been there," said Pierre, taking a match from Gohawk, and
lighting his cigarette.

"To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nodding towards Tarlton.

"To tell the truth about it all. T'sh, you bats, you sheep, what have
you in your skulls? When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain a
case for his lawyer--or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to
me, and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge.

"I never saw such a face as that girl had down there at Lachine in
Quebec. I knew her when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when he was
on the river with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look all
open then as the sun--yes. Happy? Yes, as happy as a man ought to be.
Well, the mother of the child died, and Malachi alone was left to take
care of the little Norice. He left the river and went to work in the
mills, so that he might be with the child; and when he got to be foreman
there he used to bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung for her
just inside the mill not far from him, right where she was in the shade;
but if she stretched out her hand it would be in the sun. I've seen a
hundred men turn to look at her where she swung, singing to herself, and
then chuckle to themselves afterwards as they worked.

"When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw her, he swore, and was
going to sack Malachi, but the child--that little Norice--leaned over
the basket, and offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then
he reached up, took the apple, turned round, and went out of the mill
without a word--so. Next month when he come he walked straight to her,
and handed up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 'That's to call
me when you want me,' he said, as he put the whistle to her lips, and
then he put the gold string of it round her neck. She was a wise little
thing, that Norice, and noticed things. I don't believe that Trevoor or
Malachi ever knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh sawdust till
she held it to their noses; and it was she that had the saws--all
sizes--start one after the other, making so strange a tune. She made up
a little song about fairies and others to sing to that tune. And no one
ever thought much about Indian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking
piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till
she told stories about it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and
open windows of those empty houses, all white without in the sun and
dar