked at the door of the flower-room, and the shy littlemaiden within had her first lesson in love, or rather in itsexpression, while all the blossoms listened and the birds looked onapprovingly. To do him justice, Waring was an humble suitor when alonewith her; she was so fair, so pure, so utterly ignorant of the worldand of life, that he felt himself unworthy, and bowed his head. Butthe mood passed, and Silver liked him better when the oldself-assertion and quick tone of command came uppermost again. Sheknew not good from evil, she could not analyze the feeling in herheart; but she loved this stranger, this master, with the whole of herbeing. Jarvis Waring knew good from evil (more of the latter knew hethan of the former), he comprehended and analyzed fully the feelingthat possessed him; but, man of the world as he was, he loved thislittle water-maiden, this fair pagan, this strange isolated girl, withthe whole force of his nature. 'Silver, ' he said to her, seriouslyenough, 'do you know how much I love you? I am afraid to think whatlife would seem without you. '

'Why think of it, then, since I am here?' replied Silver. 

'Do you know, Jarvis, I think if I had not loved you so much, youwould not have loved me, and then--it would have been--that is, Imean--it would have been different--' She paused; unused to reasoningor to anything like argument, her own words seemed to bewilder her. 

Waring laughed, but soon grew serious again. 'Silver, ' he said, takingher into his arms, 'are you sure that you can love me as I crave?'(For he seemed at times tormented by the doubt as to whether she wasanything more than a beautiful child. ) He held her closely and wouldnot let her go, compelling her to meet his ardent eyes. A change cameover the girl, a sudden red flashed up into her temples and down intoher white throat. She drew herself impetuously away from her lover'sarms and fled from the room. 'I am not sure but that she is awater-sprite, after all, ' grumbled Waring, as he followed her. But itwas a pleasure now to grumble and pretend to doubt, since from thatmoment he was sure. 

The next morning Fog seemed unusually cheerful. 

'No wonder, ' thought Waring. But the character of benefactor pleasedhim, and he appeared in it constantly. 

'We must have the old castle more comfortable; I will try to send upsome furniture from below, ' he remarked, while pacing to and fro inthe evening. 

'Isn't it comfortable now?' said Silver. 'I am sure I always thoughtthis room beautiful. '

'What, this clumsy imitation of a second-class Western steamer?Child, it is hideous!'

'Is it?' said Silver, looking around in innocent surprise, while Foglistened in silence. Hours of patient labor and risks not a few overthe stormy lake were associated with each one of the articles Waringso cavalierly condemned. 

Then it was, 'How you do look, old gentleman! I must really send youup some new clothes. --Silver, how have you been able to endure suchshabby rags so long?'

'I do not know, --I never noticed; it was always just papa, you know, 'replied Silver, her blue eyes resting on the old man's clothes with anew and perplexed attention. 

But Fog bore himself cheerily. 'He is right, Silver, ' he said, 'I amshabby indeed. But when you go out into the world, you will soonforget it. '

'Yes, ' said Silver, tranquilly. 

The days flew by and the ice moved out. This is the phrase that isalways used along the lakes. The ice 'moves out' of every harbor fromOgdensburg to Duluth. You can see the great white floes drift awayinto the horizon, and the question comes, Where do they go? Do theymeet out there the counter floes from the Canada side, and then dothey all join hands and sink at a given signal to the bottom?Certainly, there is nothing melting in the mood of the raw springwinds and clouded skies. 

'What are your plans?' asked old Fog, abruptly, one morning when thegulls had flown out to sea, and the fog came stealing up from thesouth. 

'For what?'

'For the marriage. '

'Aha!' thought Waring, with a smile of covert amusement, 'he is in ahurry to secure the prize, is he? The sharp old fellow!' Aloud hesaid, 'I thought we would all three sail over to Mackinac; and therewe could be married, Silver and I, by the fort chaplain, and take thefirst Buffalo steamer; you could return here at your leisure. '

'Would it not be a better plan to bring a clergyman here, and then youtwo could sail without me? I am not as strong as I was; I feel that Icannot bear--I mean that you had better go without me. '

'As you please; I thought it would be a change for you, that was all. '

'It would only prolong--No, I think, if you are willing, we will havethe marriage here, and then you can sail immediately. '

'Very well; but I did not suppose you would be in such haste to partwith Silver, ' said Waring, unable to resist showing his comprehensionof what he considered the manoeuvres of the old man. Then, waivingfurther discussion, --'And where shall we find a clergyman?' he asked. 

'There is one over on Beaver. '

'He must be a singular sort of a divine to be living there. '

'He is; a strayed spirit, as it were, but a genuine clergyman of thePresbyterian church, none the less. I never knew exactly what herepresented there, but I think he came out originally a sort ofmissionary. '

'To the Mormons, ' said Waring, laughing; for he had heard old Fog tellmany a story of the Latter-Day Saints, who had on Beaver Island atthat time their most Eastern settlement. 

'No; to the Indians. --sent out by some of those New England societies, you know. When he reached the islands, he found the Indians mostlygone, and those who remained were all Roman Catholics. But he settleddown, farmed a little, hunted a little, fished a little, and held aservice all by himself occasionally in an old log-house, just oftenenough to draw his salary and to write up in his semiannual reports. He isn't a bad sort of a man in his way. '

'And how does he get on with the Mormons?'

'Excellently. He lets them talk, and sells them fish, and shuts hiseyes to everything else. '

'What is his name?'

'Well, over here they call him the Preacher, principally because hedoes not preach, I suppose. It is a way they have over on Beaver tocall people names; they call me Believer. '

'Believer?'

'Yes, because I believe nothing; at least so, they think. '

A few days later, out they sailed over the freed water, around thepoint, through the sedge-gate growing green again, across thechannelled marsh, and out towards the Beavers, --Fog and Waring, armedas if for a foray. 

'Why, ' asked Waring. 

'It's safer; the Mormons are a queer lot, ' was the reply. 

When they came in sight of the islands, the younger man scanned themcuriously. Some years later an expedition composed of exasperatedcrews of lake schooners, exasperated fishermen, exasperated mainlandsettlers, sailed westward through the straits bound for these islands, armed to the teeth and determined upon vengence and slaughter. Falselights, stolen nets, and stolen wives were their grievances; and noaid coming from the general government, then as now sorely perplexedover the Mormon problem, they took justice into their own hands andsailed bravely out, with the stars and stripes floating from the mastof their flag-ship, --an old scow impressed for military service. Butthis was later; and when Fog and Waring came scudding into the harbor, the wild little village existed in all its pristine outlawry, a cityof refuge for the flotsam vagabondage of the lower lakes. 

'Perhaps he will not come with us, ' suggested Waring. 

'I have thought of that, but it need not delay us long, ' replied Fog, 'we can kidnap him. '

'Kidnap him?'

'Yes? he is but a small chap, ' said the old man, tranquilly. 

They fastened their boat to the log-dock, and started ashore. Thehouses of the settlement straggled irregularly along the beach andinland towards the fields where fine crops were raised by the Saints, who had made here, as is their custom everywhere, a garden in thewilderness; the only defence was simple but strong, --an earthwork onone of the white sand-hills back of the village, over whose rampartpeeped two small cannon, commanding the harbor. Once on shore, however, a foe found only a living rampart of flesh and blood, asreckless a set of villains as New World history can produce. But thisrampart only came together in times of danger; ordinary visitors, coming by twos and threes, they welcomed or murdered as they saw fit, or according to the probable contents of their pockets, each man forhimself and his family. Some of these patriarchal gentlemen glaredfrom their windows at Fog and Waring as they passed along; but theworn clothes not promising much, simply invited them to dinner; theyliked to hear the news, when there was nothing else going on. Old Fogexcused himself. They had business, he said, with the Preacher; was heat home?

He was; had anything been sent to him from the East, --any clothes, now, for the Indians?

Old Fog had heard something of a box at Mackinac, waiting for aschooner to bring it over. He was glad it was on the way, it would beof so much use to the Indians, --they wore so many clothes. 

The patriarchs grinned, and allowed the two to pass on. Waring hadgazed within, meanwhile, and discovered the plural wives, more or lessgood-looking, generally less; they did not seem unhappy, however, notso much as many a single one he had met in more luxurious homes, andhe said to himself, 'Women of the lower class are much better andhappier when well curbed. ' It did not occur to him that possibly theevil tempers of men of the lower class are made more endurable by asystem of co-operation; one reed bends, breaks, and dies, but tenreeds together can endure. 

The Preacher was at home on the outskirts, --a little man, round androsy, with black eyes and a cheery voice. He was attired entirely inblanket-cloth, baggy trousers and a long blouse, so that he looked notunlike a Turkish Santa Claus, Oriental as to under, and arctic as toupper rigging. 'Are you a clergyman?' said Waring, inspecting him withcurious eyes. 

'If you doubt it, look at this, ' said the little man; and he broughtout a clerical suit of limp black cloth, and a ministerial hat muchthe worse for wear. These articles he suspended from a nail, so thatthey looked as if a very poor lean divine had hung himself there. Thenhe sat down, and took his turn at staring. 'I do not bury the dead, 'he remarked after a moment, as if convinced that the two shabbyhunters before him could have no other errand. 

Waring was about to explain, but old Fog stopped him with a glance. 'You are to come with us, sir, ' he said courteously; 'you will be welltreated, well paid, and returned in a few days. '

'Come with you! Where?'

'Never mind where; will you come?'

'No, ' said the little blanket-man, stoutly. 

In an instant Fog had tripped him up, seized a sheet and blanket fromthe bed, bound his hands and feet with one, and wrapped him in theother. 'Now, then, ' he said shouldering the load, 'open the door. '

'But the Mormons, ' objected Waring. 

'O, they like a joke, they will only laugh! But if, by any chance, they show fight, fire at once, ' replied the old man, leading the way. Waring followed, his mind anything but easy; it seemed to him likerunning the gantlet. He held his pistols ready, and glanced furtivelyaround as they skirted the town and turned down towards the beach. 'Ifany noise is made, ' Fog had remarked, 'I shall know what to do. '

Whereupon the captive swallowed down his wrath and a good deal ofwoollen fuzz, and kept silence. He was no coward, this littlePreacher. He held his own manfully on the Beavers; but no one had evercarried him off in a blanket before, So he silently considered thesituation. 

When near the boat they came upon more patriarchs. 'Put a bold face onit, ' murmured old Fog. 'Whom do you suppose we have here?' he began, as they approached. 'Nothing less than your little Preacher; we wantto borrow him for a few days. '

The patriarchs stared. 

'Don't you believe it?--Speak up, Preacher; are you being carriedoff?'

No answer. 

'You had better speak, ' said Fog, jocosely, at the same time givinghis captive a warning touch with his elbow. 

The Preacher had revolved the situation rapidly, and perceived that inany contest his round body would inevitably suffer from friend and foealike. He was not even sure but that he would be used as a missile, asort of ponderous pillow swung at one end. So he replied briskly, 'Yes, I am being carried as you see, dear brethren; I don't care aboutwalking to-day. '

The patriarchs laughed, and followed on to the boat, laughing stillmore when Fog gayly tossed in his load of blanket, and they could hearthe little man growl as he came down. 'I say, though, when are yougoing to bring him back, Believer?' said one. 

'In a few days, ' replied Fog, setting sail. 

Away they flew; and, when out of harbor, the captive was released, andWaring told him what was required. 

'Why didn't you say so before?' said the little blanket-man; 'nothingI like better than a wedding, and a drop of punch afterwards. '

His task over, Fog relapsed into silence; but Waring, curious, askedmany a question about the island and its inhabitants. The Preacherresponded freely in all things, save when the talk glided too nearhimself. The Mormons were not so bad, he thought; they had theirfaults, of course, but you must take them on the right side. 

'Have they a right side?' asked Waring. 

'At least they haven't a rasping, mean, cold, starving, bony, freezing, busy-bodying side, ' was the reply, delivered energetically;whereat Waring concluded the little man had had his own page ofhistory back somewhere among the decorous New England hills. 

Before they came to the marsh they blindfolded their guest; and didnot remove the bandage until he was safely within the long room of thecastle. Silver met them, radiant in the firelight. 

'Heaven grant you its blessing, maiden, ' said the Preacher, becomingBiblical at once. He meant it, however, for he sat gazing at her longwith moistened eyes, forgetful even of the good cheer on the table; agleam from his far-back youth came to him, a snow-drop that bloomedand died in bleak New Hampshire long, long before. 

The wedding was in the early morning. Old Fog had hurried it, hurriedeverything; he seemed driven by a spirit of unrest, and wandered fromplace to place, from room to room, his eyes fixed in a vacant way uponthe familiar objects. At the last moment he appeared with aprayer-book, its lettering old, its cover tarnished. 'Have you anyobjection to using the Episcopal service?' he asked in a low tone. 'I--I have heard the Episcopal service. '

'None in the world, ' replied the affable little Preacher. 

