our little one wishes," was the reply, "but
she never gets it."

La Certe pondered for some time, and then asked--

"Does my Slowfoot still like _work_?"

"She likes it still--likes it better."

"And she _does_ it--sometimes?"

"Yes, often--always."

"Why?"

"Because Mr Sutherland advises me--and I like Mr Sutherland."

"Does my Slowfoot expect me to like work too, and to _do_ it?" asked La
Certe with a peculiar glance.

"We cannot like what we don't like, though we may do it," answered the
wife, drawing perilously near to the metaphysical, "but Slowfoot expects
nothing. She waits. My Francois is not a child. He can judge of all
things for himself."

"That is true, my Slowfoot; and, do you know," he added, earnestly, "I
have had hard work--awfully hard work--killing work--since I have been
away, yet it has not killed me. Perhaps you will doubt me when I tell
you that I, too, rather like it!"

"That is strange," said Slowfoot, with more of interest in her air than
she had shown for many a day. "Why do you like it?"

"I think," returned the husband, slowly, "it is because I like Dan
Davidson. I like him very much, and it was to please him that I began
to work hard, for, you know, he was very anxious to get home in time to
be at his own wedding. So that made me work _hard_, and now I find that
hard work is not hard when we like people. Is it not strange, my
Slowfoot?"

"Yes. Your words are very like the words of Mr Sutherland to-day. It
is very strange!"

Yet, after all, it was not so very strange, for this worthy couple had
only been led to the discovery of the old, well-known fact that--"Love
is the fulfilling of the law."

There was yet another of those whose fortunes we have followed thus far
who learned the same lesson.

About the same time that the events just described took place in Red
River, there assembled a large band of feathered and painted warriors in
a secluded coppice far out on the prairie. They had met for a grave
palaver. The subject they had been discussing was not war, but peace.
Several of the chiefs and braves had given their opinions, and now all
eyes were turned towards the spot where the great chief of all was
seated, with a white-man beside him. That great chief was Okematan.
The Paleface was Peter Davidson.

Rising with the dignity that befitted his rank, Okematan, in a low but
telling voice, delivered himself, as follows:

"When Okematan left his people an