and made signs of
sending the boat for him. The little French girl understood me; she
shook her head, and pointed to her father's house; and then they both
turned back, now and then stopping to wave their handkerchiefs to us. I
felt sorry to leave him there; but for the life of me I could n't blame
him."

"I'm sure I don't," said the Doctor.

"Well, next year I was at Nitisquam Harbor; and, although I was doing
pretty well in the way of fishing, I could n't feel easy without running
away north to 'Brador to see what had become of my sick passenger. It
was rather early in the season, and there was ice still in the harbor;
but we managed to work in at last; when who should I see on shore but
young Wilson, so stout and hearty that I should scarcely have known,
him. He took me up to his lodgings and told me that he had never spent
a happier winter; that he was well and strong, and could fish and hunt
like a native; that he was now a partner with the Frenchman in trade,
and only waited the coming of the priest from the Magdalenes, on his
yearly visit to the settlements, to marry his daughter. Lucille was as
pretty, merry, and happy as ever; and the old Frenchman and his wife
seemed to love Wilson as if he was their son. I've never seen him
since; but he now writes me that he is married, and has prospered in
health and property, and thinks Labrador would be the finest country in
the world if it only had heavy timber-trees."

"One cannot but admire," said the Doctor, "that wise and beneficent
ordination of Providence whereby the spirit of man asserts its power
over circumstances, moulding the rough forms of matter to its fine
ideal, bringing harmony out of discord,--coloring, warming, and lighting
up everything within the circle of its horizon. A loving heart carries
with it, under every parallel of latitude, the warmth and light of the
tropics. It plants its Eden in the wilderness and solitary place, and
sows with flowers the gray desolation of rocks and mosses. Wherever
love goes, there springs the true heart's-ease, rooting itself even in
the polar ices. To the young invalid of the Skipper's story, the dreary
waste of what Moore calls, as you remember,

'the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador,'

looked beautiful and inviting; for he saw it softened and irradiated in
an atmosphere of love. Its bare hills, bleak rocks, and misty sky were
but the setting and back