CHAPTER VII.

"A MINISTERING ANGEL, THOU."

1808.

Two years had passed since the interrupted meeting in the tent. Not a word had Chrissy received from her lover. At length a report reached her, through a passing brigade, that George Morrison had been sent to the vicinity of Great Bear Lake to open a trading-post for his company, and that nothing had since been heard or seen of him.

Chrissy's devotion to her absent lover had grown deeper and stronger as month followed month. She never felt for an instant that he was dead to her. She did not think of him with hopes that were withered, with a tenderness frozen; the man whom she loved never once became a vague, dreamy idea to her, for to Chrissy George was a living, bright reality, who would come some day to fulfil his promise, when she would at last enter into the glorious consummation of her heart's deepest longing. It was this confidence that cheered and sustained her as she became her mother's most efficient coadjutor in missions of mercy and love. It was not an uncommon sight to see mother and daughter cantering over the rough woodland roads to distant clearances, in response to appeals for help from the sick and sorrowing.

On one occasion the appeal came from "Aunt" Allen, who lived on one of the back concession roads. As they approached the unpretentious but cosy little farm cottage, in the midst of a field of blackened stumps, Mrs. Allen came out to meet them.

"Oh, Mrs. Wright," she said, "I'm so thankful you have come. He's nearly mad with pain. In fact, I think the poor lad is agoin' out of his mind."

"How did it happen?" asked Mrs. Wright.

"You see," she said, "He had to sleep out nights in the woods when he was hauling timber to the drive, and an insect or somethin' must have got into his ear, for he could feel it a movin' and a crawlin' and"——.

"What have you done?" interrupted Mrs. Wright.

"We made him lie down with his ear on the pillow, but it was no good. Then we made him hold his ear down while we struck his head several hard blows to make it fall out, but it was no good. Then we put an onion poultice on it to draw it out, but that was no good, and now we don't know what more to do."

"I fear," said Mrs. Wright sadly, "that I shall not be much help to you, for my book does not mention what should be done in a case of that kind."

"But, mother," said Chrissy, "we cannot leave until we have done something. It is dreadful to see him suffer so."

"Physic will not touch it," she replied, "and they seem to have done everything that could be done."

At length Chrissy said:

"I've thought of a plan. Let us hold him with his head downwards, so that it may have a chance to drop on the floor; then let someone puff tobacco smoke up into the ear, and perhaps the smoke will cause the insect to become stupefied and it will fall out."

"Very good," said her mother. "The plan is worth trying, but who will do the smoking? There's not a man about the place."

"I'll do it myself," said Chrissy. "You have a pipe and tobacco, I suppose, Mrs. Allen?"

"Yes," she replied, "for the lad smokes."

The experiment was tried. Chrissy, kneeling on the clean sanded floor, puffed away vigorously at the strong old pipe, while her mother and Mrs. Allen held the young man's head over the fumes. Soon something dropped upon the floor, which proved to be a large red ant, and a shout of triumph went up as Mrs. Allen jumped upon it and ground it to nothingness. This brought instantaneous relief to the sufferer, who was very profuse in his expressions of gratitude.

Poor Mrs. Allen laughed and cried in turn as they took an affectionate farewell of one another, but Chrissy's face had an unusually pallid appearance, which, however, soon faded away as they galloped down the road to Mrs. Murphy's cottage.

They found the poor woman on a bed of suffering, where she had been for three months.

"Is it yersilf that's come, me lady?" she said, a slight flush of pleasure lighting up the pale, sad face.

"Yes, Bridget," said Mrs. Wright, "and I have brought my daughter, whom you have not seen for a long time."

"Ah, me darlint," she said, grasping Chrissy's hand, "Moike is a gud husband to me. He has a big, koind Irish heart, but one night when he came home he wasn't hisself, Moike wasn't, and he kicked me and the swate lamb there," pointing to a fat dumpling of a baby, "out of the door, and thin he locked it forninst me, Moike did; and I entrated him to let me in, but he would not; so I ran over the shnow through the fields to Joe Larocque's shanty, and I tuk off me skurt to roll the wee darlint in, for she was cryin' with the could, an' I ran to the shanty. For shure I was in my bare feet, an' when at last I reached Larocque's he was afeared to let me come in, he was, an' I prayed him for the sake o' the Blessed Virgin and all the holy angels to open the door, an' afther a long toime he did."

