. He stuck the cold
pipe into his mouth, and pulled away at it for a while in silence.
Then his countenance began to clear, his mouth relaxed, he broke into a
laugh.

"Sacred bear!" he cried, slapping his knee; "sacred beast of the world!
What a day of the good chance for her, HE! But she was glad, I suppose.
Perhaps she has some cubs, HE? BAJETTE!"

III

This was the end of our hunting and fishing for that year. We spent the
next two days in voyaging through a half-dozen small lakes and streams,
in a farming country, on our way home. I observed that Patrick kept his
souvenir pipe between his lips a good deal of the time, and puffed at
vacancy. It seemed to soothe him. In his conversation he dwelt with
peculiar satisfaction on the thought of the money in the cigar-box
on the mantel-piece at St. Gerome. Eighteen piastres and twenty sous
already! And with the addition to be made from the tobacco not smoked
during the past month, it would amount to more than twenty-three
piastres; and all as safe in the cigar-box as if it were in the bank
at Chicoutimi! That reflection seemed to fill the empty pipe with
fragrance. It was a Barmecide smoke; but the fumes of it were potent,
and their invisible wreaths framed the most enchanting visions of tall
towers, gray walls, glittering windows, crowds of people, regiments
of soldiers, and the laughing eyes of a little boy--or was it a little
girl?

When we came out of the mouth of La Belle Riviere, the broad blue
expanse of Lake St. John spread before us, calm and bright in the
radiance of the sinking sun. In a curve on the left, eight miles away,
sparkled the slender steeple of the church of St. Gerome. A thick column
of smoke rose from somewhere in its neighbourhood. "It is on the beach,"
said the men; "the boys of the village accustom themselves to burn the
rubbish there for a bonfire." But as our canoes danced lightly forward
over the waves and came nearer to the place, it was evident that the
smoke came from the village itself. It was a conflagration, but not a
general one; the houses were too scattered and the day too still for a
fire to spread. What could it be? Perhaps the blacksmith shop, perhaps
the bakery, perhaps the old tumble-down barn of the little Tremblay? It
was not a large fire, that was certain. But where was it precisely?

The question, becoming more and more anxious, was answered when we
arrived at the beach. A handful of boys, eager to be the bearers o