ois Xavier had replaced the
cameo on the Virgin's breast before he went; it was a safer place than
the vault of a bank would have been, had such a thing existed in the
country. There was no one in the island sacrilegious enough to rob the
church. Marie had gazed at the stone each time that she repeated the
prayer which he had taught her. She looked up now, and it was gone.

Half way upon their northward route, Tontz's band were struggling
wearily on when they were met by a solitary Indian, who, though he
carried a long bow, had not an unfriendly aspect. He eyed the little
band silently as they passed by him in defile, then ran after them, and
inquired if the Pere Francois Xavier, of Mission St. Ignace, was not of
their number. He was informed that the reverend father had remained a
short distance behind to write in his journal, but that he would soon
overtake them; and he was warmly pressed to remain with them if he had
messages for the priest, and give them to him when he arrived; but the
Indian shook his head and passed on in the direction in which they told
him he would be likely to meet Father Xavier. The party halted and
waited hour after hour for the priest, but he did not come. Finally two
went back in search, and found him lying upon the sod with upturned
face--the place where he had written last in his journal marked by a few
drops of his heart's blood, and the long shaft of an arrow protruding
from his breast. They drew it out, but the arrow-head had been attached
as is the custom in some Indian tribes, by means of a soft wax, which is
melted by the warmth of the body, and it remained in the heart. Father
Xavier had been dead some hours. They buried him where they found him,
and proceeded on their march. Tontz recovered on the way. They reached
Michillimackinac in safety, where they were joined two months later by
La Salle; and the world knows the result of his second expedition.

Little Marie learned by degrees to smile again, and in after years
married another arrow-head maker, as swarthy and as shaggy as the Black
Beaver. There is no moral to my story except that of poetic justice.
Pere Francois Xavier had sown a plentiful crop of stratagems, and he
learned in the lonely forest that "Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he
also reap."

Meanwhile to all but you, my readers, the Crevecoeur cameo remains as
great a mystery as ever.

MISS EUNICE'S GLOVE

By Albert Webster.

I.

For a long time bl