he lake bottom, loaded with
stones, its strings playing back and forth in the clear water. The
others were gone out to the straits. Jenieve remembered all her toil
for them, and her denial of her own wants that she might give to these
half-savage boys, who considered nothing lost that they threw into the
lake.

She turned around to run to the house. But there stood Jean Bati'
McClure's wife, talking through the door, and encouraging her mother
to walk with coureurs-de-bois. The girl's heart broke. She took to the
bushes to hide her weeping, and ran through them towards the path she
had followed so many times when her only living kindred were at the
Indian village. The pine woods received her into their ascending
heights, and she mounted towards sunset.

Panting from her long walk, Jenieve came out of the woods upon a
grassy open cliff, called by the islanders Pontiac's Lookout, because
the great war chief used to stand on that spot, forty years before,
and gaze southward, as if he never could give up his hope of the union
of his people. Jenieve knew the story. She had built playhouses
here, when a child, without being afraid of the old chief's lingering
influence; for she seemed to understand his trouble, and this night
she was more in sympathy with Pontiac than ever before in her life.
She sat down on the grass, wiping the tears from her hot cheeks,
her dark eyes brooding on the lovely straits. There might be more
beautiful sights in the world, but Jenieve doubted it; and a white
gull drifted across her vision like a moving star.

Pontiac's Lookout had been the spot from which she watched her
father's bateau disappear behind Round Island. He used to go by way of
Detroit to the Canadian woods. Here she wept out her first grief for
his death; and here she stopped, coming and going between her mother
and grandmother. The cliff down to the beach was clothed with a thick
growth which took away the terror of falling, and many a time Jenieve
had thrust her bare legs over the edge to sit and enjoy the outlook.

There were old women on the island who could remember seeing Pontiac.
Her grandmother had told her how he looked. She had heard that, though
his bones had been buried forty years beside the Mississippi, he yet
came back to the Lookout every night during that summer month when
all the tribes assembled at the island to receive money from a new
government. He could not lie still while they took a little metal and
ammu