JEAN BAPTISTE (continued 5)

"Here is the place. Well, Pamphile, have you had enough?"

Pamphile made no reply, but glared in futile rage, while his right hand still clutched the whip with which he had planned to take revenge.

"Ah, the little whip!" said Jean. "And you would like to strike me in the face? Well, you shall do so."

"What?" exclaimed Pamphile, in astonishment.

"I struck you in the face," said Jean, in a calm, even voice, "instead of killing you; and if it would be a satisfaction to you to strike me in return you may do it. Now--begin!"

A peculiar expression, as of a rat driven into a corner, came into the face of Pamphile, as he slowly raised the whip.

At this moment a shrill cry rang out through the woods--a woman's voice.

"Oh! Oh! Jean! Take care! Behind you! Look! Look!"

The warning came too late; for Pamphile, dropping the whip, sprang at Jean's throat; while Tom, who had crept up like a cat, seized him from behind; and together they bore him to the ground.

There they twisted, writhed and lashed about for moments that were like hours; but soon were still, for Jean was upon his knees; and then he rose, slowly, steadily, until he stood erect, with Pamphile still hanging to his throat, and Tom's strong arms clasped about his body. They were resting, as it seemed, taking breath for the final struggle; but presently nerve and muscle were tense again; the strain was on; they swayed to and fro, trampling the ferns, staggering against the trees, and all the while moving down the slope toward the stony bed of the stream. Pamphile and Tom, seeing this, and realizing that Jean meant to fall on them there, made a tremendous effort; and once more dragged him down. Then Jean, putting forth all of his great strength, rolled over and over down the slope; while his enemies, like bulldogs, hung on, now above, now beneath, until they all lay together in the stream, among the boulders and pebbles that in ages past had broken from the mountains and had been worn smooth by the incessant action of falling water. Pamphile lay beneath the weight of two men; but still his fingers clutched the throat of Jean, and slowly tightened until he could hardly breathe.

"Pamphile," he whispered, "let go, or I will kill you."

The grip tightened, Jean was being strangled to death.

With a last effort he rose to his knees, seized the head of Pamphile that was pressed against his breast, forced it back until it touched one of the large, smooth pebbles; and then, with a sudden jerk, cracked it like a nut against the rock. The head lay there with staring eyes and open mouth; the body relaxed; but still the fingers held their grip; and it was with difficulty that Jean released his throat from the dying grasp.

The fight was over. Jean staggered to his feet, in great distress of body and mind, his face all covered with blood and bruises; and turned to Tom, who still clung to him, looking up with expression of mingled hate and fear.

"Tom!"

"By God, I'll kill you yet," muttered Tom, making a last and futile effort.

"No!" said Jean, putting his hand on Tom's head, and pressing back the elastic curls of bright red hair. "No, Tom, old man, let us have no more killing. Oh, why did we do it, Tom, my friend?"

The terror fled from Tom's soul; the hate and anger too; and as he looked up at Jean's battered, sorrowful face, he broke down and wept like a child.

"Oh, my God, my God!" he moaned. "Why did we do it? Pamphile dead; Pat dead; and I, I might as well be dead too. My God! My God!"

"Pat is not dead, Tom. I hear him, I think. Yes, there he comes. Thank God. Pat is all right, Tom, and you are all right too. Brace up, old man. But Pamphile? Mon Dieu! What have I done? Tom, I am going away. You will look after Pamphile--you and Pat. There will be some expense--I will pay it. And the mail contract----"

"Damn the mail contract!"

"But no, Tom; it is yours now. You will drive the mail to-morrow, will you not? The mail must go--Her Majesty's Mail."

"Yes, I will do it, Jean; but it will be yours when you come back."

"I am not coming back, Tom. Good-bye."

"Jean Baptiste," said Tom, grasping the extended hand, "you have been damn good to us that have been damn mean to you, and it's damn sorry I am for all our damned cussedness. Come back soon, and we'll be good neighbours and friends, by God, we will."

As Jean strode along toward his home he saw Blanchette by the path, weeping bitterly.

"Ah, Blanchette, it is you. And you saw it all."

"Not all, Jean. I was too much afraid, and I hid behind the rock. Oh, why did I not stop it? Mon Dieu, but it was terrible! You are a hero, Jean Baptiste."

"No, Blanchette, far from it. A brute, rather, a species of tiger. At one time I would gladly have killed them all, and drunk their blood. Mon Dieu, what an uprising from the depths! But now that has passed; and the man, the Christian, is sorry for the deeds of the brute; But you do not understand such things, Blanchette."

"No? You think not? Ah, if it were only so. But I, too, have my struggles, my conflicts. But oh, Jean, you are hurt! Ah, my poor Jean, he can hardly walk. Lie down here, on the cool moss, and I will fetch some water from the stream. Ah, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!"

"No, I am all right. A little dizziness--that was all. It is gone now, and I must go. No, Blanchette, it is not I who need you, but Pamphile down there. For me, I could not touch him. Ah, the poor fellow! A strong man and brave; yes, brave to the last. Adieu, Blanchette."

"Adieu!" said Blanchette, going away; and then she turned, suddenly, fiercely:

"Jean!"

"What is it, Blanchette?"

"Nothing," she said, as she turned away down the path. "There was something, but I have forgotten. Adieu, my friend. May God keep you."

CHAPTER XXII

THE WILDERNESS

"Misery loves company," they say. How true and yet how false! The miserable seek society as they take to drink, that they may forget their sorrow; but those who are sore hurt, with a pain that cannot be forgotten, a grief that will not be put aside, creep away to die, or to be alone, until the cruel wound is healed. They seek the solitary places, where they may have the silent sympathy of the stars, the unuttered consolation of the desert, the healing virtue of the wilderness; where they may renew their strength at the fountain of life, or return the worn-out body to Mother Earth, and the tired spirit to Father God.

So Jean Baptiste, failure, good-for-nothing, who had come to the end of all his efforts, had seen the ruin of all his hopes; humiliated, discouraged, deserted by lover and friend, despised and rejected, with the brand of Cain upon his forehead; fled from the dwellings of men to the solitude of the forest, to be alone with his wounded spirit, to fight alone the grim battle with the dark angels of grief, regret, remorse, and despair.

Within a stone's-throw of his mother's door was the edge of the great Laurentian forest, stretching northward without a break to the settlements of the Saguenay and Lake St. John, and thence north and north-west to the barren wastes of Labrador and the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay. In that vast region are lonely places where trappers and Indians seldom pass and lumbermen have blazed no trail. There moose and caribou roam undisturbed; there giant pines grow on virgin hillsides; there lie lakes on which no canoe has ever floated; and there bloom flowers that are never seen by mortal eye. It is a retreat where one may be alone; a sanctuary where no enemy may come; a wilderness where one may be lost; but where one may find paths of peace, rest by still waters, restoration for the soul, and a meeting-place with God.

