in in his shoulder, which was badly set. His black
eyes snapped like the eyes of a wolverine in a corner.

"Forgive?" he said, "no, never. He is a coward. I will never forgive!"

A little later in the afternoon, when the rose of sunset lay on the
snowy hills, some one knocked at the door of Leclere's house.

"ENTREZ!" he cried. "Who is there? I see not very well by this light.
Who is it?"

"It is me," said 'Toinette, her cheeks rosier than the snow outside,
"nobody but me. I have come to ask you to tell me the rest about that
new carriage--do you remember?"

III

The voice in the canoe behind me ceased. The rain let up. The SLISH,
SLISH of the paddle stopped. The canoe swung sideways to the breeze. I
heard the RAP, RAP, RAP of a pipe on the gunwale, and the quick scratch
of a match on the under side of the thwart.

"What are you doing, Ferdinand?"

"I go to light the pipe, m'sieu'."

"Is the story finished?"

"But yes--but no--I know not, m'sieu'. As you will."

"But what did old Girard say when his daughter broke her engagement and
married a man whose eyes were spoiled?"

"He said that Leclere could see well enough to work with him in the
store."

"And what did Vaillantcoeur say when he lost his girl?"

"He said it was a cursed shame that one could not fight a blind man."

"And what did 'Toinette say?"

"She said she had chosen the bravest heart in Abbeville."

"And Prosper--what did he say?"

"M'sieu', I know not. He said it only to 'Toinette."

IV. THE GENTLE LIFE

Do you remember that fair little wood of silver birches on the West
Branch of the Neversink, somewhat below the place where the Biscuit
Brook runs in? There is a mossy terrace raised a couple of feet
above the water of a long, still pool; and a very pleasant spot for a
friendship-fire on the shingly beach below you; and a plenty of painted
trilliums and yellow violets and white foam-flowers to adorn your
woodland banquet, if it be spread in the month of May, when Mistress
Nature is given over to embroidery.

It was there, at Contentment Corner, that Ned Mason had promised to
meet me on a certain day for the noontide lunch and smoke and talk, he
fishing down Biscuit Brook, and I down the West Branch, until we came
together at the rendezvous. But he was late that day--good old Ned! He
was occasionally behind time on a trout stream. For he went about his
fishing very seriously; and if it was fine, the sport was a natur