aught
that earth has to offer her of happiness. We part in kindness,
Monsieur,--in friendship even; but that which was once between us may
never be again."

There was no answer; even the reckless audacity of a courtier was
silenced by that calm final dismissal. It was Mademoiselle who spoke
in swift whisper, her lips at my ear.

"Speak! who is she?"

"The woman of whom you have heard so often,--the missionary in the
Indian camp."

"Yes, I know," impatiently; "but I mean her name?"

"She calls herself Sister Celeste; I have indeed heard mention of
another, but it abides not in my memory."

"You deceive me, Monsieur; yet I know, and will speak with her," was
the quick decision. "Mother of God! 'tis a voice too dear ever to be
forgotten."

She was beside them with a step, seeming no doubt a most fair vision to
be born so instantly of the night-shadows.

"Marie Faneuf!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I know not by what strange
fortune I meet you here, but surely you will not refuse greeting to an
old friend?"

The girl drew hastily back a step, as if her first thought was flight;
but ere such end could be accomplished, Mademoiselle had clasped her
arm impetuously.

"Marie!" she pleaded, "can it be possible you would flee from me?"

"Nay," returned the other, her voice trembling painfully, as she
struggled to restrain herself. "It is not that. Dear, dear friend! I
knew you were among the few saved from Dearborn. The American hunter
told me, and ever since have I tried to avoid you in the camp. 'Twas
not for lack of the old love, yet I feared to meet you. Much has
occurred of late to make the keeping of my vow most difficult. I have
been weak, and grievously tempted; and I felt scarce strong enough,
even though protected by prayers, to withstand also my deep love for
you."

Their voices insensibly merged into French, each speaking so rapidly
and low that I could get little meaning of it. Then I noted De Croix,
half lying upon the ground, his head hidden within his hands. With
sudden remembrance of the work before us, I touched his shoulder.

"Come below, Monsieur, and help me search for the boat," I said,
kindly, for I was truly touched by his grief. "It will help clear your
mind to have some labor to accomplish."

"I dare not, Wayland!" he answered hoarsely, and the face he uplifted
toward me was strangely white and drawn. "I must stay with her; I dare
not leave her again alone, lest she escape m