y, 1675,
he told them, with a countenance radiant with joy, that on the morrow
he should take his departure for his heavenly home.

He gave them minute instructions respecting the place he wished to be
selected for his burial; directed how to arrange his hands and feet,
and how to wrap him in his robes, for he could have no coffin. While
one was to read the burial service the other was gently to toll the
small chapel bell which he bore with him on his mission. The canoe was
gliding along near the shore, as the father gave these instructions,
reclining upon his mat. The setting sun was sinking apparently into the
shoreless waters of the lake, in the west. They were all examining the
land, the boatmen searching for a suitable spot for their night's
encampment, and the father looking for a good place for his dying bed
and his burial.

They came to the mouth of a small, pleasant river, which presented a
sheltered cove for their canoe. There was an eminence near by, crowned
by a beautiful grove, and commanding a wide prospect of the lake and of
the land. It had a sunny exposure, drained of moisture, and composed of
just such soil as seems suitable for a grave. Father Marquette pointed
to the eminence in the lone, silent, solitary wilderness, and said,
"There is the spot for my last repose."

The boatmen ran their canoe up the mouth of the river, a few rods, and
landed. Hastily they threw up a frail camp, kindled a fire, spread down
a mat for a couch, and placed their revered spiritual father upon it.
He was then left entirely alone, with his God, while his companions
were engaged in unloading the canoe. They were silent and sad, for they
could not but perceive that the dying hour was at hand.

When they returned, Father Marquette gave them his last instructions.
"I thank you, my dear companions," he said, "for all the love and
tenderness you have shown me during this voyage. I beg you to pardon me
for the trouble I have given you. Will you also say to all my fathers
and brethren in the Ottowa mission that I implore their forgiveness for
my imperfections. I am now very near my home. But I shall not forget
you in heaven. You are very weary with the toils of the day. I shall
still live probably for several hours. I wish you would retire and take
that rest which you so greatly need. I will call you as soon as the
last moments arrive."

They left the cabin with stricken hearts and weeping eyes. The dying
Christian was left