"Poor Moike," she said, with a look of agony in her face; "he's a gud man, a gud man, but he was not hisself—it was the dhrink that did it."

"There now, Bridget," said Mrs. Wright, "you have talked enough; you had better keep quite still while I remove these bandages."

The odor from the poor frozen hands and feet was frightful, but patiently and tenderly they removed the old bandages and applied new ones, after first saturating them in linseed oil and lime water. Before they had finished, the patient, overcome with exhaustion, sank back into a state of semi-unconsciousness, repeating the sad words over and over again:

"Poor Moike, he's gud, he's gud; but he wasn't hisself."

"I am afraid," whispered Mrs. Wright, "that mortification has set in. Did you observe that she had no feeling in the right foot while we were dressing it? Poor soul! Her sufferings will soon be over—perhaps to-night."

The tears streamed down Chrissy's face as she looked first at the poor sufferer, then at the innocent babe so soon to become motherless.

"I think, mother," she said, "that you had better leave me with her, for the Larocques can only come over once a day, and Mike has evidently no idea of how to take care of a sick woman, much less a baby. Could you not take him with you? Tell him that father wants him, for he said only this morning that he wanted more men."

It was finally decided that Chrissy should remain, and that the grief-stricken husband should ride her pony as far as the Columbia farm, where he was to remain until the Chief should give him leave to return.

It was nearly dark when Mrs. Wright reached Burns's, where several young men were standing round the door. Touching their hats respectfully to her as she entered, they soon followed her into a low room, permeated with the sickening odor of whisky and stale tobacco, where a young man lay with blackened eyes, a gash over the left temple, and a broken arm.

"So you've been fighting again, Andrew?" she said, "I thought after your last scrape that you would leave Jamaica rum alone."

Andrew was fully convinced in his own mind that his injuries would ultimately prove fatal, and his feelings alternated between vengeance on the one who had proved too strong for him and an uneasy apprehension of dissolution.

"It was not my fault; and if ever I lay hands on that villain again I'll thrash him within an inch of his life," he hissed through clenched teeth, his face white with rage; "I'll smash every bone in his body. Give me time, Mrs. Wright, to say a paternoster before you begin."

"How can you pray, 'Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,' and drink that which will cause His name to be profaned and blasphemed?" she said. "How can you pray, 'Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,' and drink that which will be the greatest hindrance to the coming of His kingdom and the fulfilment of His will? How can you pray, 'Give us this day our daily bread,' and drink that which is depriving thousands of daily bread? How can you pray, 'Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,' and take that which makes us unwilling to forgive our debtors? How can you pray, 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,' and drink that which has proved temptation and evil to so many? I assure you, Andrew," she said, "that you cannot say a paternoster and drink strong drink."

Turning to the father of the young man, she said:

"It is a simple fracture, but it will have to be set, and it will need a strong man to do it. You can get a splint while I make the bandages. There now," she said, "take hold of the hand and pull it slowly and steadily—this way—see. Now, are you ready?"

"Ough!" groaned the young man. "Ough, but you're hurtin' me, you're hurtin' me."

"There, now, that was well done," she said, feeling the spot carefully. "Now give me the splint."

After she had carefully bandaged the arm, she said: "There now, are you more comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you, ma'am," he replied.

"Now you must remain in bed for a time in order to give it every chance," she said; "for if you go about with it inflammation may set in and you may lose it. Here is a book which you may read when the time seems long."

He glanced at the title.

"The Pilgrim's Progress," he said, giving a sly wink at one of his friends. "Shure an I'll be purty hard up for somethin' to do when I read the like o' that."

"It is not so bad as it looks, Andrew," she said, good-naturedly, as she shook hands with him on leaving.

Soon the messenger of mercy and healing was flying along the road to Paul Mousseau's shanty, where she found poor old Paul at the gate in tears.