But he too grew sober and even earnest as Silver appeared, clad inwhite, her dress and hair wreathed with the trailing arbutus, thefirst flower of spring, plucked from under the vanishing snows. Sobeautiful her face, so heavenly its expression, that Waring as he tookher hand, felt his eyes grow dim, and he vowed to himself to cherishher with tenderest love forever. 

'We are gathered together here in the sight of God, ' began thePreacher solemnly; old Fog, standing behind, shrank into the shadow, and bowed his head upon his hands. But when the demand came, 'Whogiveth this woman to be married to this man?' he stepped forward, andgave away his child without a tear, nay, with even a smile on hisbrave old face. 

'To love, cherish, and to obey, ' repeated Silver in her clear sweetvoice. 

And then Waring placed upon her finger the little ring he himself hadcarved out of wood. 'It shall never be changed, ' he said, 'but coatedover with heavy gold, just as it is. '

Old Orange, radiant with happiness, stood near, and served as a foilfor the bridal white. 

It was over; but they were not to start until noon. 

Fog put the Preacher almost forcibly into the boat and sailed awaywith him, blindfolded and lamenting. 

'The wedding feast, ' he cried, 'and the punch! You are a fine host, old gentleman. '

'Everything is here, packed in those baskets. I have even given youtwo fine dogs. And there is your fee. I shall take you in sight of theBeavers, and then put you into the skiff and leave you to row overalone. The weather is fine, you can reach there to-morrow. '

Remonstrance died away before the bag of money; old Fog had given hisall for his darling's marriage-fee. 'I shall have no further use forit, ' he thought, mechanically. 

So the little blanket-man paddled away in his skiff with his share ofthe wedding-feast beside him; the two dogs went with him, and becameMormons. 

Old Fog returned in the sail-boat through the channels, and fastenedthe sedge-gate open for the out-going craft. Silver, timid and happy, stood on the balcony as he approached the castle. 

'It is time to start, ' said the impatient bridegroom. 'How long youhave been, Fog!'

The old man made no answer, but busied himself arranging the boat; thevoyage to Mackinac would last two or three days, and he had providedevery possible comfort for their little camps on shore. 

'Come, ' said Waring, from below. 

Then the father went up to say good by. Silver flung her arms aroundhis neck and burst into tears. 'Father, father, ' she sobbed, 'must Ileave you? O father, father!'

He soothed her gently; but something in the expression of his calm, pallid face touched the deeper feelings of the wakening woman and sheclung to him desperately, realizing, perhaps, at this last moment, howgreat was his love for her, how great his desolation. Waring hadjoined them on the balcony. He bore with her awhile and tried to calmher grief, but the girl turned from him and clung to the old man; itwas as though she saw at last how she had robbed him. 'I cannot leavehim thus, ' she sobbed; 'O father, father!'

Then Waring struck at the root of the difficulty. (Forgive him; he washurt to the core. ) 'But he is not your father, ' he said, 'he has noclaim upon you. I am your husband now, Silver, and you must come withme; do you not wish to come with me, darling?' he added, his voicesinking into fondness. 

'Not my father!' said the girl. Her arms fell, and she stood as ifpetrified. 

'No, dear; he is right. I am not your father, ' said old Fog, gently. Aspasm passed over his features, he kissed her hastily, and gave herinto her husband's arms. In another moment they were afloat, in twothe sail filled and the boat glided away. The old man stood on thecastle roof, smiling and waving his hand; below, Orange fluttered herred handkerchief from the balcony, and blessed her darling withAfrican mummeries. The point was soon rounded, the boat gone. 

That night, when the soft spring moonlight lay over the water, a sailcame gliding back to the castle, and a shape flew up the ladder; itwas the bride of the morning. 

'O father, father, I could not leave you so, I made him bring me back, if only for a few days! O father, father! for you are my father, theonly father I can ever know, --and so kind and good!'

In the gloom she knelt by his bedside, and her arms were around hisneck. Waring came in afterwards, silent and annoyed, yet not unkind. He stirred the dying brands into a flame. 

'What is this?' he said, starting, as the light fell across thepillow. 

'It is nothing, ' replied Fog, and his voice sounded far away; 'I am anold man, children, and all is well. '

They watched him through the dawning, through the lovely day, throughthe sunset. Waring repentant, Silver absorbed in his every breath; shelavished upon him now all the wealth of love her unconscious years hadgathered. Orange seemed to agree with her master that all was well. She came and went, but not sadly, and crooned to herself some strangeAfrican tune that rose and fell more like a chant of triumph than adirge. She was doing her part, according to her light, to ease thegoing of the soul out of this world. 

Grayer grew the worn face, fainter the voice, colder the shrivelledold hands in the girl's fond clasp. 

'Jarvis, Jarvis, what is this?' she murmured, fearfully. 

Waring came to her side and put his strong arm around her. 'My littlewife, ' he said, 'this is Death. But do not fear. '

And then he told her the story of the Cross; and, as it came to her arevelation, so, in the telling, it became to him, for the first time, a belief. 

Old Fog told them to bury him out in deep water, as he had buried theothers; and then he lay placid, a great happiness shining in his eyes. 

'It is well, ' he said, 'and God is very good to me. Life would havebeen hard without you, darling. Something seemed to give way when yousaid good by; but now that I am called, it is sweet to know that youare happy, and sweeter still to think that you came back to me at thelast. Be kind to her, Waring. I know you love her; but guard hertenderly, --she is but frail. I die content, my child, quite content;do not grieve for me. '

Then, as the light faded from his eyes, he folded his hands. 'Is itexpiated, O God? Is it expiated?' he murmured. There was no answerfor him on earth. 

They buried him as he had directed, and then they sailed away, takingthe old black with them. The castle was left alone; the flowersbloomed on through the summer, and the rooms held the old furniturebravely through the long winter. But gradually the walls fell in andthe water entered. The fogs still steal across the lake, and wavetheir gray draperies up into the northern curve; but the sedge-gate isgone, and the castle is indeed Nowhere. 

JEANNETTE

Before the war for the Union, in the times of the old army, there hadbeen peace throughout the country for thirteen years. Regimentsexisted in their officers, but the ranks were thin, --the more so thebetter, since the United States possessed few forts and seemed inchronic embarrassment over her military children, owing to the flyingfoot-ball of public opinion, now 'standing army pro, ' now 'standingarmy con, ' with more or less allusion to the much-enduring Caesar andhis legions, the ever-present ghost of the political arena. 

In those days the few forts were full and much state was kept up; theofficers were all graduates of West Point, and their wives graduatesof the first families. They prided themselves upon their antecedents;and if there was any aristocracy in the country, it was in the circlesof army life. 

Those were pleasant days, --pleasant for the old soldiers who wereresting after Mexico, --pleasant for young soldiers destined to die onthe plains of Gettysburg or the cloudy heights of Lookout Mountain. There was an esprit de corps in the little band, a dignity ofbearing, and a ceremonious state, lost in the great struggle whichcame afterward. That great struggle now lies ten years back; yet, to-day, when the silver-haired veterans meet, they pass it over as athing of the present, and go back to the times of the 'old army. '

Up in the northern straits, between blue Lake Huron, with its clearair, and gray Lake Michigan, with its silver fogs, lies the boldisland of Mackinac. Clustered along the beach, which runs around itshalf-moon harbor, are the houses of the old French village, nestlingat the foot of the cliff rising behind, crowned with the little whitefort, the stars and stripes floating above it against the deep bluesky. Beyond, on all sides, the forest stretches away, cliffs finishingit abruptly, save one slope at the far end of the island, three milesdistant, where the British landed in 1812. That is the whole ofMackinac. 

The island has a strange sufficiency of its own; it satisfies; allwho have lived there feel it. The island has a wild beauty of its own;it fascinates; all who have lived there love it. Among its aromaticcedars, along the aisles of its pine trees, in the gay company of itsmaples, there is companionship. On its bald northern cliffs, bathed insunshine and swept by the pure breeze, there is exhilaration. Manythere are, bearing the burden and heat of the day, who look back tothe island with the tears that rise but do not fall, the suddenlonging despondency that comes occasionally to all, when the tiredheart cries out, 'O, to escape, to flee away, far, far away, and be atrest!'

In 1856 Fort Mackinac held a major, a captain, three lieutenants, achaplain, and a surgeon, besides those subordinate officers who wearstripes on their sleeves, and whose rank and duties are mysteries tothe uninitiated. The force for this array of commanders was small, less than a company; but what it lacked in quantity it made up inquality, owing to the continual drilling it received. 

The days were long at Fort Mackinac; happy thought! drill the men. Sowhen the major had finished, the captain began, and each lieutenantwas watching his chance. Much state was kept up also. Whenever themajor appeared, 'Commanding officer; guard, present arms, ' was calleddown the line of men on duty, and the guard hastened to obey, themajor acknowledging the salute with stiff precision. By day and bynight sentinels paced the walls. True, the walls were crumbling, andthe whole force was constantly engaged in propping them up, but nonethe less did the sentinels pace with dignity. What was it to thecaptain if, while he sternly inspected the muskets in the block-house, the lieutenant, with a detail of men, was hard at work strengtheningits underpinning? None the less did he inspect. The sally-port, mendedbut imposing; the flag-staff with its fair-weather and storm flags;the frowning iron grating; the sidling white causeway, constantlyfalling down and as constantly repaired, which led up to the mainentrance; the well-preserved old cannon, --all showed a strict militaryrule. When the men were not drilling they were propping up the fortand when they were not propping up the fort they were drilling. In theearly days, the days of the first American commanders, military roadshad been made through the forest, --roads even now smooth and solid, although trees of a second growth meet overhead. But that was when thefort was young and stood firmly on its legs. In 1856 there was no timefor road-making, for when military duty was over there was always moreor less mending to keep the whole fortification from sliding down hillinto the lake. 

On Sunday there was service in the little chapel, an upper roomoverlooking the inside parade-ground. Here the kindly Episcopalchaplain read the chapters about Balaam and Balak, and always made thesame impressive pause after 'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his. ' (Dear old man! he has gone. Wouldthat our last end might indeed be like his!) Not that the chaplainconfined his reading to the Book of Numbers; but as those chapters areappointed for the August Sundays, and as it was in August that thesummer visitors came to Mackinac, the little chapel is in many mindsassociated with the patient Balak, his seven altars, and his sevenrams. 

There was state and discipline in the fort even on Sundays;bugle-playing marshalled the congregation in, bugle-playing marshalledthem out. If the sermon was not finished, so much the worse for thesermon, but it made no difference to the bugle; at a given moment itsounded, and out marched all the soldiers, drowning the poorchaplain's hurrying voice with their tramp down the stairs. Theofficers attended service in full uniform, sitting erect and dignifiedin the front seats. We used to smile at the grand air they had, fromthe stately gray-haired major down to the youngest lieutenant freshfrom the Point. But brave hearts were beating under those fineuniforms; and when the great struggle came, one and all died on thefield in the front of the battle. Over the grave of the commandingofficer is inscribed, 'Major-General, ' over the captain's is'Brigadier, ' and over each young lieutenant is 'Colonel. ' They gainedtheir promotion in death. 

I spent many months at Fort Mackinac with Archie; Archie was mynephew, a young lieutenant. In the short, bright summer came thevisitors from below; all the world outside is 'below' in islandvernacular. In the long winter the little white fort looked out overunbroken ice-fields, and watched for the moving black dot of thedog-train bringing the mails from the main land. One January day I hadbeen out walking on the snow-crust, breathing the cold, still air, and, returning within the walls to our quarters, I found my littleparlor already occupied. Jeannette was there, petite Jeanneton, thefisherman's daughter. Strange beauty sometimes results from a mixeddescent, and this girl had French, English and Indian blood in herveins, the three races mixing and intermixing among her ancestors, according to the custom of the Northwestern border. A bold profiledelicately finished, heavy blue-black hair, light blue eyes lookingout unexpectedly from under black lashes and brows; a fair white skin, neither the rose-white of the blonde nor the cream-white of theOriental brunette; a rounded form with small hands and feet, showedthe mixed beauties of three nationalities. Yes, there could be nodoubt but that Jeannette was singularly lovely, albeit ignorantutterly. Her dress was as much of a melange as her ancestry: ashort skirt of military blue, Indian leggings and moccasins, a redjacket and little red cap embroidered with beads. The thick braids ofher hair hung down her back, and on the lounge lay a largeblanket-mantle lined with fox-skins and ornamented with the plumage ofbirds. She had come to teach me bead-work; I had already taken severallessons to while away the time, but found myself an awkward scholar. 