As Jean Baptiste, hunter and trapper now, with a pack on his back and a rifle in his hand, plunged into the forest, and the trees received him with open arms, the people and things that he had known seemed to go into the background of consciousness like the unreal images of a dream. It was as though he had died, and was awaking in a place where there were no people, but only trees and underbrush, ferns and moss, wild grasses and flowers, soft black soil underfoot, and a canopy of leaves overhead, with openings here and there, through which he could see the blue sky and white, fleecy clouds. The air was fragrant with moist, earthy odours, and the scent of flowers and leaves. Not a sound was heard, save now and then the call of a bird, the chatter of a squirrel, or the crackle of a breaking twig. So sudden and complete was the change that Jean thought of himself as another person, seeking refuge in a new world, but ever pursued by the avenger, his former self, whom he was vainly trying to leave behind.

On he went through the cool woods; winding about among the trees, clambering over rocks and fallen timber, and all the while going up the mountain-side, until a precipice rose before him, a wall of granite where there was no foothold, but only crannies here and there, with a tuft of grass or a sprig of fern growing in a handful of soil. Jean did not see that it was an impassable barrier; but set himself to it with blind force; went up a little way; and then fell, torn and bleeding, to the ground. Presently he took a new path, skirted the rock until he found a place where trees and shrubs could grow; and here he climbed, though with great difficulty, to the very top. It was a good omen, this victory after defeat; and it was with no little satisfaction that he stood upon the rocky crown of the mountain looking down on the valley below.

How small everything looked from an elevation of a thousand feet! The dwellings and barns were like dolls' houses; the cattle like mice; the chickens and ducks like flies; and all went about without a sound, like puppets in a pantomine. Driving along the road at a snail's pace, and raising a little cloud of dust, were a tiny horse and cart with a mannikin in the seat holding invisible reins in one hand and an invisible whip in the other. It was Bonhomme Gagnon, going to market with his butter and cheese, his potatoes and turnips. What a foolish little midget, with his pompous air, his absurd swagger and his boastful talk! And the other neighbours were much the same--tiny insects buzzing about in the sunlight of a summer's day, soon to be drowned in the rain or nipped by the early frost. Was it for the good opinion of creatures such as these that one should plan and work? Glory, fame--what were they? To hear one's name pronounced by the lips of men; to see them stare and gape as one passed by; and after that silence, and the pall of night. It was not worth while. Nothing was worth while but to escape from the world, to bury oneself in the forest, to ascend some high place whence one could look down and see the pettiness of everything--and then to go away and forget.

It should be easy to forget. One had only to ascend another thousand feet, and all those objects would disappear from sight, or one could turn away, plunge into the forest, and they would be gone. Thus one could at will obliterate the past, annihilate the world. True, but that would only bring them back again; for to the inward vision they would be as large as ever, prominent, imposing, dominant. When the former life was out of sight it was by no means out of mind. When the eyes were closed, the absent ones, friends and enemies, would return and take their accustomed places. To banish them would be to commit a species of suicide, a mutilation of the soul, like cutting off a hand or plucking out an eye. No, he who would have the fulness of life must forget nothing; and he who would be brave must not only face the future with courage, but look with steadfast eye upon the past. Thus Jean Baptiste, as he stood on the mountain-top, in view of his old home, allowed his former self to overtake him, and together they went on their way.

Jean made his way over the crest of the mountain, and down the northern slope, into a densely wooded valley, pushing through the thick fringe of alders that bordered the stream, floundering in a maze of swamps and beaver ponds, stepping lightly over carpets of thick, yielding moss in the shade of cedars and tamaracks, climbing up again among the beeches and maples of the middle slopes, the pines and spruces of the higher ridges, until he stood on the summit of a second range that overtopped all the southern hills. Looking back he saw beneath him a sea of hills and valleys, with the edge of a clearing showing here and there; while far away and beyond were the flats of Beauport, the great river, and the spires and roofs of Quebec shining in the morning sun. The gleaming light seemed to beckon, to call him back to a life and work that should lead in the end to the city, the centre of civilisation, the lure and reward of all worthy effort; but the spirit of the woods was strong within him, and he turned his back upon the achievements of industry and commerce, and all the idols of the market-place, and set his face once more toward the wilderness.

For many hours Jean marched along through the woods, steadily going northward toward the height of land that divides the waters flowing into the St. Lawrence from those that go into Lake St. John and the Saguenay; until at sunset he stood upon a low ridge and saw at his feet, in a hollow between the hills, the lake toward which he had been moving all the day. He smiled in satisfaction at the feat which he had accomplished; for he had taken a course across five ranges of mountains, and kept his direction with such precision that he came out of the forest within a hundred yards of the cabin that was to be his home.

A few eager steps brought him to the place, and there it was, in a clump of pines: a little hut of logs well caulked with moss, with a good roof of hollowed logs, and an excellent chimney of rough stones, a most unusual luxury in a trapper's cabin. It was the lodge of Michel Gamache, where he and Jean had spent many happy days; but where other hunters seldom came, for it was far in the forest, and the way to it was rough and little known.

The door was on the latch; and Jean went in; laid down his gun and pack; but immediately came out and took the path toward the lake. For a moment he turned aside into a dense growth of firs, and presently appeared again with a birch canoe on his shoulders, which he carried down to the shelving beach and placed in the water. Then he crept aboard, knelt in the stern, and with a long stroke of the paddle sent the light craft far out on the lake.

There was not a ripple on the water but the wavelet in front of the canoe and the long wake that trailed behind. There was not a living creature in sight but a pair of loons that floated beyond a rocky islet; and not a sound but their shrill, quavering cry that echoed and re-echoed in the hills. The granite rocks along the shore were reflected perfectly in the water, in all their colours--grey, blue, pink--and with all their covering of lichen, moss, grass, ferns, and trees. Birches with their silvery trunks, pines with their long branches, tall, spire-like spruces were there, pointing upward on the land and downward in the water; while above and below the trees was the red glow of sunset, and glorious clouds floated in an azure sky.