"What is the matter, Mousseau?" she said, as she tied her pony to a tree.

"Le charbon, Madame, le charbon; ma bonne femme, I fear she no get well again."

The charbon was a disease which afflicted many of the French settlers in Canada at that time. A small black spot would appear on the body, resembling a piece of charcoal, which soon spread until the whole body was affected. The only remedy known was to cut out the affected part as soon as it appeared. It was supposed that it was contracted through skinning and eating the flesh of cadaverous animals.

Paul's shanty contained one large, low, common room or kitchen with two windows, a fireplace at one side, one bedroom for the family, with a loft above, where the older boys slept among all sorts of provender and farm tools, and which was reached by a ladder. The walls of the room in which the sick woman lay were adorned with rude religious pictures, with an earthenware crucifix, which had attached to it a receptacle for holy water.

Mrs. Wright shook her head sadly as she examined the poor woman, and said:

"I fear, Paul, that it has gone too far."

The poor old man fell on his knees, made the sign of the cross, and gave way to a paroxysm of tears.

"Ma bonne Katrine!" he cried; "Ma bonne Katrine! Ah! Sainte Vierge—no preese—no messe—ma pauvre femme—ma pauvre femme."

"Paul," said Mrs. Wright, "though you have no priest and no church you are not shut out from the Great High Priest—the Lord Himself. Pour out your sorrows to Him and He will hear and comfort you and save Katrine."

The old man kissed her hand as she took leave of him, and assisted her to mount her impatient pony, which needed no urging to hasten home, for darkness had come on, and she was alone in the forest. They were not long in covering the distance to the Wigwam, where the children were anxiously awaiting her return.

"Where is Chrissy?" asked Phil, who was cleaning his gun and was evidently having great difficulty in the effort to extricate the ramrod from the barrel.

"She is going to sit up to-night with poor Mrs. Murphy," said his mother, "who will probably not live through the night."

"Jee-roo-salem!" exclaimed Phil, "and what can a girl like Chrissy do for a dying woman?"

"She could read a verse of Scripture or one of the beautiful prayers of the Prayer Book," said his mother, softly.

"It's all rot," he said, "the whole Bible is utter foolishness from cover to cover."

"Exactly what the Bible says of itself," said his mother. "It says that 'The preaching of the Cross is to them that perish foolishness,' and if it is foolishness to you, my dear boy, it is because you are perishing. St. Paul told the truth when he said, 'The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, neither can he know them, for they are spiritually discerned.' You have not a nature capable of grasping the spiritual. 'You must be born again.'"

"Don't quote Scripture at me, for I tell you that I don't believe one word of it," said Phil.

"If you could have seen what I have seen this day you would not be such a trifler, my boy."

"I'm not trifling, mother," he said. "I am quite serious about it. I am not proud, as some are, of being a sceptic, but I cannot believe as you and Chris do." Observing tears in his mother's eyes, he added, slowly, "I wish I could."

"There is but one way," she replied, "out of the fog of scepticism into the light of faith, and it is the narrow way of obedience. 'If any man will do his will he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of God.' If you want to believe, my boy, give up your self-will and promise me that you will try honestly to find out what God's will is concerning you, that you may do it, and your scepticism will soon take wings."

"But," said Phil, "I would like to have some proof that there is a God before I begin to find out what His will is. Every sense that I have bears me out in believing that there is no God. I have never seen a God, nor heard one; I have never smelt, tasted, nor felt one."

"You may not have felt that there is a God, but I have," said his mother, "and I delight to pour forth my very soul to Him whom I know exists, and whom I am satisfied to believe in without proofs save such as I obtain from my own inner consciousness."

"And is the testimony of that one sense of feeling sufficient to convince you that there is a God?" said Phil.

"It is," replied his mother.

"Well," he added, thoughtfully, "the odds are against you four to one."

Approaching her first-born the mother laid her hand on his shoulder, and said:

"Tell me, my boy, did you ever see a pain?"

"No," he replied.

"Did you ever hear a pain?"

"No."

"Did you ever smell a pain?"

"No."

"Did you ever feel a pain?"

"Yes," he unwillingly admitted.