'Bonjou', madame, ' she said, in her patois of broken Englishand degenerate French. 'Pretty here. '

My little parlor had a square of carpet, a hearth-fire of great logs, Turkey-red curtains, a lounge and arm-chair covered with chintz, several prints on the cracked walls, and a number of books, --the wholewell used and worn, worth perhaps twenty dollars in any town below, but ten times twenty in icy Mackinac. I began the bead-work, andJeannette was laughing at my mistakes, when the door opened, and oursurgeon came in, pausing to warm his hands before going up to his roomin the attic. A taciturn man was our surgeon, Rodney Prescott, notpopular in the merry garrison circle, but a favorite of mine; thePuritan, the New-Englander, the Bostonian, were as plainly writtenupon his face as the French and Indian were written upon Jeannette. 

'Sit down, Doctor, ' I said. 

He took a seat and watched us carelessly, now and then smiling atJeannette's chatter as a giant might smile upon a pygmy. I could seethat the child was putting on all her little airs to attract hisattention; now the long lashes swept the cheeks, now they were raisedsuddenly, disclosing the unexpected blue eyes: the little moccasinedfeet must be warmed on the fender, the braids must be swept back withan impatient movement of the hand and shoulder, and now and then therewas a coquettish arch of the red lips, less than a pout, what sheherself would have called 'une p'tite moue. ' Our surgeonwatched this pantomime unmoved. 

'Isn't she beautiful?' I said, when, at the expiration of the hour, Jeannette disappeared, wrapped in her mantle. 

'No; not to my eyes. '

'Why, what more can you require, Doctor? Look at her rich coloring, her hair--'

'There is no mind in her face, Mrs. Corlyne. '

'But she is still a child. '

'She will always be a child; she will never mature, ' answered oursurgeon, going up the steep stairs to his room above. 

Jeannette came regularly, and one morning, tired of the bead-work, Iproposed teaching her to read. She consented, although not without anincentive in the form of shillings; but, however gained, my scholargave to the long winter a new interest. She learned readily; but asthere was no foundation, I was obliged to commence with A, B, C. 

'Why not teach her to cook?' suggested the major's fair young wife, whose life was spent in hopeless labors with Indian servants, who, sooner or later, ran away in the night with spoons and the familyapparel. 

'Why not teach her to sew?' said Madame Captain, wearily raising hereyes from the pile of small garments before her. 

'Why not have her up for one of our sociables?' hazarded our mostdashing lieutenant, twirling his moustache. 

'Frederick!' exclaimed his wife, in a tone of horror: she wasaristocratic, but sharp in outlines. 

'Why not bring her into the church? Those French half-breeds arelittle better than heathen, ' said the chaplain. 

Thus the high authorities disapproved of my educational efforts. Irelated their comments to Archie, and added, 'The surgeon is the onlyone who has said nothing against it. '

'Prescott? O, he's too high and mighty to notice anybody, much less ahalf-breed girl. I never saw such a stiff, silent fellow; he looks asif he had swallowed all his straightlaced Puritan ancestors. I wishhe'd exchange. '

'Gently, Archie--'

'O, yes, without doubt; certainly, and amen! I know you likehim, Aunt Sarah, ' said my handsome boy-soldier, laughing. 

The lessons went on. We often saw the surgeon during study hours asthe stairway leading to his room opened out of the little parlor. Sometimes he would stop awhile and listen as Jeannette slowly read, 'The good boy likes his red top'; 'The good girl can sew a seam', orwatched her awkward attempts to write her name, or add a one and atwo. It was slow work, but I persevered, if from no other motive thanobstinacy. Had they not all prophesied a failure? When wearied withthe dull routine, I gave an oral lesson in poetry. If the rhymes wereof the chiming, rhythmic kind, Jeannette learned rapidly, catching theverses as one catches a tune, and repeating them with a spirit anddramatic gesture all her own. Her favorite was Macaulay's 'Ivry. 'Beautiful she looked, as, standing in the centre of the room, sherolled out the sonorous lines, her French accent giving a charmingforeign coloring to the well-known verses:--

 'Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies, --upon them with the lance! A thousand spears are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. '

And yet, after all my explanations, she only half understood it; the'knights' were always 'nights' in her mind, and the 'thickest carnage'was always the 'thickest carriage. '

One March day she came at the appointed hour, soon after our noondinner. The usual clear winter sky was clouded, and a wind blew thesnow from the trees where it had lain quietly month after month. 'Spring is coming, ' said the old sergeant that morning, as he hoistedthe storm-flag; it's getting wildlike. '

Jeannette and I went through the lessons, but towards three o'clock anorth-wind came sweeping over the Straits and enveloped the island ina whirling snow-storm, partly eddies of white splinters torn from theice-bound forest, and partly a new, fall of round snow pelletscareering along on the gale, quite unlike the soft, feathery flakes ofearly winter. 'You cannot go home now, Jeannette, ' I said, looking outthrough the little west window; our cottage stood back on the hill, and from this side window we could see the Straits, going down towardfar Waugoschance; the steep fort-hill outside the wall; the longmeadow, once an Indian burial-place, below; and beyond on the beachthe row of cabins inhabited by the French fishermen, one of them thehome of my pupil. The girl seldom went round the point into thevillage; its one street and a half seemed distasteful to her. Sheclimbed the stone-wall on the ridge behind her cabin, took an Indiantrail through the grass in summer, or struck across on the snow-crustin winter, ran up the steep side of the fort-hill like a wildchamois, and came into the garrison enclosure with a careless nod tothe admiring sentinel, as she passed under the rear entrance. TheseFrench, half-breeds, like the gypsies, were not without a pride oftheir own. They held themselves aloof from the Irish of Shantytown, the floating sailor population of the summer, and the common soldiersof the garrison. They intermarried among themselves, and held theirown revels in their beach-cabins during the winter, with music fromtheir old violins, dancing and, songs, French ballads with a chorusafter every two lines, quaint chansons handed down fromvoyageur ancestors. Small respect had they for the little RomanCatholic church beyond the old Agency garden; its German priest theyrefused to honor; but, when stately old Father Piret came over to theisland from his hermitage in the Chenaux, they ran to meet him, youngand old, and paid him reverence with affectionate respect. FatherPiret was a Parisian, and a gentleman; nothing less would suit thesefar-away sheep in the wilderness!

Jeannette Leblanc had all the pride of her class; the Irishsaloon-keeper with his shining tall hat, the loud-talking mate of thelake schooner, the trim sentinel pacing the fort walls, were nothingto her, and this somewhat incongruous hauteur gave her the air of alittle princess. 

On this stormy afternoon the captain's wife was in my parlor preparingto return to her own quarters with some coffee she had borrowed. Hearing my remark she said, 'O, the snow won't hurt the child, Mrs. Corlyne; she must be storm-proof, living down there on the beach!Duncan can take her home. '

Duncan was the orderly, a factotum in the garrison. 

'Non, ' said Jeannette, tossing her head proudly, as the doorclosed behind the lady, 'I wish not of Duncan; I go alone. '

It happened that Archie, my nephew, had gone over to the cottage ofthe commanding officer to decorate the parlor for the militarysociable; I knew he would not return, and the evening stretched outbefore me in all its long loneliness. 'Stay, Jeannette, ' I said. 'Wewill have tea together here, and when the wind goes down, old Antoineshall go back with you. ' Antoine was a French wood-cutter, whose cabinclung half-way down the fort-hill like a swallow's nest. 

Jeannette's eyes sparkled; I had never invited her before; in aninstant she had turned the day into a high festival. 'Braid hair?'she asked, glancing toward the mirror, 'faut que je m' fassebelle. ' And the long hair came out of its close braids enveloping herin its glossy dark waves, while she carefully smoothed out the bits ofred ribbon that served as fastenings. At this moment the door opened, and the surgeon, the wind, and a puff of snow came in together. Jeannette looked up, smiling and blushing; the falling hair gave a newsoftness to her face, and her eyes were as shy as the eyes of a wildfawn. 

Only the previous day I had noticed that Rodney Prescott listened withmarked attention to the captain's cousin, a Virginia lady, as sheadvanced a theory that Jeannette had negro blood in her veins. 'Thosequadroon girls often have a certain kind of plebeian beauty like thispet of yours, Mrs. Corlyne, ' she said, with a slight sniff of herhigh-bred, pointed nose. In vain I exclaimed, in vain I argued; thegarrison ladies were all against me, and, in their presence, not a mandared come to my aid; and the surgeon even added, 'I wish I could besure of it. '

'Sure of the negro blood?' I said indignantly. 

'Yes. '

'But Jeannette does not look in the least like a quadroon. '

'Some of the quadroon girls are very handsome, Mrs. Corlyne, ' answeredthe surgeon, coldly. 

'O yes!' said the high-bred Virginia lady. 'My brother has a number ofthem about his place, but we do not teach them to read, I assure you. It spoils them. '

As I looked at Jeannette's beautiful face, her delicate eagle profile, her fair skin and light blue eyes, I recalled this conversation withvivid indignation. The surgeon, at least, should be convinced of hismistake. Jeannette had never looked more brilliant; probably the manhad never really scanned her features, --he was such a cold, unseeingcreature; but to-night he should have a fair opportunity, so I invitedhim to join our storm-bound tea-party. He hesitated. 

'Ah, do, Monsieur Rodenai, ' said Jeannette, springing forward. 'Ising for you, I dance; but, no, you not like that. Bien, Itell your fortune then. ' The young girl loved company. A party ofthree, no matter who the third, was to her infinitely better than two. 

The surgeon stayed. 

A merry evening we had before the hearth-fire. The wind howled aroundthe block-house and rattled the flag-staff, and the snow pelletssounded on the window-panes, giving that sense of warm comfort withinthat comes only with the storm. Our servant had been drafted intoservice for the military sociable, and I was to prepare the eveningmeal myself. 

'Not tea, ' said Jeannette, with a wry face; 'tea, --c'estmedecine!' She had arranged her hair in fanciful braids, and nowfollowed me to the kitchen, enjoying the novelty like a child. 'Cafe?' she said. 'O, please, madame! I make it. '

The little shed kitchen was cold and dreary, each plank of its thinwalls rattling in the gale with a dismal creak; the wind blew thesmoke down the chimney, and finally it ended on our bringingeverything into the cosey parlor, and using the hearth fire, whereJeannette made coffee and baked little cakes over the coals. 

The meal over, Jeannette sang her songs, sitting on the rug before thefire, --Le Beau Voyageur, Les Neiges de la Cloche, ballads in Canadianpatois sung to minor airs brought over from France two hundred yearsbefore. 

The surgeon sat in the shade of the chimney-piece, his face shaded byhis hand, and I could not discover whether he saw anything to admirein my protegee, until, standing in the centre of the room, shegave as 'Ivry' in glorious style. Beautiful she looked as she rolledout the lines, --

 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, -- For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, -- Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre. '

Rodney sat in the full light now, and I secretly triumphed in his raptattention. 

'Something else, Jeannette, ' I said in the pride of my heart. Insteadof repeating anything I had taught her, she began in French:--

 '"Marie, enfant, quitte l'ouvrage, Voici l'etoille du berger. " --"Ma mere, un enfant du village Languit captif chez l'etranger; Pris sur mer, loin de sa patrie, Il c'est rendu, --mais le dernier. " File, file, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier; File, file, pauvre Marie, File, file, pour le prisonnier. 

 '"Pour lui je filerais moi-meme Mon enfant, --mais--j'ai tant vieilli!" --"Envoyez a celui que j'aime Tout le gain par moi recueilli. Rose a sa noce en vain me prie;-- Dieu! j'entends le menetrier!" File, file, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier; File, file, pauvre Marie, File, file, pour le prisonnier. 

 '"Plus pres du feu file, ma cherie; La nuit vient de refroidir le temps" --"Adrien, m'a-t-on dit, ma mere, Gemit dans des cachots flottants. On repousse la main fletrie Qu'il etend vers an pain grossier. " File, file, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier; File, file, pauvre Marie, File, file pour le prisonnier. ' [Footnote: 'Le Prisonnier de Guerre, ' Beranger. ]

Jeannette repeated these lines with a pathos so real that I felt amoisture rising in my eyes. 

'Where did you learn that, child?' I asked. 

'Father Piret, madame. '

'What is it?'

'Je n'sais. '

'It is Beranger, --'The Prisoner of War, ' said Rodney Prescott. 'Butyou omitted the last verse, mademoiselle; may I ask why?'

'More sad so, ' answered Jeannette. 'Marie she die now. '

'You wish her to die?'

'Mais oui: she die for love; c'est beau!'

And there flashed a glance from the girl's eyes that thrilled throughme, I scarcely knew why. I looked towards Rodney, but he was back inthe shadow again. 

The hours passed. 'I must go, ' said Jeannette, drawing aside thecurtain. Clouds were still driving across the sky, but the snow hadceased falling, and at intervals the moon shone out over the coldwhite scene; the March wind continued on its wild career toward thesouth. 

'I will send for Antoine, ' I said, rising, as Jeannette took up herfur mantle. 