Presently the canoe shot into a long, narrow bay, where the shores came close together; the shadows met; and a panorama of new beauties unrolled at every turn. Here a flock of wild ducks rose quacking from the water and flew over the trees; there a long-legged heron stood in a marshy place among the rushes; there a doe and a half-grown fawn gazed in mild surprise, then leaped away and vanished in the woods. Suddenly the bay came to an end where a stream flowed over a steep cliff into a deep, clear pool; and here Jean stayed for a while, listening to the music of the waterfall, watching the trout that lurked under the stones, and wishing for a rod and line that he might try a cast to see what would rise out of the depths.

Night was coming on as Jean turned the prow of his canoe down the bay; soon it was quite dark; and only the glimmer of stars on the water and the dense blackness on either side showed the way. Silently the paddle rose and fell; and on went the canoe through the darkness; until at the last turn, where the bay joined the main body of the lake, a bright light appeared over the trees; and the moon rose, making a shining path across the water. With powerful strokes Jean shot the canoe along the bright way to the very end; and plunged again into the shadow near the shore. Presently the light craft touched the landing-place, where Jean stepped out, pulled the canoe out of the water, turned it bottom up on the shore, placed the paddle underneath, and went up to the cabin.

After having fasted all day, Jean was hungry as a bear, and was glad to find in his pack the food that his good mother had provided. By the light of a candle he ate his evening meal; and then, spreading his blankets on a bearskin in the corner, and with his knapsack as a pillow, he lay down to sleep.

"Ah!" he said to himself, as the tension of muscle and nerve was relaxed for the first time since the early morning. "How tired I am! I did not think that I could be so tired. How good it is to rest at the close of a long day! And such a day! Mon Dieu, but it was a day, a good day!"

"What, Jean Baptiste?" said his other self. "A good day, you call it, when you have fought like a beast and killed a fellow-man, a brother, one who might have been your friend! Do you know what you are saying? Wake up, Jean."

"Wake up? But no, I prefer to rest, to sleep--a long, long sleep. And it was a good day. I have lived. Yes, lived."

"But what of Pamphile?" said his good angel, in a far-away voice.

"Pamphile? Pamphile?" murmured Jean, as he went into the land of dreams. "That fellow with the pretty face? He got it, did he not? Got what he deserved. Regret it? No! A good fight! A good day!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CURE

Already the healing power of the wilderness had begun its work, and as the days passed Jean gradually recovered the tone and balance of mind that had been so much disturbed. Without knowing it he had been under a strain for a long time, that tension of brain and nerve so characteristic of modern life, which the strongest and most ambitious must endure, when they forsake the old ways and go out into the unknown to make new paths wherein the feet of generations to come may safely tread. In the vanguard of progress they do the work of pioneers; in breaking new ground they are themselves broken; and the army of civilisation marches on over their graves.

But Jean Baptiste had left his place in the front rank, and gone to the rear, to the very remotest rear, where there were no people and neither sight nor sound of war, where the forest was his hospital and Nature his physician. What wonder that he grew to love the quiet retreat, and to wish that he might never hear the battle-call again?

By night he slept a dreamless sleep, undisturbed by the cry of the loon, the hoot of the owl, the wail of the lynx, or any call of birds or beasts that hunt by night. He was up with the dawn, and out in the open, refreshed and strong, with bright eyes and a joyous heart, breathing the fragrant morning air, rejoicing in the free movement of every limb, his whole being expanding in the growing light, and leaping up to meet the rising sun.

To Jean the wilderness was as the garden of the Lord. All the trees that he loved were there, all the wild flowers of the season, with ferns and mosses of many kinds; there were bubbling springs and clear streams, shallow ponds and deep lakes, dense thickets and open glades, narrow glens and broad valleys, low ridges and high mountains, whence he could look out upon a sea of forest-clad hills stretching away and beyond to meet the circle of the sky.

But it was the lake by the cabin that Jean loved most of all, and there he spent many hours of every day in his birch canoe; plying long strokes of the paddle; skimming along here and there; exploring creeks and bays or floating in the shade of a rocky point, at the mouth of a stream or by a sunken log, while he cast a fly upon the water to lure the wary trout. When the lake was calm he could see not only the rocks and trees of the shore, but his own thoughts and feelings reflected there; for it was a mirror to his soul. When a wind came up and ruffled the surface with little dancing waves, his thoughts seemed to dance and sparkle in their turn; and he would sing the song of the voyageur to the hum of the breeze and the lapping of the waves. When a white squall came, raising great waves capped with foam, the soul of Jean Baptiste was stirred to its depths and rose up to meet the foe; as with a strong grip on the tough paddle he held the canoe to the wind and rode out the storm; mounting on the crest of the waves, beating down into the trough, splashed and buffeted, rocked and tossed; but all the time pushing on toward the lee shore, where at last he lay in calm water, serenely watching the tempest as it passed.

Like the human heart, the lake was never twice the same. Even at dawn it varied with the breeze, the mist, the clouds, the rain, the light of the waning moon, the gleam of the morning star. All the days were different, each from the others; so also the nights. Now the lake was a crystal, now a pearl, now of a pale turquoise blue, now blue like a sapphire or green as an emerald; and often, at sunset, it was like an opal with fire in its heart, changing soon to violet and purple tints, and then taking on the deep indigo of the evening sky, shot with points and threads of gold. Even on sunless days, when the clouds hung low and rain fell, there was a pensive beauty in the lake, like the sweet, pale face of a nun trying to forget the light and love of bygone days in thinking of the glory that should appear in the eternal world. Truly, thought Jean, it was good to be in the wilderness, and gladly would he live and die beside a lake like this.

Jean was alone in the forest, and yet he had many companions. One who goes carelessly through the Laurentian woods sees few signs of life, and hears few sounds; though many eyes watch him, and many creatures come out of hiding when he has passed by. To Jean, trained in woodcraft from his early years, the timid creatures showed themselves and spoke in many tongues. Not only the bold blue jay and the camp-robber came about the cabin; but the red-headed woodpecker, the chickadee, the wren and the waxwing came; the crossbill, too, the linnet and the wood-thrush--all curious to see the strange being that lived there, and eager to pick up any crumbs that might be lying about. Chipmunks came every day; sometimes red squirrels; now and then a marten; and often, in the twilight, a porcupine came, shuffling along, rattling his quills, and nosing about for scraps of fish and bacon to add to his meagre diet of bark and roots.

Not far from the cabin was a pond where a colony of beavers played and worked every night, diving, swimming and splashing about, slapping the water with their tails, climbing about on the embankment, or venturing into the woods to eat pieces of juicy bark or to gnaw patiently at the trunks of young birches that were to be timber for building and a store of food for the long winter. There were mink and otter, too, in various places; and Jean would have made war on them as enemies of the trout, but that he wished to leave them for trapping later in the year, when the skins would be in prime condition and would fetch high prices in the fur market at Quebec.

