ormerly the Indians would bring gold-dust
in quills to the traders. But many have sought the source of this
supply in past times and failed or died, and so----" He shrugged his
shoulders again.

"You see, M. Duchaine is a hermit," he continued. "Once, so my father
used to say, he was one of the gayest young men in Quebec. But he
became involved in the troubles of 1867--and then his wife died, and so
lie withdrew there with the little _mademoiselle_--what was her name?"

He called his clerk.

"Alphonse, what is the name of that pretty daughter of M. Charles
Duchaine, of Riviere d'Or?" he asked.

"Annette," answered the man. "No, Nanette. No Janette. I am sure it
ends with 'ette' or 'ine,' anyway."

"_Eh bien_, it makes no difference," said the proprietor, "because,
since she left the Convent of the Ursulines here in Quebec, where she
was educated, her father keeps her at the chateau, and you are not
likely to set eyes on M. Charles Duchaine's daughter."

A sudden stoppage in his flow of words, an almost guilty look upon his
face, as a new figure entered the little shop, directed my attention
toward the stranger.

He was an old man of medium size, very muscularly built, stout, and
with enormous shoulders. He wore a priest's _soutane_, but he did not
look like a priest--he looked like a man's head on a bull body. His
smooth face was tanned to the colour of an Indian's--his bright blue
eyes, almost concealed by their drooping, wrinkled lids, were piercing
in their scrutiny.

He wore a bearskin hat and furs of surprising quality. It was not so
much his strange appearance that attracted my interest as the singular
look of authority upon the face, which was yet deeply lined about the
mouth, as though he could relax upon occasion and become the jolliest
of companions.

And he spoke a pure French, interspersed with words of an uncouth
patois, which I ascribed to long residence in some remote parish.

"_Bo'jour_, Pere Antoine," said the shopkeeper deferentially, fixing
his eyes rather timidly upon the old priest's face.

"_Eh bien_, who is this with whom thou gossipest concerning the
daughter of M. Duchaine?" inquired Father Antoine, looking at me keenly.

"Only a customer--a stranger, _monsieur_," answered the proprietor,
rubbing his hands together. "He wishes to see--a dog collar, was it
not?" he continued, turning nervously toward me.

"You talk too much," said Pere Antoine roughly. "Now, _monsieur_