d McLeod. "The Indians
highly approve of it, and deem me quite a marvel of artistic power."

"Wot! did _you_ paint it?" inquired Waller.

"I did," answered McLeod, with a nod.

"Vraiment, de Injuns am right in deir opinion of you," cried Gibault,
relighting his pipe, which, in the astonished state of his mind, he had
allowed to go out.

McLeod smiled, if we may so speak, _gravely_, in acknowledgment of the
compliment.

"Ha!" cried Gibault, turning to Bertram as if a sudden thought had
occurred to him, "Monsieur Bertram et Monsieur Mak Load, you be broders.
Oui, Monsieur Mak Load, dis mine comrade--him be von painteur."

"Indeed!" said McLeod, turning to the artist with more interest than he
had yet shown towards the strangers.

"I have, indeed, the honour to follow the noble profession of painting,"
said Bertram, "but I cannot boast of having soared so high as--as--"

"As to attempt the frescoes on the ceiling of a reception hall in the
backwoods," interrupted McLeod, laughing. "No, I believe you, sir; but,
although I cannot presume to call you brother professionally, still I
trust that I may do so as an amateur. I am delighted to see you here.
It is not often we are refreshed with the sight of the face of a
civilised man in these wild regions."

"Upon my word, sir, you are plain-spoken," said March Marston with a
look of affected indignation; "what do you call _us_?"

"Pardon me, young sir," replied McLeod, "I call you trappers, which
means neither civilised nor savage; neither fish, nor flesh, nor fowl--"

"That's a foul calumny," cried Bounce, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe, and refilling it from the canister; "it's wot may be called a--
a--"

"Lie," suggested Waller.

"No," said Bounce, "it ain't that. I don't like that word. It's a ugly
word, an' you shouldn't ought to use it, Waller. It's a _error_; that's
wot it is, in a feelosophical pint o' view. Jest as much of a error,
now, as it was in you, Mister McLeod, putting so little baccy in this
here thing that there ain't none left."

"What! is it all done?" cried McLeod, rising, and seizing the canister;
"so it is. I declare you smoke almost as fast as the Wild Man himself;
for whom I mistook you, Mr Waller, when I saw you first, at some
distance off."

Saying this, he left the room to fetch a further supply of the soothing
weed, and at the same moment two squaws appeared, bearing smoking dishes
of whitefish and venison.

"That fell