All the wild animals came, at one time or another, to the lake. Almost every evening Jean saw red deer drinking there; occasionally a caribou; and once a moose, with great branching horns and outstretched muzzle, calling loudly to his mate, came to the end of the point, plunged into the water, and swam over to the other side. There were lynx and wild-cat in the forest that at times made a fearful noise by night. There were foxes, too; a few lone wolves; and now and then a vagabond bear, seeking for honey, nests of ants, raspberries and blueberries, catching a hare or a marmot now and then, and glad to make a meal of dead fish or carrion when he could find such dainties.

All these and many more, the hunter and the hunted, came and went; some with rush and clamour; others silently and on tiptoe; but always leaving some token of their presence by which Jean knew that they had been near. In the evening and morning twilight he caught glimpses of them as they passed; by night he knew them by the sounds they made, the odours they exhaled, or their bright eyes glowing in the dark; by day he saw their tracks in the soft earth, the marks of teeth and claws on the trees, the remains of their feasts, and all the signs of life and death that tell the joyous and fearful tragedy of the forest.

Jean had a mind to take part in the tragedy, to be one of the characters of the play; and the more he thought of it the more alluring it seemed. Not only could he lead an independent and enjoyable life in the woods; but he could obtain a good income from the sale of skins; and even accumulate a small fortune, if he had good luck. He had traversed the forest in every direction for a distance of twenty miles or more, and had carefully estimated the probable catch of a winter's work. There was scarcely a pond in all that region where there were not scores of muskrats; and although the price of a single skin was not high, they would be worth a good sum in the aggregate. Of more valuable fur-bearing animals there was that old stand-by, the beaver; with the skunk, the mink and the otter; squirrel and weasel; wild-cat and lynx; wolf and bear; red fox and hare--all of which were well worth taking for the skins alone, not to mention the meat, which was excellent food in the cold weather.

Then there was the marten, or Hudson Bay sable, a rare and valuable fur; and finally, and most highly prized of all, the black or silver fox, which often sold for fabulous sums; as much as a thousand dollars being paid, at times, for a single skin. In his explorations Jean had seen the marten several times; and knew of a place on a sandy hillside that was the home of a whole family of silver foxes; for one morning he had seen father, mother and four cubs playing, like kittens, on the carpet of pine-needles near their hole. Yes, he could make a good living in the wilderness, preying upon the beasts of prey.

Cruel? True; yet no man can say that without hypocrisy but the vegetarian; he who eats neither meat nor fish; wears neither wool, silk, leather, nor garments trimmed with fur. But if we must defend the trapper, let us say that for every fox that he takes a hundred hares are kept alive; and that by killing a single otter he saves the lives of a thousand trout. Moreover, while the beasts resemble man in some respects, they are by no means human. They suffer some pangs when they come to die, but during their lifetime they are not continually haunted by the thought of death. The king of terrors has no terror for them; and at the end they lay down their life without regret, and with no fear of torment in any life to come. It is as though the good God in pity had given them compensation for having withheld the gift of reason: the knowledge of good and evil which is at once the glory and the shame of man, the source of his profoundest joy and sorrow, his salvation and damnation. Which of them would not rather be one of the beasts that perish, than a man, made in the image of God, fated to follow evermore the gleam of an ideal that might lead to the heights of eternal glory, or the bottomless abyss of eternal degradation and loss?

As for Jean Baptiste he accepted cheerfully the law of life and death as it was in the wilderness. He would live there, as the others did, according to his strength and cunning; and he would kill, too, not wantonly, but for a purpose; and when his strength failed, through sickness, accident or old age, he would lie down to die, as they did; with a few moans, perhaps, but without any vain regrets. What is death, after all, that men should fear it so? In the midst of the amenities of civilised life it seems a dreadful thing to die; but in the forest it is the merest incident. The good God cares for sparrows; gives them food and drink and everything else that they need; and after a while takes away their breath. So also He cares for man. The generations come and go; the earth abides; and God lives. Life and death, both are good; for living or dying we are the Lord's. Thus Jean Baptiste learned the lesson of the wilderness.

At the same time Jean was learning another lesson; for he was getting a distant view of himself and his past life; and seeing everything, as he thought, in the true perspective. He was lifted up, at times, into a kind of third heaven; where he had such a vision of eternal values, that the world of men, with all their thoughts and feelings, their words and deeds, seemed little and far away. The friends and neighbours seemed like puppets in a show, and his own part in the play as vain and futile as the rest. The work that he had done, the plans that he had made, the ends for which he had striven, no longer seemed desirable or worth while. He cared no longer for the opinion of men, whether good or bad; for any help that they might give him, or any harm that they might do. No longer did he hate his enemies or love his friends. The place where he had lived and the people he had known had lost all power over him; for the thought of them caused neither satisfaction nor regret, neither joy nor sorrow, neither hope nor fear. His own personality, even, had lost its value; for the memory of the past was fading away; the outlook was narrowing; and he was living in the present only; borne along upon the tide of time, his individuality lost in the great ocean of existence of which he was so small a part. He was intoxicated by the thin air of those altitudes, and deceived by the illusions of the mountain-top.

From this plane of thought Jean descended suddenly and with something of a shock to solid earth, on one of those cold, grey days of August that come to remind us that summer is passing, and that soon the snows of winter will begin to fall. Instinctively he went about the cabin and found many gaping chinks that should be filled with moss. He looked at the wood-pile, and saw that it was almost gone. He examined his store of provisions, and saw that it was running low. Firearms, fishing-tackle, traps, snowshoes, traineau, clothes, moccasins--all required attention, for the cold season was coming, and it was necessary to be prepared. Already the beavers were preparing for the winter, and the human animal knew that he must do the same; for the wilderness is kind to those who keep her commandments, but implacably cruel to those who will not live according to her law. So Jean determined to rest and play no more; laid philosophy aside; spent the day in the forest, chopping dry wood for fuel; and in the evening, by the light of a blazing fire, he sat down to mend the traps of Michel Gamache.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE RELAPSE

The novitiate of Jean Baptiste was at an end; and now he was about to renounce all that he had held dear in his past life; and to take the final vows of the wilderness. It was as though the spirit of some remote ancestor had taken possession of him, body and soul, and was leading him back and down to the primitive savagery out of which the race, by long effort and much pain, had gradually ascended. He was a willing captive, feeling neither surprise nor regret; and it was with a sigh of relief that he cast the burden of civilisation away; and laid him down to sleep upon his bed of fragrant balsam; to dream of the green trees, clear streams, placid lakes and purple hills of that pleasant summer land.