'The old man is sick, to-day, ' said Rodney. 'It would not be safe forhim to leave the fire, to-night. I will accompany mademoiselle. '

Pretty Jeannette shrugged her shoulders. 'Mais, monsieur, ' sheanswered, 'I go over the hill. '

'No, child; not tonight, ' I said decidedly. 'The wind is violent, andthe cliff doubly slippery after this ice-storm. Go round through thevillage. '

'Of course we shall go through the village, ' said our surgeon, in hiscalm authoritative way. They started. But in another minute I sawJeannette fly by the west window, over the wall and across the snowyroad, like a spirit, disappearing down the steep bank, now slipperywith glare ice. Another minute, and Rodney Prescott followed in hertrack. 

With bated breath I watched for the reappearance of the two figures onthe white plain, one hundred and fifty feet below; the cliff wasdifficult at any time, and now in this ice! The moments seemed verylong, and, alarmed, I was on the point of arousing the garrison, whenI spied the two dark figures on the snowy plain below, now clear inthe moonlight, now lost in the shadow. I watched them for somedistance; then a cloud came, and I lost them entirely. 

Rodney did not return, although I sat late before the dying fire. Thinking over the evening, the idea came to me that perhaps, afterall, he did admire my protegee, and, being a romantic oldwoman, I did not repel the fancy; it might go a certain distancewithout harm, and an idyl is always charming, doubly so to people castaway on a desert island. One falls into the habit of studying personsvery closely in the limited circle of garrison life. 

But, the next morning, the major's wife gave me an account of thesociable. 'It was very pleasant, ' she said. 'Toward the last Dr. Prescott came in, quite unexpectedly. I had no idea he could be soagreeable. Augusta can tell you how charming he was!'

Augusta, a young lady cousin, of pale blond complexion, neutralopinions, and irreproachable manners, smiled primly. My idyl wascrushed!

The days passed. The winds, the snows, and the high-up fort remainedthe same. Jeannette came and went, and the hour lengthened into two orthree; not that we read much, but we talked more. Our surgeon did notagain pass through the parlor; he had ordered a rickety stairway onthe outside wall to be repaired, and we could hear him going up anddown its icy steps as we sat by the hearth-fire. One day I said tohim, 'My protegee is improving wonderfully. If she could have acomplete education, she might take her place with the best in theland. '

'Do not deceive yourself, Mrs. Corlyne, ' he answered. 'It is only theshallow French quickness. '

'Why do you always judge the child so harshly, Doctor?'

'Do you take her part, Aunt Sarah?' (For sometimes he used thetitle which Archie had made so familiar. )

'Of course I do, Rodney. A poor, unfriended girl living in this remoteplace, against a United States surgeon with the best of Boston behindhim. '

'I wish you would tell me that every day, Aunt Sarah, ' was the reply Ireceived. It set me musing, but I could make nothing of it. Troubledwithout knowing why, I suggested to Archie that he should endeavor tointerest our surgeon in the fort gayety; there was something for everynight in the merry little circle, --games, suppers, tableaux, music, theatricals, readings, and the like. 

'Why, he's in the thick of it already, Aunt Sarah, ' said my nephew. 'He's devoting himself to Miss Augusta; she sings "The Harp thatonce--" to him every night. '

('The Harp that once through Tara's Halls', was Miss Augusta'sdress-parade song. The Major's quarters not being as large as thehalls aforesaid, the melody was somewhat overpowering. )

'O, does she?' I thought, not without a shade of vexation. But thevague anxiety vanished. 

The real spring came at last, --the rapid, vivid spring of Mackinac. Almost in a day the ice moved out, the snows melted, and the northernwild-flowers appeared in the sheltered glens. Lessons were at an end, for my scholar was away in the green woods. Sometimes she brought me abunch of flowers, but I seldom saw her; my wild bird had flown back tothe forest. When the ground was dry and the pine droppings warmed bythe sun, I, too, ventured abroad. One day, wandering as far as theArched Rock, I found the surgeon there, and together we sat down torest under the trees, looking off over the blue water flecked withwhite caps. The Arch is a natural bridge over a chasm one hundred andfifty feet above the lake, --a fissure in the cliff which has fallenaway in a hollow, leaving the bridge by itself far out over the water. This bridge springs upward in the shape of an arch; it is fifty feetlong, and its width is in some places two feet, in others only a fewinches, --a narrow, dizzy pathway hanging between sky and water. 

'People have crossed it, ' I said. 

'Only fools, ' answered oar surgeon, who despised foolhardiness. 'Hasa man nothing better to do with his life than risk it for the sake ofa silly feat like that! I would not so much as raise my eyes to seeany one cross. '

'O yes, you would, Monsieur Rodenai, ' cried a voice behind us. We bothturned and caught a glimpse of Jeannette as she bounded through thebushes and out to the very centre of the Arch, where she stoodbalancing herself and laughing gayly. Her form was outlined againstthe sky; the breeze, swayed her skirt; she seemed hovering over thechasm. I watched her, mute with fear; a word might cause her to loseher balance; but I could not turn my eyes away, I was fascinated withthe sight. I was not aware that Rodney had left me until he, too, appeared on the Arch, slowly finding a foothold for himself andadvancing toward the centre. A fragment of the rock broke off underhis foot and fell in the abyss below. 

'Go back, Monsieur Rodenai, ' cried Jeannette, seeing his danger. 

'Will you came back too, Jeannette?'

'Moi? C'est aut'chose, ' answered the girl, gayly tossing herpretty head. 

'Then I shall come out and carry you back, wilful child, ' said thesurgeon. 

A peal of laughter broke from Jeannette as he spoke and then she beganto dance on her point of rock, swinging herself from side to side, marking the time with a song. I held my breath; her dance seemedunearthly; it was as though she belonged to the Prince of the Powersof the Air. 

At length the surgeon reached the centre and caught the mockingcreature in his arms: neither spoke, but I could see the flash oftheir eyes as they stood for an instant motionless. Then theystruggled on the narrow foothold and swayed over so far that I buriedmy face in my trembling hands, unable to look at the dreadful end. When I opened my eyes again all was still; the Arch was tenantless, and no sound came from below. Were they, then, so soon dead? Withouta cry? I forced myself to the brink to look down, over the precipice;but while I stood there, fearing to look, I heard a sound behind me inthe woods. It was Jeannette singing a gay French song. I called to herto stop. 'How could you!' I said severely, for I was still tremblingwith agitation. 

'Ce n'est rien, madame. I cross l'Arche when I had five year. Mais, Monsieur Rodenai le Grand, he raise his eye to lookthis time, I think, ' said Jeannette, laughing triumphantly. 

'Where is he?'

'On the far side, gone on to Scott's Pic [Peak]. Feroce, O feroce, comme un loupgarou! Ah! c'est joli, ca!' And over-flowing with thewildest glee the girl danced along through the woods in front of me, now pausing to look at something in her hand, now laughing, nowshouting like a wild creature, until I lost sight of her. I went backto the fort alone. 

For several days I saw nothing of Rodney. When at last we met, I said, 'That was a wild freak of Jeannette's at the Arch. '

'Planned, to get a few shilling out of us. '

'O Doctor! I do not think she had any such motive, ' I replied, lookingup deprecatingly into his cold scornful eyes. 

'Are you not a little sentimental over that ignorant, half-wildcreature, Aunt Sarah?'

'Well, ' I said to myself, 'perhaps I am!'

The summer came, sails whitened the blue straits again, steamersstopped for an hour or two at the island docks, and the summertravellers rushed ashore to buy 'Indian curiosities, ' made by the nunsin Montreal, or to climb breathlessly up the steep fort-hill to seethe pride and panoply of war. Proud was the little white fort in thosesummer days; the sentinels held themselves stiffly erect, the officersgave up lying on the parapet half asleep, the best flag was hoisteddaily, and there was much bugle-playing and ceremony connected withthe evening gun, fired from the ramparts at sunset; the hotels werefull, the boarding-house keepers were in their annual state of wonderover the singular taste of these people from 'below, ' who actuallypreferred a miserable white-fish to the best of beef brought up on iceall the way from Buffalo! There were picnics and walks, and muchconfusion of historical dates respecting Father Marquette and theirrepressible, omnipresent Pontiac. The officers did much escortduty; their buttons gilded every scene. Our quiet surgeon was foremostin everything. 

'I am surprised! I had no idea Dr. Prescott was so gay, ' said themajor's wife. 

'I should not think of calling him gay, ' I answered. 

'Why, my dear Mrs. Corlyne! He is going all the time. Just askAugusta. '

Augusta thereupon remarked that society, to a certain extent, wasbeneficial; that she considered Dr. Prescott much improved; really, hewas now very 'nice. '

I silently protested against the word. But then I was not a Bostonian. 

One bright afternoon I went through the village, round the point intothe French quarter, in search of a laundress. The fishermen's cottagesfaced the west; they were low and wide, not unlike scows driftedashore and moored on the beach for houses. The little windows had gaycurtains fluttering in the breeze, and the room within looked cleanand cheery; the rough walls were adorned with the spoils of thefresh-water seas, shells, green stones, agates, spar, and curiouslyshaped pebbles; occasionally there was a stuffed water-bird, or abright-colored print, and always a violin. Black-eyed children playedin the water which bordered their narrow beach-gardens; and slenderwomen, with shining black hair, stood in their doorways knitting. Ifound my laundress, and then went on to Jeannette's home, the lasthouse in the row. From the mother, a Chippewa woman, I learned thatJeannette was with her French father at the fishing-grounds offDrummond's Island. 

'How long has she been away?' I asked. 

'Weeks four, ' replied the mother, whose knowledge of English wasconfined to the price-list of white-fish and blueberries, the twoarticles of her traffic with the boarding-house keepers. 

'When will she return?'

'Je n'sais. '

She knitted on, sitting in the sunshine on her little doorstep, looking out over the western water with tranquil content in herbeautiful, gentle eyes. As I walked up the beach I glanced backseveral times to see if she had the curiosity to watch me; but no, shestill looked out over the western water. What was I to her? Less thannothing. A white-fish was more. 

A week or two later I strolled out to the Giant's Stairway and satdown in the little rock chapel. There was a picnic at the Lovers'Leap, and I had that side of the island to myself. I was leaningback, half asleep, in the deep shadow, when the sound of voices rousedme; a birch-bark canoe was passing close in shore, and two were init, --Jeannette and our surgeon. I could not hear their words, but Inoticed Rodney's expression as he leaned forward. Jeannette waspaddling slowly; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes brilliant. Another moment and a point hid them from my view. I went hometroubled. 

'Did you enjoy the picnic, Miss Augusta?' I said with assumedcarelessness, that evening. 'Dr. Prescott was there, as usual, Isuppose?'

'He was not present, but the picnic was highly enjoyable, ' repliedMiss Augusta, in her even voice and impartial manner. 

'The Doctor has not been with us for some days, ' said the major'swife, archly; 'I suspect he does not like Mr. Piper. '

Mr. Piper was a portly widower, of sanguine complexion, a Chicagoproduce-dealer, who was supposed to admire Miss Augusta, and was nowgoing through a course of 'The Harp that once. '

The last days of summer flew swiftly by; the surgeon held himselfaloof; we scarcely saw him in the garrison circles, and I no longermet him in my rambles. 

'Jealousy!' said the major's wife. 

September came. The summer visitors fled away homeward; the remaining'Indian curiosities' were stored away for another season; the hotelswere closed, and the forests deserted; the bluebells swung unmolestedon their heights and the plump Indian-pipes grew in peace in theirdark corners. The little white fort, too, began to assume its wintermanners; the storm-flag was hoisted; there were evening fires upon thebroad hearth-stones; the chaplain, having finished everything aboutBalak, his seven altars and seven rams, was ready for chess-problems;books and papers were ordered; stores laid in, and anxious inquiriesmade as to the 'habits' of the new mail carrier--for the mail carrierwas the hero of the winter, and if his 'habits' led him to whiskey, there was danger that our precious letters might be dropped all alongthe northern curve of Lake Huron. 

Upon this quiet matter-of-course preparation, suddenly, like athunderbolt from a clear sky, came orders to leave. The wholegarrison, officers and men, were ordered to Florida. 

In a moment all was desolation. It was like being ordered into theValley of the Shadow of Death. Dense everglades, swamp-fevers, malariain the air, poisonous underbrush, and venomous reptiles and insects, and now and then a wily unseen foe picking off the men, one by one, asthey painfully cut out roads through the thickets, --these were thefeatures of military life in Florida at that period. Men who wouldhave marched boldly to the cannon's mouth, officers who would haveheaded a forlorn hope, shrank from the deadly swamps. 