"And was the testimony of that one sense sufficient to convince you of the existence of pain?"

"Yes," he replied.

"And the testimony of that same sense has convinced me," she said, "not only of the existence, but of the presence and love, of God."

"Well, mother," said Phil, who shuffled about uneasily, "I have seen so many hypocrites among Church members that I, for one, do not wish to be classed with them. There was Tom Adams, one of Mr. Meach's favorites, who was always in his seat at the meeting-house, who would not shave on Sunday, but had no conscience about shaving us six days in the week. He would not blacken his boots on Sunday, but he did not hesitate to blacken the character of any man in the settlement who disagreed with him in anything, on Sunday or any other day."

"The very existence of hypocrites is a proof of the existence of a reality," said Mrs. Wright, "for if you should happen to find a counterfeit coin it would need no argument to convince you that it was copied from a genuine one. There are genuine Christians as well as counterfeits, and the omniscient and omnipresent God knows the one from the other; and as hypocrites have not the faintest chance of heaven, you had better beware, dear boy, lest you should be 'classed with hypocrites' throughout the never-ending ages of eternity."

Phil's scepticism was a crushing grief to his mother and sister, who set themselves resolutely to win him to the faith with the full force of their intellects. They read, they pleaded, they wrote, they argued, they reasoned. As time went on their best efforts seemed frustrated, and, when at length they seemed to come to the end of all their resources, both cast themselves in utter despair upon God and prayed as only a mother and sister can. Nor did they pray in vain, for the time came when he found his way out of the darkness into the light of truth.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONVENT DAYS.

1806.

Abbie, who was the very reverse of her sister in appearance and disposition, still remained in the convent, the seclusion of which had not transformed her into a religious recluse—rather the reverse. Her association with gay daughters of wealthy Seigneurs and others had the effect of deepening her love of adventure and romance.

Sally Smith continued to be her most intimate friend, and any holidays, which in those days were few and far between, were spent at the Citadel.

One evening a young officer called, and during the absence of her mother from the room Sally said, her eyes dancing with mischief: "Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Wabisca Onodis, Lieutenant Randall. Miss Onodis," she continued, "is the daughter of an Algonquin Chief, and is a boarder at the convent."

"Aw, indeed," said the officer, "I should never have dreamed that your friend was an Indian girl. Have you had much difficulty in acquiring a knowledge of English?" asked the lieutenant.

"Not at all," replied Abbie, "I understand everything that is said, but find difficulty at times in choosing words best fitted to give expression to my deepest emotions."

"Aw, I quite understand. They say that the Indian nature is much more intense than that of other civilized nations. What is exceedingly difficult even for an Englishman must be much more so for one of your temperament. No language, I believe, either written nor spoken, can convey any adequate idea of the emotion of love, for instance. Is that your experience, Miss Onodis?"

Just then Mrs. Smith entered, and the conversation turned to that perennial subject—the weather. The friendship thus formed soon ripened into more than a mere friendship. Frequent messages passed between the convent and the Citadel, messages in cypher, for Therese, an Indian girl, had furnished Abbie with a list of Algonquin words and phrases expressive of deep sentiment, which were quite unintelligible to the nuns, and as the officer was furnished with a similar vocabulary, messages were frequently carried by Sally between the two.

This went on for some time until the nuns found a scrap of paper on the floor containing the following mysterious words:

Nitam shaquoi yanque kitchioni chishim
Kin mishiwaiasky nin
Othai icha quisco.
Ka qui nick kitayam.
                                    Wabisca Onodis.

After matins the Mother Superior addressed about two hundred young women in the Assembly Hall in the following words:

"Young ladies, a very mysterious letter has been found. It is evidently in the Indian language. It is probably intended for one of our Indian young ladies. Did anyone present lose a letter?"

No one spoke.

"O'Jawa," said the superior, addressing a young Indian girl, "will you come forward and see if this letter is written in one of the Iroquois or one of Algonquin dialects?"

O'Jawa promptly came up the aisle, and scanning the paper, said:

"It is Algonquin, Mother."

"To whom is it addressed?"

"To no one, Mother," she replied.

