thing
of everything, was exact in nothing: now he stuffed birds, now he read
Greek, now he botanized, now he played on the flute, now he went about
in all weathers chipping the rocks with ardent zeal, now he smoked in
his room all day without a word or a look for anybody. He sketched well,
but seldom finished a picture; he went out hunting when the larder was
empty, and forgot what he went for; he had a delicate mechanical skill,
and made some curious bits of intricate work, but he never mended the
hinges of the shutters, or repaired a single article which was in daily
use in his household.

[Illustration: "THE GIRL PAUSED AND REFLECTED A MOMENT."]

By the careful attention of Anne he was present in the fort chapel every
Sunday morning, and, once there, he played the organ with delight, and
brought exquisite harmonies from its little pipes; but Anne stood there
beside him all the time, found the places, and kept him down to the
work, borrowing his watch beforehand in order to touch him when the
voluntary was too long, or the chords between the hymn verses too
beautiful and intricate. Those were the days when the old buckram-backed
rhymed versions of the psalms were steadfastly given out at every
service, and Anne's rich voice sang, with earnest fervor, words like
these:

"His liberal favors he extends,
To some he gives, to others lends;
Yet when his charity impairs,
He saves by prudence in affairs,"

while her father followed them with harmony fit for angels. Douglas
taught his daughter music in the best sense of the phrase; she read
notes accurately, and knew nothing of inferior composers, the only
change from the higher courts of melody being some of the old French
chansons of the voyageurs, which still lingered on the island, echoes of
the past. She could not touch the ivory keys with any skill, her hands
were too much busied with other work; but she practiced her singing
lessons as she went about the house--music which would have seemed to
the world of New York as old-fashioned as Chaucer.

The fire of logs blazed on the hearth, the father sat looking at his
daughter, who was sewing swiftly, her thoughts fixed upon her work. The
clock struck eleven.

"It is late, Anne."

"Yes, father, but I must finish. I have so little time during the day."

"My good child," said Douglas, slowly and fondly.

Anne looked up; his eyes were dim with tears.

"I have done nothing for you, dear," he said,