Families must be broken up, also; no women, no children, could go toFlorida. There were tears and the sound of sobbing in the little whitefort, as the poor wives, all young mothers, hastily packed their fewpossessions to go back to their fathers' houses, fortunate if they hadfathers to receive them. The husbands went about in silence, too sadfor words. Archie kept up the best courage; but he was young, and hadno one to leave save me. 

The evening of the fatal day--for the orders had come in the earlydawn--I was alone in my little parlor, already bare and desolate withpacking-cases. The wind had been rising since morning, and now blewfuriously from the west. Suddenly the door burst open and the surgeonentered. I was shocked at his appearance, as, pale, haggard, withdisordered hair and clothing, he sank into a chair, and looked at mein silence. 

'Rodney, what is it?' I said. 

He did not answer, but still looked at me with that strange gaze. Alarmed, I rose, and went toward him, laying my hand on his shoulderwith a motherly touch. I loved the quiet, gray-eyed youth next afterArchie. 

'What is it, my poor boy! Can I help you?'

'O Aunt Sarah, perhaps you can, for you know her. '

'Her?' I repeated, with sinking heart. 

'Yes. Jeannette. '

I sat down and folded my hands; trouble had come, but it was not whatI apprehended, --the old story of military life, love, and desertion;the ever-present ballad of the 'gay young knight who loves and ridesaway. ' This was something different. 

'I love her, --I love her madly, in spite of myself, ' said Rodney, pouring forth his words with feverish rapidity. 'I know it is aninfatuation, I know it is utterly unreasonable, and yet--I love her. Ihave striven against it, I have fought with myself, I have written outelaborate arguments wherein I have clearly demonstrated the folly ofsuch an affection, and I have compelled myself to read them overslowly, word for word, when alone in my room, and yet--I love her!Ignorant, I know she would shame me; shallow, I know she could notsatisfy me; as a wife she would inevitably drag me down to misery, andyet--I love her! I had not been on the island a week before I saw her, and marked her beauty. Months before you invited her to the fort I hadbecome infatuated with her angular loveliness; but, in some respects, a race of the blood-royal could not be prouder than these Frenchfishermen. They will accept your money, they will cheat you, they willtell you lies for an extra shilling; but make one step toward a simpleacquaintance, and the door will be shut in your face. They will bowdown before you as a customer, but they will not have you for afriend. Thus I found it impossible to reach Jeannette. I do not saythat I tried, for all the time I was fighting myself; but I went farenough to see the barriers. It seemed a fatality that you should takea fancy to her, have her here, and ask me to admire her, --admire theface that haunted me by day and by night, driving me mad with itsbeauty. 

'I realized my danger, and called to my aid all the pride of my race. I said to my heart, 'You shall not love this ignorant half-breed toyour ruin. ' I reasoned with myself, and said, 'It is only because youare isolated on this far-away island. Could you present this girl toyour mother? Could she be a companion for your sisters? I wasbeginning to gain a firmer control over myself, in spite of herpresence, when you unfolded your plan of education. Fatality again. Instantly a crowd of hopes surged up. The education you began, could Inot finish? She was but young; a few years of careful teaching mightwork wonders. Could I not train this forest flower so that it couldtake its place in the garden? But, when I actually saw this full-grownwoman unable to add the simplest sum or write her name correctly, Iwas again ashamed of my infatuation. It is one thing to talk ofignorance, it is another to come face to face with it. Thus I wavered, at one moment ready to give up all for pride, at another to give upall for love. 

'Then came the malicious suggestion of negro blood. Could it beproved, I was free; that taint I could not pardon. [And here, even asthe surgeon spoke, I noticed this as the peculiarity of the NewEngland Abolitionist. Theoretically he believed in the equality of theenslaved race, and stood ready to maintain the belief with his life, but practically he held himself entirely aloof from them; the Southerncreed and practice were the exact reverse. ] I made inquiries of FatherPiret, who knows the mixed genealogy of the little French colony asfar back as the first voyageurs of the fur trade, and found--as I, shall I say hoped or feared?--that the insinuation was utterly false. Thus I was thrown back into the old tumult. 

'Then came that evening in this parlor when Jeannette made the coffeeand baked little cakes over the coals. Do you remember the pathos withwhich she chanted File, file, pauvre Marie; File, file, pour leprisonnier? Do you remember how she looked when she repeated'Ivry'? Did that tender pity, that ringing inspiration come from adull mind and shallow heart? I was avenged of my enforced disdain, mylove gave itself up to delicious hope. She was capable of education, and then--! I made a pretext of old Antoine's cough in order to gainan opportunity of speaking to her alone; but she was like a thingpossessed, she broke from me and sprang over the icy cliff, her laughcoming back on the wind as I followed her down the dangerous slope. Onshe rushed, jumping from rock to rock, waving her hand in wild gleewhen the moon shone out, singing and shouting with merry scorn at mydesperate efforts to reach her. It was a mad chase, but only on theplain below could I come up with her. There, breathless and eager, Iunfolded to her my plan of education. I only went as far as this: Iwas willing to send her to school, to give her opportunities of seeingthe world, to provide for her whole future. I left the story of mylove to come afterward. She laughed me to scorn. As well talk ofeducation to the bird of the wilderness! She rejected my offers, picked up snow to throw in my face, covered me with her Frenchsarcasms, danced around me in circles, laughed, and mocked, until Iwas at a loss to know whether she was human. Finally, as a shadowdarkened the moon she fled away; and when it passed she was gone, andI was alone on the snowy plain. 

'Angry, fierce, filled with scorn for myself, I determined resolutelyto crush out my senseless infatuation. I threw myself into suchsociety as we had; I assumed an interest in that inane Miss Augusta; Iread and studied far into the night; I walked until sheer fatigue gaveme tranquillity; but all I gained was lost in that encounter at thearch: you remember it? When I saw her on that narrow bridge, my loveburst its bonds again, and, senseless as ever, rushed to save her, --tosave her poised on her native rocks, where every inch was familiarfrom childhood! To save her, --sure-footed and light as a bird! Icaught her. She struggled in my arms, angrily, as an imprisoned animalmight struggle, but--so beautiful! The impulse came to me to springwith her into the gulf below, and so end the contest forever. I mighthave done it, --I cannot tell, --but, suddenly, she wrenched herself outof my arms and fled over the Arch, to the farther side. I followed, trembling, blinded, with the violence of my emotion. At that moment Iwas ready to give up my life, my soul, into her hands. 

'In the woods beyond she paused, glanced over her shoulder toward me, then turned eagerly. 'Voila, ' she said, pointing. I lookeddown and saw several silver pieces that had dropped from my pocket asI sprang over the rocks, and, with an impatient gesture, I thrust themaside with my foot. 

'Non, ' she cried, tuning toward me and stooping eagerly, --'somuch! O, so much! See! four shilling!' Her eyes glistened with longingas she held the money in her hand and fingered each piece lovingly. 

'The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by her words and gesturefilled me with fury. 'Keep it, and buy yourself a soul if you can!' Icried; and turning away, I left her with her gains. 

'Merci, monsieur, ' she answered gayly, all unmindful of myscorn; and off she ran, holding her treasure tightly clasped in bothhands. I could hear her singing far down the path. 

'It is a bitter thing to feel a scorn for yourself! Did I love thisgirl who stooped to gather a few shillings from under my feet? Was it, then, impossible for me to conquer this ignoble passion? No; it couldnot and it should not be! I plunged again into all the gayety; I leftmyself not one free moment; if sleep came not, I forced it to comewith opiates; Jeannette had gone to the fishing grounds, the weekspassed, I did not see her. I had made the hardest struggle of all, andwas beginning to recover my self-respect when, one day, I met her inthe woods with some children; she had returned to gather blueberries. I looked at her. She was more gentle than usual, and smiled. Suddenly, as an embankment which has withstood the storms of many winters givesaway at last in a calm summer night, I yielded. Myself knew thecontest was over and my other self rushed to her feet. 

'Since then I have often seen her; I have made plan after plan to meether; I have--O degrading thought!--paid her to take me out in hercanoe, under the pretence of fishing. I no longer looked forward; Ilived only in the present, and thought only of when and where I couldsee her. Thus it has been until this morning, when the orders came. Now, I am brought face to face with reality; I must go; can I leaveher behind? For hours I have been wandering in the woods. AuntSarah, --it is of no use, --I cannot live without her; I must marryher. '

'Marry Jeannette!' I exclaimed. 

'Even so. '

'An ignorant half-breed?'

'As you say, an ignorant half-breed. '

'You are mad, Rodney. '

'I know it. '

I will not repeat all I said; but, at last, silenced, if notconvinced, by the power of this great love, I started with him outinto the wild night to seek Jeannette. We went through the village andround the village and round the point, where the wind met us, and thewaves broke at our feet with a roar. Passing the row of cabins, withtheir twinkling lights, we reached the home of Jeannette and knockedat the low door. The Indian mother opened it. I entered, without aword, and took a seat near the hearth, where a drift-wood fire wasburning. Jeannette came forward with a surprised look. 'You littlethink what good fortune is coming to you, child, ' I thought, as Inoted her coarse dress and the poor furniture of the little room. 

Rodney burst at once into his subject. 

'Jeannette, ' he said, going toward her, 'I have come to take you awaywith me. You need not go to school; I have given up that idea, --Iaccept you as you are. You shall have silk dresses and ribbons, likethe ladies of the Mission-House this summer. You shall see all greatcities, you shall hear beautiful music. You shall have everything youwant, --money, bright shillings, as many as you wish. See! Mrs. Corlynehas come with me to show you that it is true. This morning we hadorders to leave Mackinac; in a few days we must go. But--listen, Jeanette; I will marry you. You shall be my wife. Do not look sostartled. I mean it; it is really true. '

'Qu'est-ce-que-c'est?' said the girl, bewildered by the rapid, eager words. 

'Dr. Prescott wishes to marry you, child, ' I explained, somewhatsadly, for never had the disparity between them seemed so great. Thepresence of the Indian mother, the common room, were like silentprotests. 

'Marry, ' ejaculated Jeannette. 

'Yes, love' said the surgeon, ardently. 'It is quite true; FatherPiret shall marry us. I will exchange into another regiment, or, ifnecessary, I will resign. Do you understand what I am saying, Jeannette? See! I give you my hand, in token that it is true. '

But, with a quick bound, the girl was across the room. 'What?' shecried. 'You think I marry you? Have you not heard of Baptiste?Know, then, that I love one finger of him more than all you, tentimes, hundred times. '

'Baptiste?' repeated Rodney. 

'Oui, mon cousin, Baptiste, the fisherman. We marry soon--tenez--la fete de Saint Andre. '

Rodney looked bewildered a moment, then his face cleared; 'Oh! a childengagement? That is one of your customs, I know. But never fear;Father Piret will absolve you from all that. Baptiste shall have afine new boat; he will let you off for a handful of silver pieces. Donot think of that, Jeannette, but come to me--'

'Je vous abhorre; Je vous deteste, ' cried the girl with fury ashe approached. 'Baptiste not love me? He love me more than boat andsilver dollar, --more than all the world! And I love him; I die forhim! Allez-vous-en, traitre!'

Rodney had grown white; he stood before her, motionless, with fixedeyes. 

'Jeannette, ' I said in French, 'perhaps you do not understand. Dr. Prescott asks you to marry him; Father Piret shall marry you, and allyour friends shall come. Dr. Prescott will take you away from thishard life; he will make you rich; he will support your father andmother in comfort. My child, it is wonderful good fortune. He is aneducated gentleman, and loves you truly. '

'What is that to me?' replied Jeannette, proudly. 'Let him go, I carenot. ' She paused a moment. Then, with flashing eyes, she cried, 'Lethim go with his fine new boat and silver dollars! He does not believeme? See, then, how I despise him!' And rushing forward, she struck himon the cheek. 

Rodney did not stir, but stood gazing at her while the red mark glowedon his white face. 

'You know not what love is, ' said Jeannette, with indescribable scorn. 'You! You! Ah, mon Baptiste, ou es-tu? But thou wilt killhim, --kill him for his boats and silver dollars!'

'Child!' I said, startled by her fury. 

'I am not a child. Je suis femme, moi!' replied Jeannette, folding her arms with haughty grace. 'Allez!' she said, pointingtoward the door. We were dismissed. A queen could not have made a moreroyal gesture. 

Throughout the scene the Indian mother had not stopped her knitting. 

In four days we were afloat, and the little white fort was deserted. It was a dark afternoon, and we sat clustered on the stern of thesteamer, watching the flag come slowly down from its staff in token ofthe departure of the commanding officer. 'Isle of Beauty, fare theewell, ' sang the major's fair young wife with the sound of tears in hersweet voice. 

'We shall return, ' said the officers. But not one of them ever saw thebeautiful island again. 

Rodney Prescott served a month or two in Florida, 'taciturn and stiffas ever, ' Archie wrote. Then he resigned suddenly, and went abroad. Hehas never returned, and I have lost all trace of him, so that I cannotsay, from any knowledge of my own, how long the feeling lived, --thefeeling that swept me along in its train down to the beach-cottagethat wild night. 