"By whom is it signed?"

"By a White Chief, Mother."

"Please translate it," said the Mother Superior.

O'Jawa read slowly and deliberately:

"First—last—and best,
Thou art all the world to me.
My heart burns.
                    "Always yours,
                                        "WHITE CHIEF."

"This letter," continued the Mother Superior, "evidently belongs to one of the Algonquin girls, who probably has been receiving secret missives of a similar nature from some white man. As you are aware, young ladies, this offence is punishable with expulsion. Deceit is the mother of all vices. The sisters cannot assume the responsibility of the care of any young lady who would deliberately deceive them in this way; therefore I am under the painful necessity of investigating this matter more fully. Therese, come forward. Your guilty face indicates that you were the recipient of this letter. Were you?"

"I was not, Mother."

"Then it was sent to you and the bearer dropped it before you saw it. Is not that the case?"

"I do not know, Mother."

"Have you ever received any communications of this nature before?"

"I have not, Mother."

"Do you know any White Chief?"

"I do not, Mother."

"Do you know for whom this missive was intended?"

Therese hesitated. The question was repeated.

"I do, Mother," she said.

"Do you know by whom it was written?"

Taking the letter in her hand she said, slowly:

"I do, Mother."

"Then, Therese, I must demand the names of both the sender and the intended recipient."

"Who wrote that letter?"

"I shall not tell," she said, slowly and with great determination.

"I shall give you five minutes to answer my question, Therese, and if you stubbornly persist in concealing these facts from me I shall declare you expelled."

There was silence in the hall—not a soul stirred. Therese stood calmly awaiting her doom, when suddenly there was a shuffling at the back of the hall and Abbie came forward and addressed the Superior:

"I wrote that letter. It was intended for a young officer at the Citadel. If you are going to expel anyone, expel me."

The Mother Superior hesitated. She looked at Abbie, then at Therese, and said, solemnly:

"Insubordination and deceit must not go unpunished. I shall communicate all the circumstances of the case to your parents. The classes may now go to their respective class-rooms."

A few days later Abbie was summoned to the reception room, and was much surprised to find her father and her brother Bearie in consultation with the Mother Superior. They had just arrived with a raft of timber—the first raft from the Ottawa—and had come to arrange with the nuns to have Abbie spend the evening with them. The Chief looked very grave as he tried to decipher the tattered letter which the Mother Superior translated to him. He said:

"Abbie is a giddy, foolish, light-hearted girl, whose spirits often carry her beyond bounds. I shall be returning to the Utawas in a few days and shall take her home with me. She will be safe at home," he said, as the Mother tried to dissuade him from his purpose.

"Now that your daughter is on restriction of leave she will be perfectly safe with us. We make an exception, of course, in the case of parents taking their daughters out."

No sooner had they emerged from the stone walls of the convent than Abbie related the whole affair to her father, who reproved her for her folly and gave her what is rarely appreciated, sound, fatherly advice.

On reaching the hotel Bearie introduced to his sister an awkward, bashful youth named Thomas Brigham, who had come down with them on the raft.

"What part of the backwoods do you come from?" she asked, coldly.

"From the township of Hull," he responded.

"Did you ever see a city before?"

"Well, no, I cannot say that I have, except Montreal and Three Rivers," he replied, as he scraped the mud off his long boots with his pocket knife.

"I thought not," she said.

Her father moved uneasily in his seat on observing the embarrassment of the young man, and said, gravely:

"Thomas is not as rough as he looks. He is one of the ablest young men in the settlement. He may lack the veneer of an officer, but you will find as the years go on that there is no discount on Thomas."

So saying, he arose from the table, and, taking his hat from the rack, said: "Come, let us walk out and see something of the city."

They were coming up St. Peter Street. Abbie was laughing and jesting with Bearie, when they came face to face with Lieutenant Randall.

"Let me introduce you to my brother, Lieutenant Randall," said Abbie. "And this is my father," she said, mischievously.

"Aw, I am awfully pleased to meet you, sir," he said, with a perplexed and bewildered expression on his face.