But in his dreams the former self of Jean Baptiste awoke, and came unto his own. He had wandered far; and was almost lost in the wilderness; but suddenly he found himself walking along the familiar valley road, passing the old landmarks, and approaching the old home. The night was dark; but the house was lighted; and as he entered by the open door, he saw a company of neighbours and friends sitting in a circle around the spacious kitchen; the men smoking, and the women knitting, as they often used to do in the good old days. But now there was no telling of stories; and neither song nor jest nor laughter; but a subdued and orderly conversation, like a memorial service in honour of one who was dead. No one looked up as Jean entered, walked across the room and took the vacant chair; and there he sat as a ghost, seeing and hearing everything, but himself an unseen and unbidden guest.

His mother rose to pass the spruce-beer and cakes; and when she came to Jean's place she paused and smiled as though she saw him sitting there and smiling in return.

"Oh!" she said, "I think that Jean is not very far away. We shall see him soon, I am sure."

"Let us hope so," said Father Paradis, gently, "but I fear that he will never return. He is a disappointed man. He has missed his vocation, he who might have become a bishop, an archbishop, a cardinal, even, in the course of time. What a pity!"

"Yes," said Michel Gamache, "to miss the path like that, he who might have been a great man in the parish, a seigneur, a member of Parliament--anything. And now he is a failure, a coureur des bois, like me."

"And all for the sake of a girl!" broke in Blanchette. "As though there were only one girl in the parish, in the Province. What folly! No woman is worth it. He is a fool, that Jean Baptiste."

"He is more than that!" cried Pamphile, who sat by the fire, pale and haggard, his head bound up in a shawl. "He is a coward, that little priest. A coward, I say; and he fears the law. The law, yes, and this little whip across the face. Sacré! If he returns he shall suffer. I say it; I, his ancient enemy."

"And I," said Bonhomme Laroche, shaking his fist, "I wish to see him too, that proprietor, debtor, thief. He will not pay me? Well, I have the mortgage. See! There it is, Madame, the mother of a thief. My mortgage! My property! My farm!"

"No, you old miser!" shouted Brother Nicholas. "You shall have your money, but no farm of ours. Do not cry, my mother. Do not think of the old miser, nor of Jean, the deserter. He was to have stayed at home; he, the youngest; but now I have returned. Fear nothing. I am with you, I, Nicholas."

"Yes," said Bonhomme Gagnon, rising in his place. "Yes, Madame Giroux, we will assume the responsibility--I, Telesphore Gagnon; you, Nicholas; you other children; you neighbours; everybody. As to Jean Baptiste, forget him, the good-for-nothing. He was too proud, he, and the good God could not endure it. It is the good God who has driven him away, and he is lost, lost."

At this Madame Giroux began to weep, while Father Paradis tried to comfort her, and Brother Nicholas was sending all the people home; when suddenly at the open door appeared a sturdy figure in a brown fishing suit, with a pannier on his back and a lance-wood rod in his hand. It was Monsieur Trudel, the City Man.

"What is this?" he exclaimed. "Is it a funeral, a wake, or what, in the name of God? My brave Jean, where is he? Dead? Gone away? A fugitive, he? Deserter, you say? Failure? Good-for-nothing? Thief? Murderer? Ha! Ha! It is to laugh! Reassure yourself, Madame. It is not in Jean Baptiste to be like that, he who conquered me, the champion of the Province. He will return, most certainly, and soon. Mon Dieu! He is here now. There, do you not see him? There, in the chair! Jean, my brave one! Arise! Show yourself!"

During all that time Jean had sat there speechless, immovable; but now, with a mighty effort, he rose in his place; stretched out his arms and cried, in a strong and joyous voice: "Monsieur, my friends, my mother, I am here!"

Jean advanced with outstretched hands toward his friends; but they shrunk back, pale and terrified, into the dark corners of the room and out of the door; until there was only one left, a slight figure in a brown fishing suit, with pannier, and rod, reddish-golden hair, violet-blue eyes, and a radiant smile.

"Monsieur Trudel," he began, "you have changed much since, since---- Mon Dieu! Gabrielle! It is you, you! Come to me, dear."

But the vision melted away, and Jean awoke to find himself standing alone on the cabin floor in the glimmering dawn of a new day.

"Mon Dieu!" he said to himself. "Was it a dream? I can see them still, when I close my eyes--and hear them, too. They think of me, talk of me, those good friends, whom I had forgotten--almost. They are disappointed in me, it would seem, and with reason. But they had expected too much--more than I could do. What? More than I could do? Oh, Jean Baptiste, it was not that you could not, but that you would not! What is that one cannot do? 'Good-for-nothing? Too proud? The good God does not like it?' How does Bonhomme Gagnon know that? I should like to show him, the old rascal, that the good God will aid me to resume my former work. By Heaven, I will resume!

"I am a dreamer, it would seem. Yes. A coward? No! Afraid of the law? I had not thought of it. The law? Why then? For the killing of Pamphile. But I did it in self-defence. Tom and Paddy will witness. Will they? Dieu! Possibly not. And what then? A trial, a judge, a jury, and I, the accused at the bar. It might be well to remain here, or to go to the Indians of Mistassini or Hudson's Bay. Then I should be a coureur des bois indeed; an exile, fugitive, outlaw. What then could I say to the abuse of Bonhomme Gagnon, Monsieur Laroche, and the rest? Coward--thief--deserter--good-for-nothing--fool--all that and more! Yes, I should deserve it all.

"'And all for the sake of a girl?' Blanchette, that was unjust. It was a combination of circumstances, an accumulation of misfortunes, that drove me away--for a time. O, Blanchette! I have many good excuses, as you must know; yet I will excuse myself no more, for I think I hear you say: 'Qui s'excuse s'accuse!'

"But Gabrielle was there, and oh, what a lovely smile! To see her again I would return, in spite of everything. But where was the garb of the Ursulines--the black robe, the hood, the veil, the rosary, the cross, the pale face of the novice, the nun that is to be? There was none of that. No, it was only the City Man after all. Gabrielle was not there, for she was not thinking of me, but of Jesus and Mary and the glories of Heaven. But if she gave a thought to me, and a single call, I would enter the convent and take her away--from the altar, even--and who should hinder me? An adventure that, worthy of a knight of the olden time. Yes, worthy of those times, perhaps; but for a penniless habitant, a trapper, a discredited fugitive, not quite so suitable. To steal a novice from the convent, an heiress--a noble deed, surely. Ah, Gabrielle, why so much haste? Why bury the heart before the love is dead? A little more time, a year, two years at most--that is all I ask. Could you not grant me this, Gabrielle?"