Each man who reads this can decide for himself. 

Each woman has decided already. 

Last year I met an islander on the cars going eastward. It was thefirst time he had ever been 'below'; but he saw nothing to admire, that dignified citizen of Mackinac!

'What has become of Jeannette Leblanc?' I asked. 

'Jeannette? O, she married that Baptiste, a lazy, good-for-nothingfellow? They live in the same little cabin around the point, and pickup a living most anyhow for their tribe of young ones. '

'Are they happy?'

'Happy?' repeated my islander, with a slow stare. 'Well I suppose theyare, after their fashion; I don't know much about them. In myopinion, they are a shiftless set, those French half-breeds round thepoint. '

THE OLD AGENCY. 

'The buildings of the United States Indian Agency on the island ofMackinac were destroyed by fire December 31, at midnight. '--WESTERNNEWSPAPER ITEM. 

The old house is gone then! But it shall not depart into oblivionunchronicled. One who has sat under its roof-tree, one who rememberswell its rambling rooms and wild garden, will take the pen to writedown a page of its story. It is only an episode, one of many; but theothers are fading away, or already buried in dead memories under thesod. It was a quaint, picturesque old place, stretching back from thewhite limestone road that bordered the little port, its overgrowngarden surrounded by an ancient stockade ten feet in height, with amassive, slow-swinging gate in front, defended by loopholes. Thisstockade bulged out in some places and leaned in at others; but theveteran posts, each a tree sharpened to a point, did not break theirranks, in spite of decrepitude; and the Indian warriors, could theyhave returned from their happy hunting-grounds, would have found thebrave old fence of the Agency a sturdy barrier still. But the Indianwarriors could not return. The United States agent had long ago movedto Lake Superior, and the deserted residence, having only a mythicalowner, left without repairs year after year, and under a cloud ofconfusion as regarded taxes, titles, and boundaries, became a kind offlotsam property, used by various persons, but belonging legally to noone. Some tenant, tired of swinging the great gate back and forth, hadmade a little sally port alongside, but otherwise the place remainedunaltered; a broad garden with a central avenue of cherry-trees, oneach side dilapidated arbors, overgrown paths, and heart-shaped beds, where the first agents had tried to cultivate flowers, and behind thelimestone cliffs crowned with cedars. The house was large on theground, with wings and various additions built out as if at random; oneach side and behind were rough outside chimneys clamped to the wall;in the roof over the central part dormer-windows showed a low secondstorey; and here and there at intervals were outside doors, in somecases opening out into space, since the high steps which once led upto them had fallen down, and remained as they fell, heaps of stones onthe ground below. Within were suites of rooms, large and small, showing traces of workmanship elaborate for such a remote locality;the ceilings, patched with rough mortar, had been originally decoratedwith moulding, the doors were ornamented with scroll-work, and the twolarge apartments on each side of the entrance-hall possessedchimney-pieces and central hooks for chandeliers. Beyond and behindstretched out the wings; coming to what appeared to be the end of thehouse on west, there unexpectedly began a new series of rooms turningto the north, each with its outside door; looking for a correspondinglabyrinth on the eastern side, there was nothing but a blank wall. Theblind stairway went up in a kind of dark well, and once up it was adifficult matter to get down without a plunge from top to bottom, since the undefended opening was just where no one would expect tofind it. Sometimes an angle was so arbitrarily walled up that you feltsure there must be a secret chamber there and furtively rapped on thewall to catch the hollow echo within. Then again you opened a door, expecting to step into the wilderness of a garden, and found yourselfin a set of little rooms running off on a tangent, one after theother, and ending in a windowless closet and an open cistern. But theAgency gloried in its irregularities, and defied criticism. Theoriginal idea of its architect--if there was any--had vanished; buthis work remained a not unpleasing variety to summer visitorsaccustomed to city houses, all built with a definite purpose, and onefront door. 

After some years of wandering in foreign lands, I returned to my owncountry, and took up the burden of old associations whose sadness timehad mercifully softened. The summer was over; September had begun, butthere came to me a great wish to see Mackinac once more; to look againupon the little white fort where I had lived with Archie, my soldiernephew killed at Shiloh. The steamer took me safely across Lake Erie, up the brimming Detroit River, through the enchanted region of the St. Clair flats, and out into broad Lake Huron; there, off Thunder Bay, agale met us, and for hours we swayed between life and death. 

The season for pleasure travelling was over; my fellow-passengers, with one exception, were of that class of Americans who dressed incheap imitations of fine clothes, are forever travelling, travelling, --taking the steamers not from preference, but because theyare less costly than an all-rail route. The thin, listless men, inill-fitting black clothes and shining tall hats, sat on the deck intilted chairs hour after hour silent and dreary; the thin listlesswomen, clad in raiment of many colors, remained on the fixed sofas inthe cabin hour after hour, silent and weary. At meals they ateindiscriminately everything within range, but continued the same, aweary, dreary, silent band. The one exception was an old man, talland majestic, with silvery hair and bright, dark eyes, dressed in thegarb of a Roman Catholic priest, albeit slightly tinged with frontierinnovations. He came on board at Detroit, and as soon as we wereunder way he exchanged his hat for a cloth cap embroidered with Indianbead-work; and when the cold air, precursor of the gale, struck us onHuron, he wrapped himself in a large capote made of skins, with thefur inward. 

In times of danger formality drops from us. During those long hours, when the next moment might have brough death, this old man and I weretogether; and when at last the cold dawn came, and the disabledsteamer slowly ploughed through the angry water around the point, andshowed us Mackinac in the distance, we discovered that the island wasa mutual friend, and that we knew each other, at least by name; forthe silver-haired priest was Father Piret, the hermit of the Chenaux. In the old days, when I was living at the little white fort, I hadknown Father Piret by reputation, and he had heard of me from theFrench half-breeds around the point. We landed. The summer hotelswere closed, and I was directed to the old Agency, where occasionallya boarder was received by the family then in possession. The air waschilly, and a fine rain was falling, the afterpiece of theequinoctial; the wet storm-flag hung heavily down over the fort on theheight, and the waves came in sullenly. All was in sad accordance withmy feelings as I thought of the past and its dead, while the slowtears of age moistened my eyes. But the next morning Mackinac awoke, robed in autumn splendor; the sunshine poured down, the straitssparkled back, the forest glowed in scarlet, the larches waved theirwild, green hands, the fair-weather flag floated over the little fort, and all was as joyous as though no one had ever died; and indeed it isin glorious days like these that we best realise immortality. 

I wandered abroad through the gay forest to the Arch, the Lovers'Leap, and old Fort Holmes, whose British walls had been battered down, for pastime, so that only a caved-in British cellar remained to markthe spot. Returning to the Agency, I learned that Father Piret hadcalled to see me. 

'I am sorry that I missed him, ' I said; 'he is a remarkable old man. '

The circle at the dinner-table glanced up with one accord. The littleminister with the surprised eyes looked at me more surprised thanever; his large wife groaned audibly. The Baptist colporteur pepperedhis potatoes until they and the plate were black; the Presbyteriandoctor, who was the champion of the Protestant party on the island, wished to know if I was acquainted with the latest devices of theScarlet Woman in relation to the county school-fund. 

'But my friends, ' I replied, 'Father Piret and I both belong to thepast. We discuss not religion, but Mackinac; not the school-fund, butthe old associations of the island, which is dear to both of us. '

The four looked at me with distrust; they saw nothing dear about theisland, unless it was the price of fresh meat; and as to oldassociations, they held themselves above such nonsense. So, one andall, they, took beef and enjoyed a season of well-regulatedconversation, leaving me to silence and my broiled white-fish; as itwas Friday, no doubt they thought the latter a rag of popery. 

Very good rags. 

But my hostess, a gentle little woman, stole away from these bulwarksof Protestantism in the late afternoon, and sought me in my room, orrather series of rooms, since there were five opening one out of theother, the last three unfurnished, and all the doorless doorwaysstaring at me like so many fixed eyes, until, oppressed by theirsilent watchfulness, I hung a shawl over the first opening and shutout the whole gazing suite. 

'You must not think, Mrs. Corlyne, that we islanders do not appreciateFather Piret, ' said the little woman, who belonged to one of the oldisland families, descendants of a chief factor of the fur trade. 'There has been some feeling lately against the Catholics--'

'Roman Catholics, my dear, ' I said with Anglican particularity. 

'But we all love and respect the dear old man as a father. '

'When I was living at the fort, fifteen years ago, I heardoccasionally of Father Piret, ' I said, 'but he seemed to be almost amythic personage. What is his history?'

'No one knows. He came here fifty years ago, and after officiating onthe island a few years, he retired to a little Indian farm in theChenaux, where he has lived ever since. Occasionally he holds aservice for the half-breeds at Point St. Ignace, but the parish ofMackinac proper has its regular priest, and Father Piret apparentlydoes not hold even the appointment of missionary. Why he remainshere--a man educated, refined, and even aristocratic--is a mystery. Heseems to be well provided with money; his little house in the Chenauxcontains foreign books and pictures, and he is very charitable to thepoor Indians. But he keeps himself aloof, and seems to desire nointercourse with the world beyond his letters and papers, which comeregularly, some of them from France. He seldom leaves the Straits; henever speaks of himself; always he appears as you saw him, carefullydressed and stately. Each summer when he is seen on the street, thereis more or less curiosity about him among the summer visitors, for heis quite unlike the rest of us Mackinac people. But no one candiscover anything more than I have told you, and those who havepersisted so far as to sail over to the Chenaux either lose their wayamong the channels, or if they find the house, they never find him;the door is locked, and no one answers. '

'Singular, ' I said. 'He has nothing of the hermit about him. He haswhat I should call a courtly manner. '

'That is it, ' replied my hostess, taking up the word; 'some say hecame from the French court, --a nobleman exiled for political offences;others think he is a priest under the ban; and there is still a thirdstory, to the effect that he is a French count, who, owing to adisappointment in love, took orders and came to this far-away island, so that he might seclude himself forever from the world. '

'But no one really knows?'

'Absolutely nothing. He is beloved by all the real old islandfamilies, whether they are of his faith or not; and when he dies thewhole Strait, from Bois Blanc light to far Waugoschance, will mournfor him. '

At sunset the Father came again to see me; the front door of my roomwas open, and we seated ourselves on the piazza outside. The roof ofbark thatch had fallen away, leaving the bare beams overhead twinedwith brier-roses; the floor and house side were frescoed with thoselichen colored spots which show that the gray planks have lacked paintfor many long years; the windows had wooden shutters fastened backwith irons shaped like the letter S, and on the central door was abrass knocker, and a plate bearing the words, 'United States Agency. '

'When I first came to the island, ' said Father Piret, 'this wasthe residence par excellence. The old house was bravewith green and white paint then; it had candelabra on its highmantles, brass andirons on its many hearthstones, curtains for all itslittle windows, and carpets for all its uneven floors. Much cookingwent on, and smoke curled up from all these outside chimneys. Thosewere the days of the fur trade and Mackinac was a central mart. Hithertwice a year came the bateaux from the Northwest, loaded with furs;and in those old, decaying warehouses on the back street of thevillage were stored the goods sent out from New York, with which thebateaux were loaded again, and after a few days of revelry, duringwhich the improvident voyagers squandered all their hard-earned gains, the train returned westward into 'the countries, ' as they called thewilderness beyond the lakes, for another six months of toil. Theofficers of the little fort on the height, the chief factors of thefur company, and the United States Indian agent, formed the feudalaristocracy of the island; but the agent had the most imposingmansion, and often have I seen the old house shining with lightsacross its whole broadside of windows, and gay with the sound of adozen French violins. The garden, now a wilderness, was the pride ofthe island. Its prim arbors, its spring and spring-house, itsflowerbeds, where, with infinite pains, a few hardy plants wereinduced to blossom; its cherry-tree avenue, whose early red fruit theshort summer could scarcely ripen; its annual attempts at vegetables, which never came to maturity, --formed topics for conversation in courtcircles. Potatoes then as now were left to the mainland Indians, whocame over with their canoes heaped with the fine, large thin-jacketedfellows, bartering them all for a loaf or two of bread and a littlewhiskey. 

'The stockade which surrounds the place was at that day a notunnecessary defence. At the time of the payments the island swarmedwith Indians, who came from Lake Superior and the Northwest, toreceive the government pittance. Camped on the beach as far as the eyecould reach, these wild warriors, dressed in all their savage finery, watched the Agency with greedy eyes, as they waited for their turn. The great gate was barred, and sentinels stood at the loopholes withloaded muskets; one by one the chiefs were admitted, stalked up to theoffice, --that wing on the right, --received the allotted sum, silentlyselected something from the displayed goods, and as silently departed, watched by quick eyes, until the great gate closed behind them. Theguns of the fort were placed so as to command the Agency duringpayment time; and when, after several anxious, watchful days andnights, the last brave had received his portion, and the last canoestarted away toward the north, leaving only the comparatively peacefulmainland Indians behind, the island drew a long breath of relief. '

'Was there any real danger?' I asked. 