He then turned to Bearie and said: "It is difficult to determine sometimes when Miss Onodis is in jest and when in earnest. She led me to believe that she was the daughter of an Indian chief, and the truth is only now beginning to dawn upon me."

"You have not been misinformed," said Bearie. "My father has the honor to be Chief of one of the Algonquin tribes of the Utawas, but why do you not call my sister by her right name?"

"Aw, pardon me—pardon me! I did not understand, of course. I am to address your sister in future as——

"Miss Wright," said Bearie.

The young lieutenant became a frequent visitor at the hotel while the Chief was negotiating sales of lumber, and had kindly undertaken to assist him in securing an Englishman qualified to fill the position of bookkeeper and tutor to the younger children.

Several weeks passed. All business arrangements having been concluded, Abbie was taken from the convent preparatory to leaving for home, when the young officer approached the Chief and said:

"I have been earnestly hoping for an opportunity of seeing you privately, sir, with reference to your daughter, whose hand I desire to seek in marriage."

"My daughter is not eligible for marriage," replied the Chief, with a twinkle in his eye, "as she is pledged, provisionally, to one of the chiefs of our tribe."

"I cannot think that Ab—— Miss Wright has led me on only to disappoint me at last. Have you any reason to believe that her engagement with the Chief is an affair of the heart?"

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Bearie, who proposed that they should walk out to the square and watch the setting sun.

Abbie and Bearie tried to outrival each other in relating anecdotes and incidents of interest which had taken place during the interval of absence from each other, in the vain hope of arousing the interest of their military friend, who sat on the end of a bench twirling his swagger stick nervously.

"There was an Indian girl in the convent," said Abbie, "who was engaged to be married to one of her own tribe, and a few days before the wedding we took up a collection among the girls and bought her a trousseau. It consisted of a very stylish poke bonnet trimmed with ostrich tips, a purple Irish poplin dress with ten flounces bound with black velvet, a black lace shawl and a liberal supply of underclothing. The poor girl was immensely pleased with the gift, and wore a perpetual grin from the time it was presented to her till she left.

"The day after the wedding the young bridegroom was seen parading the streets dressed in the bride's clothes. The ribbons of her bonnet were roughly twisted under his chin, the lace shawl hung over one shoulder, the hoopskirts were wabbling about in a most extraordinary manner. He seemed much pleased with the amusement it created and laughed as heartily as any of the crowd. His love of adornment had so triumphed over his new-found affection that he left his dusky bride disrobed to weep over it."

"Take heed, take heed, Miss Wright, lest a similar fate be yours," said the young officer.

Abbie looked puzzled, but made no response. "Tell us something about your experiences on the way down," she said, addressing her brother, whom she had seen but once since his arrival.

"We were seven weeks coming down on the raft."

"A raft—a raft? What is that?" interrupted the officer.

"It is an immense flotilla," said the Chief, "made up of numerous sections or cribs of timber, lashed together by green withes, which are easily detached from the main flotilla or raft, and which are capable of being rowed by long rude oars. We constructed on one of these cribs a sandy hearth, above which we made a roof with no walls, which served as a protection from rain. Six little cabins, not unlike dog-kennels, were formed of broad strips of bark, in which each man found a bed. As we drifted down the river cheer after cheer went up from the settlers who had gathered on the point to see us off."*

* In the list of provisions for the journey the Chief mentions, in his diary of June 11th, 1806, "The bread of 3½ bushels of wheat £1 6s. 3d."

"All went well until we reached the Carillon Rapids. We succeeded in getting nineteen cribs over safely, and Martin and Bearie were steering the next, when a gale sprang up from the south and it blew them so near to the north shore at the head of the bay that Captain Johnson, whom we hired to help us over the rapids, thought best to send a canoe to take them off, but he was too late to overtake them. You had better tell the rest of the story," he said, turning to Bearie, who sat with his hands in his pockets leaning against a tree.

"We got through the first chute all right," said Bearie, "but the wind blew us on to the rapids above Green Island and the crib stuck on the rocks. We worked all day to get her off, but it was no use. At last there was a creak and a crash, and the whole thing went to 'smithereens.' One stick only remained on the rock, with Martin clinging to one end and me to the other. It worked like a 'see-saw'; when Martin came up I went down, and when I came up Martin went down. Though my eyes, ears, nose and mouth were full of water, I managed to call out,—

"'Ough, Martin; how do you like that?'

