"This is Mukoki, who has been with me for many years,"
David thrust out his hand. Mukoki looked him straight in the eye for a
moment, and then his blanket-coat parted and his slim, dark hand reached
out. Having received his lesson from both the Missioner and the
Frenchman, David put into his grip all the strength that was in him--the
warmest hand-shake Mukoki had ever received in his life from a white
man, with the exception of his master, the Missioner.

The next thing David heard was Father Roland's voice inquiring eagerly
about supper. Thoreau's reply was in French.

"He says the cabin is like the inside of a great, roast duck," chuckled
the Missioner. "Come, David. We'll leave Mukoki to gather up our
freight."

A short walk up the track and David saw the cabin. It was back in the
shelter of the black spruce and balsam, its two windows that faced the
railroad warmly illumined by the light inside. The foxes had ceased
their yapping, but the snarling and howling of dogs became more
bloodthirsty as they drew nearer, and David could hear an ominous
clinking of chains and snapping of teeth. A few steps more and they were
at the door. Thoreau himself opened it, and stood back.

"_Apres vous, m'sieu_," he said, his white teeth shining at David. "It
would give me bad luck and possibly all my foxes would die, if I went
into my house ahead of a stranger."

David went in. An Indian woman stood with her back to him, bending over
a table. She was as slim as a reed, and had the longest and sleekest
black hair he had ever seen, done in two heavy braids that hung down her
back. In another moment she had turned her round, brown face, and her
teeth and eyes were shining, but she spoke no word. Thoreau did not
introduce his wild-flower wife. He had opened his cabin door, and had
let David enter before him, which was accepting him as a friend in his
home, and therefore, in his understanding of things, an introduction was
unnecessary and out of place. Father Roland chuckled, rubbed his hands
briskly, and said something to the woman in her own language that made
her giggle shyly. It was contagious. David smiled. Father Roland's face
was crinkled with little lines of joy. The Frenchman's teeth gleamed. In
the big cook-stove the fire snapped and crackled and popped. Marie
opened the stove door to put in more wood and her face shone rosy and
her teeth were like milk in the fire-flash. Thoreau went to her and laid
his big, heavy hand fon