'The Indians are ever treacherous. ' replied the Father. Then he wassilent, and seemed lost in revery. The pure, ever-present breeze ofMackinac played in his long silvery hair, and his bright eyes rovedalong the wall of the old house; he had a broad forehead, noblefeatures, and commanding presence, and as he sat there, recluse as hewas, --aged, alone, without a history, with scarcely a name or a placein the world, --he looked, in the power of his native-born dignity, worthy of a royal coronet. 

'I was thinking of old Jacques, ' he said, after a long pause. 

'He once lived in these rooms of yours, and died on that bench at theend of the piazza, sitting in the sunshine, with his staff in hishand. '

'Who was he?' I asked. 'Tell me the story, Father. '

'There is not much to tell, madame; but in my mind he is so associatedwith this old house, that I always think of him when I come here, andfancy I see him on that bench. 

'When the United States agent removed to the Apostle Islands, at thewestern end of Lake Superior, this place remained for some timeuninhabited. But one winter morning smoke was seen coming out of thatgreat chimney on the side; and in the course of the day severalcurious persons endeavored to open the main gate, at that time theonly entrance. But the gate was barred within, and as the highstockade was slippery with ice, for some days the mystery remainedunsolved. The islanders, always slow, grow torpid in the winter likebears; they watched the smoke in the daytime and the little twinklinglight by night; they talked of spirits both French and Indian as theywent their rounds, but they were too indolent to do more. At lengththe fort commandant heard of the smoke, and saw the light from hisquarters on the height. As government property, he considered theAgency under his charge, and he was preparing to send a detail of mento examine the deserted mansion in its ice-bound garden, when itsmysterious occupant appeared in the village; it was an old man, silent, gentle, apparently French. He carried a canvas bag, and boughta few supplies of the coarsest description, as though he was verypoor. Unconscious of observation, he made his purchases and returnedslowly homeward, barring the great gate behind him. Who was he? No oneknew. Whence and when came he? No one could tell. 

'The detail of soldiers from the fort battered at the gate, and whenthe silent old man opened it they followed him through the garden, where his feet had made a lonely trail over the deep snow, round tothe side door. They entered, and found some blankets on the floor, afire of old knots on the hearth, a long narrow box tied with a rope;his poor little supplies stood in one corner, --bread, salted fish, anda few potatoes, --and over the fire hung a rusty tea-kettle, its manyholes carefully plugged with bits of rag. It was a desolate scene; theold man in the great rambling empty house in the heart of an arcticwinter. He said little, and the soldiers could not understand hislanguage; but they left him unmolested, and going back to the fort, they told what they had seen. Then the major went in person to theAgency, and gathered from the stranger's words that he had come to theisland over the ice in the track of the mail-carrier; that he was anemigrant from France on his way to the Red River of the North, but hisstrength failing, owing to the intense cold, he had stopped at theisland, and seeing the uninhabited house, he had crept into it, as hehad not enough money to pay for a lodging elsewhere. He seemed a quietinoffensive old man, and after all the islanders had had a good longslow stare at him he was left in peace, with his little curling smokeby day and his little twinkling light by night, although no onethought of assisting him; there is a strange coldness of heart inthese northern latitudes. 

'I was then living at the Chenaux; there was a German priest on theisland; I sent over two half-breeds every ten days for the mail, andthrough them I heard of the stranger at the Agency. He was French, they said, and it was rumored in the saloons along the frozen docksthat he had seen Paris. This warmed my heart; for, madame, I spent myyouth in Paris, --the dear, the beautiful city! So I came over to theisland in my dog-sledge; a little thing is an event in our long, longwinter. I reached the village in the afternoon twilight, and made myway alone to the Agency; the old man no longer barred his gate, andswinging it open with difficulty, I followed the trail through thesnowy silent garden round to the side of this wing, --the wing youoccupy. I knocked; he opened; I greeted him and entered. He had triedto furnish his little room with the broken relics of the deserteddwelling; a mended chair, a stool, a propped-up table, a shelf withtwo or three battered tin dishes, and some straw in one cornercomprised the whole equipment, but the floor was clean, the old dishespolished, and the blankets neatly spread over the straw which formedthe bed. On the table the supplies were ranged in order; there was acareful pile of knots on one side of the hearth; and the fire wasevidently husbanded to last as long as possible. He gave me the mendedchair, lighted a candle-end stuck in a bottle, and then seatinghimself on the stool, he gazed at me in his silent way until I feltlike an uncourteous intruder. I spoke to him in French, offered myservices; in short, I did my best to break down the barrier of hisreserve; there was something pathetic in the little room and itslonely occupant, and, besides, I knew from his accent that we wereboth from the banks of the Seine. 

'Well, I heard his story, --not then, but afterward; it came outgradually during the eleven months of our acquaintance; for he becamemy friend, --almost the only friend of fifty years. I am an isolatedman, madame. It must be so. God's will be done!'

The Father paused, and looked off over the darkening water; he did notsigh, neither was his calm brow clouded, but there was in his facewhat seemed to me a noble resignation, and I have ever since felt surethat the secret of his exile held in it a self-sacrifice; for onlyself-sacrifice can produce that divine expression. 

Out in the straits shone the low-down green light of a schooner;beyond glimmered the mast-head star of a steamer, with the line ofcabin lights below, and away on the point of Bois Blanc gleamed thesteady radiance of the lighthouse showing the way to Lake Huron; thebroad overgrown garden cut us off from the village, but above on theheight we could see the lighted windows of the fort, although stillthe evening sky retained that clear hue that seems so much likedaylight when one looks aloft, although the earth lies in dark shadowbelow. The Agency was growing indistinct even to our near eyes; itswhite chimneys loomed up like ghosts, the shutters sighed in thebreeze, and the planks of the piazza creaked causelessly. The oldhouse was full of the spirits of memories, and at twilight they cameabroad and bewailed themselves. 'The place is haunted, ' I said, as adistant door groaned drearily. 

'Yes, ' replied Father Piret, coming out of his abstraction, 'and thiswing is haunted by my old French friend. As time passed and the springcame, he fitted up in his fashion the whole suite of five rooms. Hehad his parlor, sleeping room, kitchen and store-room, the wholefurnished only with the articles I have already described, save thatthe bed was of fresh green boughs instead of straw. Jacques occupiedall the rooms with ceremonious exactness; he sat in the parlor, andtoo I must sit there when I came; in the second room he slept and madehis careful toilet, with his shabby old clothes; the third was hiskitchen and dining-room; and the fourth, that little closet on theright, was his store-room. His one indulgence was coffee; coffee hemust and would have, though he slept on straw and went without meat. But he cooked to perfection in his odd way, and I have often eaten adainty meal in that little kitchen, sitting at the propped-up table, using the battered tin dishes, and the clumsy wooden spoons fashionedwith a jackknife. After we had become friends Jacques would acceptoccasional aid from me, and it gave me a warm pleasure to think that Ihad added something to his comfort, were it only a little sugar, butter, or a pint of milk. No one disturbed the old man; no orderscame from Washington respecting the Agency property, and the major hadnot the heart to order him away. There were more than houses enoughfor the scanty population of the island, and only a magnate couldfurnish these large rambling rooms. So the soldiers were sent down topick the red cherries for the use of the garrison, but otherwiseJacques had the whole place to himself, with all its wings, outbuildings, arbors, and garden beds. 

'But I have not told you all. The fifth apartment in the suite--thesquare room with four windows and an outside door--was the old man'ssanctuary, here were his precious relics, and here he offered up hisdevotions, half Christian, half pagan, with never-failing ardor. Fromthe long narrow box which the fort soldiers had noticed came an oldsabre, a worn and faded uniform of the French grenadiers, a littledried sprig, its two withered leaves tied in their places with thread, and a coarse woodcut of the great Napoleon; for Jacques was a soldierof the Empire. The uniform hung on the wall, carefully arranged onpegs as a man would wear it, and the sabre was brandished from theempty sleeve as though a hand held it; the woodcut framed in green, renewed from day to day, pine in the winter, maple in the summer, occupied the opposite side, and under it was fastened the tinywithered sprig, while on the floor below was a fragment ofbuffalo-skin which served the soldier for a stool when he knelt inprayer. And did he pray to Napoleon, you ask? I hardly know. He had afew of the Church's prayers by heart, but his mind was full of theEmperor as he repeated them, and his eyes were fixed upon the pictureas though it was the face of a saint. Discovering this, I labored hardto bring him to a clearer understanding of the faith; but all in vain. He listened patiently, even reverently, although I was much theyounger; at intervals he replied, "Oui, mon pere, " and the next day hesaid his prayers to the dead Emperor as usual. And this was not theworst; in place of an amen, there came a fierce imprecation againstthe whole English nation. After some months I succeeded in persuadinghim to abandon this termination; but I always suspected that it wasbut a verbal abandonment, and that, mentally, the curse was as strongas ever. 

'Jacques had been a soldier of the Empire, as it is called, --agrenadier under Napoleon; he had loved his General and Emperor inlife, and adored him in death with the affectionate pertinacity of afaithful dog. One hot day during the German campaign, Napoleon, engaged in conference with some of his generals, was disturbed by theuneasy movements of his horse; looking around for some one to brushaway the flies, he saw Jacques, who stood at a short distance watchinghis Emperor with admiring eyes. Always quick to recognize the personalaffection he inspired, Napoleon signed to the grenadier to approach, "Here, mon brave, " he said, smiling; "get a branch and keep the fliesfrom my horse a few moments. " The proud soldier obeyed; he heard theconversation of the Emperor; he kept the flies from his horse. As hetalked, Napoleon idly plucked a little sprig from the branch as itcame near his hand, and played with it; and when, the conference over, with a nod of thanks to Jacques, he rode away, the grenadier stopped, picked up the sprig fresh from the Emperor's hand and placed itcarefully in his breast-pocket. The Emperor had noticed him; theEmperor had called him 'mon brave'; the Emperor had smiled upon him. This was the glory of Jacques's life. How many times have I listenedto the story, told always in the same words, with the same gestures inthe same places! He remembered every sentence of the conversation hehad heard, and repeated them with automatic fidelity, understandingnothing of their meaning; even when I explained their probableconnection with the campaign, my words made no impression upon him, and I could see that they conveyed no idea to his mind. He was madefor a soldier; brave and calm, he reasoned not, but simply obeyed, andto this blind obedience there was added a heart full of affectionwhich, when concentrated upon the Emperor, amounted to idolatry. Napoleon possessed a singular personal power over his soldiers; theyall loved him, but Jacques adored him. 

'It was an odd, affectionate animal, ' said Father Piret, droppingunconsciously into a French idiom to express his meaning. 'The littlesprig had been kept as a talisman, and no saintly relic was ever morehonored; the Emperor had touched it!

'Grenadier Jacques made one of the ill-fated Russian army, and, although wounded and suffering, he still endured until the capture ofParis. Then, when Napoleon retired to Elba, he fell sick from grief, nor did he recover until the Emperor returned, when, with thousands ofother soldiers, our Jacques hastened to his standard, and the hundreddays began. Then came Waterloo. Then came St. Helena. But thegrenadier lived on in hope, year after year, until the Emperor died, --died in exile, in the hands of the hated English. Broken-hearted, weary of the sight of his native land, he packed his few possessions, and fled away over the ocean, with a vague idea of joining a Frenchsettlement on the Red River; I have always supposed it must be the RedRiver of the South; there are French there. But the poor soldier wasvery ignorant; some one directed him to these frozen regions, and heset out; all places were alike to him now that the Emperor had gonefrom earth. Wandering as far as Mackinac on his blind pilgrimage, Jacques found his strength failing, and crept into this deserted houseto die. Recovering, he made for himself a habitation from a kind ofinstinct, as a beaver might have done. He gathered together thewrecks of furniture, he hung up his treasures, he had his habits forevery hour of the day; soldier-like, everything was done by rule. At aparticular hour it was his custom to sit on that bench in thesunshine, wrapped in his blankets in the winter, in summer with hisone old coat carefully hung on that peg; I can see him before me now. On certain days he would wash his few poor clothes, and hang them outon the bushes to dry; then he would patiently mend them with his greatbrass thimble and coarse thread. Poor old garments! they were coveredwith awkward patches. 