As Jean thought of the situation from every point of view, the difficulty and perplexity of it seemed to increase, and no way of escape appeared. He walked up and down the narrow cabin like a wild beast in a cage, raging and wondering at his fate, wildly longing to break away and be free. At last, unable to disentangle the coil, he threw it from him, flung open the door, and went out into the open air.

It was like going into another world. The clouds of yesterday, the gloom of night, the ghostly dawn, all had passed away; and the summer morning, fresh and lovely, opened like a flower. It was good to breathe the pure, fragrant air; to see the earth, the grass and the trees in all their brightest colours, washed by the rain; to hear the sweet voices of the forest; and to feel, in every nerve and muscle, the strength and courage of returning day. In the lake Jean took his morning plunge, and a long swim far out in the deep water; and when, an hour later, he returned to the cabin, refreshed in body and soul, with a keen appetite and a joyous heart, he was ready to face the world, to receive its hardest buffets, and to deliver his most telling blows in return. The soldier was himself again; his furlough was over; and he was going back to the front.

Jean was now ready to do battle with the enemy, for he was at peace with himself. The long struggle within him was at an end; for his nobler self had obtained the victory, and taken complete control. The strange, weird voices that had well-nigh led him astray for ever were heard no more. The voice of fear, too, was stilled; for he was so completely possessed with the thought of his work and the joy of devotion to his cherished ideal, that there was neither fear nor doubt in his soul; but strong courage and sublime faith that the work of his hands would be established, and that the day of small things would have a great and satisfying fruition.

Jean's attitude toward the world was changed. No longer did he despise the opinions of the neighbours, but found himself wondering what they would think and say when they saw him take up his former work. His mother, the curé, his friend Michel, and a few others would be glad; and he was glad to think that he could please them in any way. His enemies would be disconcerted; and he took a malicious pleasure in thinking of their confusion, and in guessing what their next move would be. As for the rest, they might find fault for a time, but sooner or later the benefits of his work would appear; all the good people of the parish would approve; and his reputation would spread far and wide--to Beauport, Quebec and the greater world beyond. A good name--that was something worth while; a prize to be won, a possession to be kept, an heirloom to be handed down to future generations. But if not, if in the end he should fail, he would still have the satisfaction of attempting a noble task; a few friends would understand, and the good God would know that he had done his best.

And Gabrielle? Jean could no longer think of her as a novice of the Ursulines preparing to take the veil, to renounce all human love and devote her young life to prayer and penance within convent walls. On the contrary, she now resumed her former place in his scheme of life; the golden-haired châtelaine of his Castle in Spain; for whose love he would fight unto the death; at whose feet he would lay all the trophies of war; and from whom he would ask, in the hour of victory, his greatest earthly reward--herself.

As Jean was preparing to depart, putting away the canoe, setting the cabin in order, taking a last look at the lake, he was sorry to leave the beautiful place; but his heart was full of an abiding joy; for he was thinking all the time of Gabrielle; and when at last he turned his back upon his hermitage, and set himself to climb the southern hill, his joyous voice woke again the echoes of the forest, as he sang the brave song of a crusader who prayed for victory and love:

"Partant pour la Syrie,

Le jeune et beau Dunois,

Alla prier Marie

De benir ses exploits.

'Donne, reine immortelle,'

Lui dit-il en partant,

'Que j'aime la plus belle,

Et sois le plus vaillant.'"

CHAPTER XXV

TREASURE TROVE

"Where are you going, Jean Baptiste?"

Jean stopped instantly, and stared in dumb surprise; for there was Gabrielle standing before him in a hunting suit of tanned buckskin, a light rifle on her arm--a veritable Diana of the wilderness.

"Speak, Jean! Say something, for goodness' sake. I am not a ghost, nor a holy picture descended from its frame. It is I, Gabrielle."

"As I see," said Jean, raising his cap and offering his hand. "Welcome to Lac Desir, Gabrielle."

"Lac Desir! What a pretty name! Where is Lac Desir, Jean? Which way?"

"Come, Gabrielle; I will show you. It is only a step or two. I was coming away, but now I will gladly return. This way, if you please. It is a rough path, and steep. Take my hand, will you not? Now we are at the foot of the hill, and there, under the trees, is the cabin--my hermitage. It is not much like the Ursulines, I should say. You were there, were you not?"

"Yes, certainly, I was there for a while; but I have escaped, as you see. I could not say so many prayers--it was too fatiguing--and I had to have a little vacation in the country. Soon I will return."

"Return?" exclaimed Jean, in dismay. "That would be a pity. Do not return to the convent, Gabrielle."

"Why not, then? It is a pleasant place, the convent, so quiet, so peaceful; and the sisters are so good, so dear. And it is a place where one can make one's salvation."

"Salvation, you say, in a convent, in a little cell? How can one find that between four walls? It is something that belongs to the open air, Gabrielle; something that comes with the sunshine. No, it is here that one finds true peace, rest for the soul--salvation, if you like."

"But you are going away, Jean. Is it possible that you are leaving your salvation?"

"But no. I have found it here; and I am taking it back to St. Placide, to the work that awaits me there. But now that you are here I forget all that, and I could stay for ever. Stay here, Gabrielle."

"So I will, Jean, for a few moments, at least. It is a pretty place. But where is the lake? Where is Lac Desir?"

"We are coming to it. Another turn of the path and you will get a glimpse of it through the trees. There, there it is!"

Gabrielle clapped her hands.

"Beautiful! Charming! Like a picture--more lovely than any picture! Certainly, the pictures at the convent are not like this. You have a canoe, of course. Get it, Jean--quickly. You shall take me out on the lake."

"With pleasure, Gabrielle. The ship is here, in this clump of spruces. It would not be easy to find it if one did not know the place. I am revealing all our secrets, as you see. Presently I will give you the keys, and you shall be the sovereign lady of these dominions. Look! A fine canoe, is it not? Of a single piece of bark. It is not often that one sees a canoe like this--so light, so graceful, so strong, so perfect in all its lines. One carries it like a feather. There, I will place it in the water, by the rock. Have the goodness to take your place in the bow, Mademoiselle the Passenger. A great honour for the canoe, for me, I assure you, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur, it is with sincere pleasure that I accord you the honour. But how complimentary you have become! Already you are recovering from the surprise, the shock, of my arrival. How serious you were a moment since! I thought I should have to cry. Smile a little, Jean. There, that is better. Once more. Now we are all right. How lovely the water! How balmy the air! How pleasant to glide along like this! Not so fast, Jean. Slowly. It is still early in the morning. Let us not think of time. Let us forget the world. Ah, now I know what it is to be dead to the world, as they say in the convent, and yet very much alive. I think that I have never lived before. But what would Mother Sainte Anne say if she could see me now? And why don't you ask how I happened to come?"

