n that Dan Davidson had a pretty good time of it in spite
of his weak condition.

Nevertheless Dan was not quite happy. He could not get rid of the
memory of Henri Perrin's murder, and the terrible thought that Elspie's
brother Duncan had some sort of guilty knowledge of it. These thoughts
he buried deep, however, in his own breast, and even tried to forget
them. Vain effort! for does it not stand to reason that the thing we
strive most earnestly to forget is the very thing which, by that effort,
we are fixing with a deeper stamp on memory?

Francois La Certe was somewhat exercised about the same question, about
the same time.

That estimable member of the colony was seated one fine day on the banks
of the river fishing for goldeyes--a small fish about the size of a
plump herring. His amiable spouse was helping, or rather fishing with
him. It was a fine healthy, contemplative occupation; one that
admirably suited their tendency to repose, and at the same time filled
them with that virtuous sensation which awaits those who know that they
are engaged in useful occupation--for were not goldeyes the best of
eating?

Branches of trees were their primitive rods, twine their simple lines,
grasshoppers their bait, and a violent jerk their method.

"Slowfoot!" said La Certe.

"My husband!" or some such Indian phrase, answered the woman.

"I have been wondering for a long time now why--hi!--no! I thought
there was something at my bait--but it was deception. Nothing is so
unreal as the bite of the goldeye--when it is not there. It brings to
mind the lights in the sky of winter, which dance and shoot--and yet
they are not. Hi! ho!--I have him. I was mistaken. I thought the fish
_was_ not--but it was."

While speaking La Certe sent a small fish with bursting violence on the
grass behind him. Almost at the same moment Slowfoot landed another,
with less violence and more coolness.

"What was I saying, Slowfoot?" asked the half-breed, when the hooks had
been re-baited, and their eyes were riveted on their respective floats.

"Nothing that any one could remember," answered his truthful spouse.

"Now I remember--ho! was that another?"

"No, it was not," answered his matter-of-fact helpmate.

"Where is our child?" asked the father, with that wayward wandering of
mind which is a not uncommon characteristic of genius.

"Smoking in the tent," answered the mother.

"And with my pipe, no doubt," said the father, l