'At noon he would prepare his one meal; for his breakfast and supperwere but a cup of coffee. Slowly and with the greatest care thematerials were prepared and the cooking watched. There was a savor ofthe camp, a savor of the Paris cafe, and a savor of originality; andoften, wearied with the dishes prepared by my half-breeds, I have comeover to the island to dine with Jacques, for the old soldier was proudof his skill, and liked an appreciative guest And I--But it is not mystory to tell. '

'O Father Piret, if you could but--'

'Thanks, madame. To others I say, "What would you? I have been heresince youth; you know my life. " But to you I say there was a past;brief, full, crowded into a few years; but I cannot tell it; my lipsare sealed! Again thanks for your sympathy, madame. And now I will goback to Jacques. 

'We were comrades, he and I; he would not come over to the Chenaux; hewas unhappy if the routine of his day was disturbed, but I oftenstayed a day with him at the Agency, for I too liked the silent house. It has its relics, by the way. Have you noticed a carved door in theback part of the main building? That was brought from the old chapelon the mainland, built as early as 1700. The whole of this locality issacred ground in the history of our Church. It was first visited byour missionaries in 1670, and over at Point St. Ignace the dust whichwas once the mortal body of Father Marquette lies buried. The exactsite of the grave is lost; but we know that in 1677 his Indianconverts brought back his body, wrapped in birch-bark, from theeastern shore of Lake Michigan, where he died, to his beloved missionof St. Ignace. There he was buried in a vault under the littlelog-church. Some years later the spot was abandoned, and the residentpriests returned to Montreal. We have another little Indian churchthere now, and the point is forever consecrated by its unknown grave. At various times I told Jacques the history of this strait, --itsislands, and points; but he evinced little interest. He listened withsome attention to my account of the battle which took place onDousman's farm, not far from the British Landing; but when he foundthat the English were victorious, he muttered a great oath and refusedto hear more. To him the English were fiends incarnate. Had they notslowly murdered his Emperor on their barren rock in the sea?

'Only once did I succeed in interesting the old soldier. Then, as now, I received twice each year a package of foreign pamphlets and papers;among them came, that summer, a German ballad, written by that strangebeing, Henri Heine. I give it to you in a later English translation:--

THE GRENADIERS. 

 To the land of France went two grenadiers, From a Russian prison returning; But they hung down their heads on the German frontiers, The news from their fatherland learning. 

 For there they both heard the sorrowful tale, That France was by fortune forsaken; That her mighty army was scattered like hail, And the Emperor, the Emperor taken, Then there wept together the grenadiers, The sorrowful story learning; And one said, "O woe!" as the news he hears, "How I feel my old wound burning!"

 The other said, "The song is sung, And I wish that we both were dying! But at home I've a wife and a child, --they're young, On me, and me only, relying. "

 "O what is a wife or a child to me! Deeper wants all my spirit have shaken; Let them beg, let them beg, should they hungry be! My Emperor, my Emperor taken!

 "But I beg you, brother, if by chance You soon shall see me dying Then take my corpse with you back to France Let it ever in France be lying. 

 "The cross of honor with crimson band Shall rest on my heart as it bound me; Give me my musket in my hand, And buckle my sabre around me. 

 "And there I will lie and listen still In my sentry coffin staying, Till I feel the thundering cannon's thrill And horses tramping and neighing. 

 "Then my Emperor will ride well over my grave 'Mid sabres' bright slashing and fighting And I'll rise all weaponed out of my grave, For the Emperor, the Emperor fighting!"

'This simple ballad want straight to the heart of old Jacques; tearsrolled down his cheeks as I read, and he would have it over and overagain. 'Ah! that comrade was happy, ' said the old grenadier. 'He died when the Emperor was only taken. I too wouldhave gone to my grave smiling, could I have thought that my Emperorwould come riding over it with all his army around him again! But heis dead, --my Emperor is dead! Ah! that comrade was a happy man; hedied! He did not have to stand by, while the English--may they beforever cursed!--slowly, slowly murdered him, --murdered the greatNapoleon! No; that comrade died. Perhaps he is with the Emperornow, --that comrade-grenadier. '

'To be with his Emperor was Jacques's idea of heaven. 

'From that moment each time I visited the Agency I must repeat theverses again and again; they became a sort of hymn. Jacques had notthe capacity to learn the ballad, although he so often listened to it, but the seventh verse he managed to repeat after a fashion of his own, setting it to a nondescript tune, and crooning it about the house ashe came and went on his little rounds. Gradually he altered the words, but I could not make out the new phrases as he muttered them over tohimself, as if trying them. 

'What is it you are saying, Jacques'? I asked. 

'But he would not tell me. After a time I discovered that he had addedthe altered verse to his prayers; for always when I was at the AgencyI went with him to the sanctuary, if for no other purpose than toprevent the uttered imprecation that served as amen for the whole. Theverse, whatever it was, came in before this. 

'So the summer passed. The vague intention of going on to the RedRiver of the North had faded away, and Jacques lived along on theisland as though he had never lived anywhere else. He grew wonted tothe Agency, like some old family cat, until he seemed to belong to thehouse, and all thought of disturbing him was forgotten. 'There isJacques out washing his cloths. ' 'There is Jacques going to buy hiscoffee, ' 'There is Jacques sitting on the piazza, ' said the islanders;the old man served them instead of a clock. 

'One dark autumn day I came over from the Chenaux to get the mail. Thewater was rough, and my boat, tilted far over on one side, skimmed thecrests of the waves in the daring fashion peculiar to the Mackinaccraft: the mail-steamer had not come in, owing to the storm outside, and I went on to the Agency to see Jacques. He seemed as usual, and wehad dinner over the little fire, for the day was chilly; the mealover, my host put everything in order again in his methodical way, andthen retired to his sanctuary for prayers. I followed, and stood inthe doorway while he knelt. The room was dusky, and the uniform withits outstretched sabre looked like a dead soldier leaning against thewall; the face of Napoleon opposite seemed to gaze down on Jacques ashe knelt, as though listening. Jacques muttered his prayers, and Iresponded Amen! then, after a silence, came the altered verse; thenwith a quick glance toward me, another silence, which I felt surecontained the unspoken curse. Gravely he led the way back to thekitchen--for, owing to the cold, he allowed me to dispense with theparlor, --and there we spent the afternoon together, talking andwatching for the mail-boat. 'Jacques, ' I said, 'what is that verse youhave added to your prayers! Come, my friend, why should you keep itfrom me?'

'It is nothing, mon pere, --nothing. ' he replied. But again I urged himto tell me; more to pass away the time than from any real interest. 'Come, ' I said, 'it may be your last chance. Who knows but that I maybe drowned on my way back to the Chenaux?'

'True, ' replied the old soldier calmly. 'Well, then, here it is, monpere: my death-wish. Voila!'

'Something you wish to have done after death?'

'Yes. '

'And who is to do it?'

'My Emperor. '

'But, Jacques, the Emperor is dead. '

'He will have done it all the same, mon pere. '

'In vain I argued; Jacques was calmly obstinate. He had mixed up hisEmperor with the stories of the Saints; why should not Napoleon dowhat they had done?

'What is the verse, any way?' I said at last. 

'It is my death-wish, as I said before, mon pere. ' And he repeated thefollowing. He said it in French, for I had given him a Frenchtranslation, as he knew nothing of German; but I will give you theEnglish, as he had altered it:--

 'The Emperor's face with its green leaf-band Shall rest on my heart that loved him so. Give me the sprig in my dead hand, My uniform and sabre around me. Amen. '

'So prays Grenadier Jacques. 

'The old soldier had sacrificed the smooth metre; but I understoodwhat he meant. 

'The storm increased, and I spent the night at the Agency, lying onthe bed of boughs, covered with a blanket. The house shook in thegale, the shutters rattled, and all the floors near and far creaked asthough feet were walking over them. I was wakeful and restless, butJacques slept quietly, and did not stir until daylight broke over thestormy water, showing the ships scudding by under bare poles, and thedistant mail-boat laboring up toward the island through the heavy sea. My host made his toilet, washing and shaving himself carefully, andputting on his old clothes as though going on parade. Then camebreakfast, with a stew added in honor of my presence; and as by thistime the steamer was not far from Round Island, I started down towardthe little post-office, anxious to receive some expected letters. Thesteamer came in slowly, the mail was distributed slowly, and I stoppedto read my letters before returning. I had a picture-paper forJacques, and as I looked out across the straits, I saw that the stormwas over, and decided to return to the Chenaux in the afternoon, leaving word with my half-breeds to have the sail-boat in readiness atthree o'clock. The sun was throwing out a watery gleam as, after thelapse of an hour or two, I walked up the limestone road and enteredthe great gate of the Agency. As I came through the garden along thecherry-tree avenue I saw Jacques sitting on that bench in the sun, forthis was his hour for sunshine; his staff was in his hand, and he wasleaning back against the side of the house with his eyes closed, as ifin revery. 'Jacques, here is a picture-paper for you, ' I said, layingmy hand on his shoulder. He did not answer. He was dead. 

'Alone, sitting in the sunshine, apparently without a struggle or apang, the soul of the old soldier had departed. Whither? We know not. But--smile if you will, madame--I trust he is with his Emperor. '

I did not smile; my eyes were too full of tears. 

'I buried him, as he wished, ' continued Father Piret, 'in his olduniform, with the picture of Napoleon laid on his breast, the sabre byhis side, and the withered sprig in his lifeless hand. He lies in ourlittle cemetery on the height, near the shadow of the great cross; thelow white board tablet at the head of the mound once bore the wordsGrenadier Jacques, but the rains and the snows have washed away thepainted letters. It is as well. '

The priest paused, and we both looked toward the empty bench, asthough we saw a figure seated there, staff in hand. After a time mylittle hostess came out on to the piazza, and we all talked togetherof the island and its past. 'My boat is waiting, ' said Father Piret atlength; 'the wind is fair, and I must return to the Chenaux to-night. This near departure is my excuse for coming twice in one day to seeyou, madame. '

'Stay over, my dear sir, ' I urged. 'I too shall leave in another day. We may not meet again. '

'Not on earth; but in another world we may, ' answered the priestrising as he spoke. 

'Father, your blessing, ' said the little hostess in a low tone, aftera quick glance toward the many windows through which the bulwarks ofProtestantism might be gazing. But all was dark, both without andwithin, and the Father gave his blessing to both of us, fervently, butwith an apostolic simplicity. Then he left us, and I watched his tallform, crowned with silvery hair, as he passed down the cherry-treeavenue. Later in the evening the moon came out, and I saw a Mackinacboat skimming by the house, its white sails swelling full in the freshbreeze. 

'That is Father Piret's boat, ' said my hostess. 'The wind is fair; hewill reach the Chenaux before midnight. '

A day later, and I too sailed away. As the steamer bore me southward, I looked back toward the island with a sigh. Half hidden in its wildgreen garden I saw the old Agency; first I could distinguish its wholerambling length; then I lost the roofless piazza, then thedormer-windows, and finally I could only discern the white chimneys, with their crumbling crooked tops. The sun sank into the Strait offWangoschance, the evening gun flashed from the little fort on theheight, the shadows grew dark and darker, the island turned into greenfoliage, then a blue outline, and finally there was nothing but thedusky water. 

PATIENCE DOW. 

BY MARIAN DOUGLAS. 

 Home from the mill came Patience Dow; She did not smile, she would not talk; And now she was all tears, and now, As fierce as is a captive hawk. Unmindful of her faded gown, She sat with folded hands all day, Her long hair falling tangled down, Her sad eyes gazing far away, Where, past the fields, a silver line, She saw the distant river shine. But, when she thought herself alone, One night, they heard her muttering low, In such a chill, despairing tone, It seemed the east wind's sullen moan: "Ah me! the days, they move so slow I care not if they're fair or foul; They creep along--I know not how; I only know he loved me once-- He does not love me now!"

 One morning, vacant was her room; And, in the clover wet with dew; A narrow line of broken bloom Showed some one had been passing through; And, following the track it led Across a field of summer grain, Out where the thorny blackberries shed Their blossoms in the narrow lane, Down which the cattle went to drink In summer, from the river's brink. The river! Hope within them sank; The fatal thought that drew her there They knew, before, among the rank, White-blossomed weeds upon the bank, They found the shawl she used to wear, And on it pinned a little note: "Oh, blame me not!" it read, "for when I once am free, my soul will float To him! He cannot leave me then! I know not if't is right or wrong-- I go from life--I care not how; I only know he loved me once-- He does not love me now!"

 In the farm graveyard, 'neath the black, Funereal pine-trees on the hill, The poor, worn form the stream gave back They laid in slumber, cold and still. Her secret slept with her; none knew Whose fickle smile had left the pain That cursed her life; to one thought true, Her vision-haunted, wandering brain, Secure from all, hid safe from blame, In life and death had kept his name. Yet, often, with a thrill of fear, Her mother, as she lies awake At night, will fancy she can hear A voice, whose tone is like the drear, Low sound the graveyard pine-trees make: "I know not if't is right or wrong-- I go from life--I care not how; I only know he loved me once-- He does not love me now!"