eceived answer that since I thought it best she
would come to me. I felt that she had no longing for the wild life, but
I meant to do my utmost to satisfy her. There was her Church at St.
Ignace, there were kindly priests, and some charming and heroic women.
With my love to shield her I felt she must be happy. There was a company
to leave Albany, enough it was thought to make traveling safe, for
Indians were still troublesome. I made arrangements for her to join
them, and was to meet them at Detroit. Alas! word came that, while they
were still some distance from their point of embarkation on Lake Erie,
they were set upon and massacred by a body of roving Indians. Instead of
my beloved wife I met one of the survivors in Detroit and heard the
terrible story. Not a woman in the party had escaped. The Indians had
not burthened themselves with troublesome prisoners. I returned to
Michilimackinac with a heart bowed down with grief. There was the
comfortable home awaiting my wife, made as pretty as it had been
possible to do. I could not endure it and joined some members of the
company going to Hudson Bay. I made some fresh efforts to learn if
anything further had been heard, but no word ever came. It is true that
I married again. It does not seem possible that a once wedded wife
should have lived all these years and made no effort to communicate with
her husband, who, after all, could have been found. And though for years
I have been known as the White Chief, from a curious power I have gained
over the Indians, the hunters, and traders, I am also known as the Sieur
Angelot."

He stood proudly before them, his handsome, weather-bronzed face bearing
the impress of truth, his eyes shining with the clearest, highest honor.
The child Jeanne felt the stiffening of every muscle, and it went
through her with a thrill of joy.

"It is a long story," began Father Rameau, gently, "a strange one, too.
Through the courage and craftiness of a Miami squaw, who had been a sort
of maid to Madame Angelot, she escaped death. They hid in the woods and
subsisted on anything they could find until Madame could go no farther.
She thought herself dying, and implored the woman to take her babe to
Detroit and find its father, and she lay down in a leafy covert to die.
In that hour she repented bitterly of her course in leaving the convent
and listening to a forbidden love. She prayed God to believe if it were
to do over again she would hearken to the v