"It is enough to know that you are here, Gabrielle. If only you would stay."

"I am staying, am I not? But if you say that again I will go away at once."

"Allow me to remind you, Mademoiselle, that we are at some distance from the shore."

"But I can swim quite well, Monsieur; and if you provoke me I will jump into the water."

"As you did once before, many years ago. How well I remember the occasion! Do it again, Gabrielle, that I may have the pleasure of saving your life. Then you would belong to me, you know."

"What nonsense you talk, Jean! I will not jump into the water, just to please you, but I will go back to the shore all the same. Take me back."

"Oh, not yet, Gabrielle. It is too pleasant here. Never before have I seen the lake so beautiful. There was always something lacking; but now it is complete, perfect."

"It is truly wonderful, Jean; and it would be a pity not to enjoy it while we may. I like to sit here on this comfortable bearskin, dipping my hands in the water, looking at the trees, the sky, the clouds--while you do all the work."

"And I, Gabrielle, I should like to do this kind of work for the rest of my life, to glide along over a summer lake while looking into the face of one so beautiful."

"Jean, I will splash you if you say any more."

"Do so, Gabrielle. I need a bath, perhaps."

"On the contrary, you look as though you took a bath every day, like a certain Englishman at Quebec. Is it possible that you have been here for a whole month? You are no wild man of the woods at all. I am disappointed in you, Jean."

"I am sorry, Gabrielle. In the future I will try to please you better."

Gabrielle blushed and looked away; while Jean, in tender and eloquent words, began to confess that he had loved her long; that in all his plans he had thought of her; that all his battles had been for her sake; and that it had been the hope of his life to lay his honours and trophies at her feet. When she went away the light of his life had gone out; and the world, once so full of beauty and interest, had become an empty, barren desolation. Now that she had returned, in all her radiant beauty, the glory had come back to earth; and the wilderness had become a paradise, a garden of love. How wonderful the forest! How enchanting the lake, nestling in the bosom of the hills! How blue the sky! How clear and pure the air! How glorious the freedom of the wilderness, far from the world, but near to the heart of Nature; near, also, to God. And if two loving hearts, by chance, by fate, by the will of God, found themselves together in such a paradise, was it not the will of God that they should make their home there; live upon the bounty so lavishly provided; conquer the wilderness; and achieve something unusual, unique, even, in their day and generation? A good living was assured; a fortune was not impossible; and the effort, the adventure itself, would be well worth while. Their ancestors had carved a kingdom in the forest--why not their children of a later generation?

Thus Jean Baptiste, like all lovers since the world began, saw everything through a golden mist that made a halo about his beloved; gilded the commonest objects with all the colours of the rainbow; and filled his eyes with a light that never was on sea or shore.

Gabrielle listened, as though fascinated, to the story of love; blushes came to her cheeks, smiles to her lips, and tears to her eyes at the wonder and beauty of it; her heart glowed in return; and she was on the point of stretching out her hands in glad surrender to one so strong, so brave, so noble, with such undying faith in her, in himself, in God.

Had Jean but known, he would have spoken of love alone, whom all hearts love, to whom all yield as to their dearest friend; but in his ignorance and folly he went on to speak of things external, foreign, out of harmony with the thought of love. Plans, ambitions, a good living, a fortune, the conquest of the wilderness--why all that? One must live, of course; but why speak of it at such a moment? The beauties of Nature--why so much of that? The lake was lovely, to be sure; the forest and the hills as well, on a summer morning such as this; but what would they be when winter came with its pall of snow and its chill winds blowing out of the North? And how forlorn it would be, far from the old home, with neither friend nor neighbour near; while the snow drifted high, an impassable barrier between the lonely cabin and the outer world.

Renounce the world? The dear, friendly world of St. Placide, the gay, joyous world of Quebec? As well might one enter the convent; for there, at least, one would have the society of the good sisters, the occupation of teaching, and the joy of devotion and worship when the congregation lift up their hearts and voices unto God. What could one do in the forest during the long winter with no books, no games, no music, no society? The ancestors were satisfied? True, but times had changed, and a new generation had arisen. Why go back to those half-savage days? Love? That was all very well now and then; but there were times when one did not wish to love, nor to be loved; when one might wish to cry, perhaps, and there would be no comforter, no one to console. Work? Yes, one might do that--cook, for example; or make garments of fur; or mend the traps; or chop wood for the fire. Yes, that was what Jean wanted--a wife to do the work of a slave, to grow old with toil and hardship. Well, let him find an Indian squaw for that; and not ask a girl from a comfortable home to share his savage existence in the wilderness.

As Jean talked on, in his idealistic, unpractical way, about the glories of life in the forest, the crude realities of that life were borne in upon Gabrielle; and her heart was hardened against one who could, in the name of love, demand so great a sacrifice and offer so little in return. The smile faded from her lips, the colour from her cheeks, and the love-light from her eyes; while a grey cloud passed over the sun; and a chill breath from the North swept over the lake. Gabrielle shuddered.

"Take me back, Jean. I am cold."

"But, Gabrielle, it is so lovely here."

"I do not find it so. Take me back to the shore."

"But the sun will be shining again in a moment; and the lake, the forest, the hills, will be all aglow in the morning light."

"It will not. I detest your lake, your mountains, your forest. It is a desolation, and I hate it all--all."

Without a word Jean turned the prow of the canoe toward the shore; and when they reached the landing-place Gabrielle stepped out unassisted, and walked swiftly up the path, past the cabin, and on up the hill down which she had come an hour before. Jean noted the way she was going; and a few moments later he took up his pack and rifle, and with long, swift strides followed her trail up the ridge, and down the long slope on the other side. Presently he caught a glimpse of her through the trees, as she tripped along, lithe and active as a deer; and it was with no little difficulty that he kept her in sight until she came to the foot of the slope, and began to climb the shoulder of another hill. There Gabrielle slackened her pace, and turned on her pursuer with flushed face and angry eyes.

"Jean, Monsieur Giroux, I will trouble you to cease following me."

"I am sorry, Gabrielle, but I cannot let you go this way alone. It is dangerous at times."

"I am not at all afraid, and I wish to be alone."

"But you might lose your way, Gabrielle."

"I will not. I know the way quite well."

