but the new
life hardly gained full possession before that cloudless summer day on
the prairie, when I followed the winding river trail south of the forks.
The Indian scouts were far to the fore. Rank grass, high as the
saddle-bow, swished past the horse's sides and rippled away in an
unbroken ocean of green to the encircling horizon. Of course allowance
must be made for a man in love. Other men have discovered a worldful of
beauty, when in love; but I do not see what difference two figures on
horseback against the southern sky-line could possibly make to the
shimmer of purple above the plains, or the fragrance of prairie-roses
lining the trail. It seems to me the lonely call of the meadow-lark high
overhead--a mote in a sea of blue--or the drumming and chirruping of
feathered creatures through the green, could not have sounded less
musical, if I had not been a lover. But that, too, is only an opinion;
for one glimpse of the forms before me brought peace into the whole
world.

Father Holland evidently saw me, for he turned and waved. The other
rider gave no sign of recognition. A touch of the spur to my horse and I
was abreast of them, Frances Sutherland curveting her cayuse from the
trail to give me middle place.

"Arrah, me hearty, here ye are at last! Och, but ye're a skulkin'
wight," called the priest as I saluted both. "What d'y' say for y'rself,
ye belated rascal, comin' so tardy when ye're headed for Gretna
Green--Och! 'Twas a _lapsus linguae_! 'Tis Pembina--not Gretna
Green--that I mean."

Had it been half a century later, when a little place called Gretna
sprang up on this very trail, Frances Sutherland and I need not have
flinched at this reference to an old-world Mecca for run-away lovers.
But there was no Gretna on the Pembina trail in those days and the
Little Statue's cheeks were suddenly tinged deep red, while I completely
lost my tongue.

"Not a word for y'rself?" continued the priest, giving me full benefit
of the mischievous spirit working in him. "He, who bearded the foe in
his den, now meeker than a lambkin, mild as a turtle-dove, timid as a
pigeon, pensive as a whimpering-robin that's lost his mate----"

"There ought to be a law against the jokes of the clergy, Sir," I
interrupted tartly. "The jokes aren't funny and one daren't hit back."

"There ought to be a law against lovers, me hearty," laughed he.
"They're always funny, and they can't stand a crack."

"Against all men," ventured Franc