"But it is easy to get lost, Gabrielle, in this vast forest; among these hills, these cliffs, these marshes; and there are places where one might fall, and not be able to rise alone. One needs a companion."

"I do not. Will you please leave me?"

"I will not leave you, Gabrielle, until you are with your friends."

"Why, why? Mon Dieu, why not?"

"Because I love you, Gabrielle."

Gabrielle paused for a moment, on tiptoe, like a frightened deer; and then sprang away, and went on with incredible swiftness up the hill; then along a level place for a while; then down another slope; winding about in a maze of trees and rocks, hills and valleys; but all the time keeping, as she thought, the same general direction toward the place where her friends had set their camp.

An hour later Gabrielle found herself standing on the crest of a hill looking down upon a lake that shimmered in the sunshine, with tiny waves that sparkled like a cluster of diamonds set in emeralds. It was Lac des Isles, no doubt, where they had camped the night before. But where was the camp? And where were the islands? There was but one island to be seen; and no camp at all--only a cabin half hidden in the trees below. Yet the place was strangely familiar. What? Where could it be? Was it possible?

Gabrielle turned in dismay, and there was Jean standing beside her.

"Monsieur Giroux, Jean, what is this? Where am I?"

"This is Lac Desir, Gabrielle, and you are with one who loves you, dear."

Gabrielle looked up with a wistful smile.

"Are you sure, Jean, that you love me as much as you love the lake, for example; or the forest?"

"Oh, Gabrielle, it is you that I love, and you only."

"Or the life of the wilderness, Jean; and the struggle, the conflict, the conquest?"

"Gabrielle!"

"Or the pretty log cabin down there, Jean; or that lovely canoe all made of one piece of bark, so strong, so graceful, so perfect in all its lines. Or----"

"Hush, dear," said Jean, taking her in his strong arms, and kissing her on the wayward lips again and again, while her flaming cheeks and loving eyes, her quick breathing and the fluttering of her heart, told better than any words that she loved this man and would go with him to the end of the world.

By-and-by they went down the hill together; and as Jean was showing Gabrielle his home in the wilderness, she looked up in his face with an expression of perfect trust and whispered her confession of love and unconditional surrender.

"Jean, we shall be happy here. You will be my world and I yours. Two worlds should be enough for us; quite sufficient, should they not?"

"But no, dear. That was a foolish plan, a species of insanity, I think, a madness that came upon me. We will spend the honeymoon here, if you consent; and after that we will make our home in St. Placide. It will be a modest home at the first, but it will be the beginning of great things. There is only one obstacle, one danger; but we will not think of that. Nothing shall come between us any more, Gabrielle."

"Obstacle, Jean? Danger? I cannot think of any. But wait. Do you know why I came here? I had quite forgotten. Can you guess?"

"Gabrielle, I had not thought of it. Strange, too, that you should find your way to Lac Desir, so far from home. But you were nearly lost in the end."

"No, not lost, Jean, for you found me; and I, I found myself. Not lost at all, Jean Baptiste Giroux. But how did I arrive in the first place? Guess!"

"How can I? You did not know the way. No one knows it but Michel and I. Now I see. It was Michel who showed you the way, came with you. Where is he, then?"

"Good guess, Jean. You are not so stupid, after all. Michel and my father are down there at Lac des Isles, not five miles away. That explains my early visit, as you see."

"Perfectly. It is the best way to come. You take the old road to Lac des Isles, and then you follow the valley right up to this place. An easy way, Gabrielle, and yet you missed it. It is to laugh."

"No, indeed, I did not miss it on the way up, and if I missed it on the way back it was your fault, Jean. It was cruel of you to torment me like that."

"True, Gabrielle, and I am glad of it. If I had let you go alone you would have been lost."

"Not at all, Monsieur Giroux. I should have gone back to the happy Ursulines, to Mother Sainte Anne, and all the dear sisters, who would have received me with open arms. And I should not have said a single prayer for you, not one."

"No matter, Gabrielle. Now that I have you I shall have the benefit of your prayers as well; shall I not, dear?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. You will need them, without doubt; for you are a great sinner, Jean."

"How so, Gabrielle?"

"You broke the heart of that good girl, Blanchette."

"No, Gabrielle; not intentionally, at least. Moreover, I think that the heart of that young lady is not so very fragile."

"What do you know about it, stupid man? It was broken indeed, but now it is mended again--completely."

"Mended?"

"Yes, and she is to marry Pamphile Lareau."

"Pamphile is dead, Gabrielle."

"No, Jean. He is alive and almost well. For a time it was thought that he would die, but Blanchette brought him back to life, with the aid of the good God. That is what I came to tell you. We thought that you would like to know."

"Thank God!" said Jean. "And thank you, too, Gabrielle. Now there is not a cloud in the sky. What a day, this--the best day of my life! And you came to tell me the good news."

"Yes, and to have a little outing, a little fresh air and exercise--after the convent, you know."

"Gabrielle, I am glad that you did not stay in the convent. It is a refuge, a blessed retreat, for those who are discouraged, for the weary, the sad at heart; but for the young, the strong, the brave, the world is a better place. It was not for you. You had no vocation."

"That is just what Mother Sainte Anne said. She is a dear friend. 'Listen, Gabrielle,' she said, 'for the voice, the true call that speaks to the heart. You shall know it by the tone, like the clear, pure sound of a bell, to which all the chords of the heart respond; and you will say: "Lo! that is for me." Sometimes the call of love is the voice of God, my dear.' Yes, she is a true friend, Mother Sainte Anne."

"And Michel. He also is a good friend to us, as to my father in the early days."

"Oh, Jean, there is something else that I was forgetting. I forget everything now. A treasure, a great treasure."

"I could not touch it, Gabrielle."

"No, Jean, you could not. But what do you think Michel has done? He has given it to Mother Sainte Anne to found a hospital for poor children, a cause that she has had at heart for many years. The poor children will be happy with Mother Sainte Anne, and she with them. I am so glad that you did not take the gold, Jean. Now it is treasure in Heaven. I call it Mother Sainte Anne's dowry and my ransom."

"Your ransom, Gabrielle? Yes, that is it. How lucky for me that I did not take the treasure!"

"And for me, Jean. Oh, how fortunate! I thank God! It was a miracle, almost."

"Yes, Gabrielle, but there is a greater miracle, the miracle of your love, and a treasure more precious--yourself."

"A treasure, I? Oh no, Jean, only a wilful, wayward girl. Can it be that you love me, Jean? Is it true?"

"Gabrielle!"

"Jean!"

THE TEMPLE PRESS LETCHWORTH, ENGLAND