"Then Martin went up and I went under, and he called out:

"'How do you like it yourself, youngster?'

"At length they got us off by throwing a rope from a point above and letting it float down to where we were. I managed to get hold of it first and tied it round my waist, and it was all I could do to keep my head above water in the raging torrent. I was not sorry, as you may imagine, to see a boat put out from Barren's Point to pick me up. They tried the same plan with Martin, and got him off safely, too.

"When we came to the head of the Sault we had to hire some Indians from Caughnawaga," continued Bearie. "They could not speak English, and we could not understand much French so father wrote down in his note-book a good many words which he spelt according to the sound, and with the supposed meaning attached to each word. In this way he soon had a number of words, phrases and sentences which he at once began to use. He found it very hard to get some words, and the Indians often looked very bewildered when he spoke to them. He tried for a long time to find out the word for 'pike-pole,' and at length decided that it must be 'Am-chee-brin.' He used the word all the way to Quebec before discovering that it meant 'Un petit brin,' a common expression among the French-Canadians, meaning 'a little.'"

"But that was not the worst," said the Chief. "When we came to Bastican we went to a Post-house* for dinner, and the 'bonne femme' introduced with great pride her only child, a black-eyed boy of about two.

* Not a post-office, but an inn with livery attached, under Government inspection, with fixed tariff of rates per mile for hire of horses for travellers.

"'Cest un bon petit crapeau, madame,' I ventured to remark, patting the boy on the head and thinking that I was paying a great compliment.

"But I saw at once, by the angry expression on the woman's face, that I had made a great mistake, which was afterwards explained by one of the men on the drive, who said that it meant, 'That is a nice little toad, madam.' We were a long time trying to find out the meaning of Puck-a-pab, and were amazed when they told us on reaching here that it meant 'Pas capable,' 'not able.'"

"I find it exceedingly difficult," remarked the officer, "to understand the language of the habitants, though I studied French with an excellent tutor."

"We had a terrific storm while anchored at Pointe aux Trembles," said Bearie. "The sky grew densely black; every moment broad zig-zag flashes lighted up the dark, angry-looking water. Father and I were on shore, and we crawled beneath a large upturned tree root to keep dry, for the rain soon began to fall in torrents. It was well we did, for the hurricane swept the masts, tents, cabins, and even the roof of the caboose away down stream, and scattered the cribs in all directions. We were three days looking for lost timber and repairing damages."

"I should not omit to tell you of our experience at the Long Sault. We were thirty-six days getting through the rapids. The habitants shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders and said: 'Il n'est pas possible (It is not possible); what has never been can never be, and the man who would attempt such a thing is a fool.'

"While camping there one evening we met a priest and some Frenchmen who were on their way to one of the back settlements. The priest was not a bad fellow. He spoke good English and was very kind and affable, and he invited us to go with him and his party to see the site of an old French palisade fort, which he called the Thermopylæ of Canada, and where, he said, the most daring deed ever attempted on this continent took place nearly one hundred and fifty years ago."

"Tell us about it," said the officer.

"You tell about it, father," said Bearie.

"It is a long story," replied the Chief, "but I shall try to tell it as briefly as possible. The priest said that the French colonists had suffered much from the cruelty of the Iroquois tribes, who had decided to destroy the whole French colony. A Mohegan Indian told the French that eight hundred Indian warriors were encamped near Montreal, and would soon be joined by four hundred more from the Uttawas, and that they had planned to take Quebec, kill the Governor, burn up the town, massacre the inhabitants; after which they would proceed to do the same with Three Rivers and Montreal.

"A young officer named Daulac, who was in command of the garrison at Montreal, proposed to entrap them on their way down the Ottawa and fight them. Sixteen young fellows from Montreal volunteered to go with him. They did not know much about canoeing, for they were a whole week in attempting to pass the swift current at St. Anne, at the head of the Island of Montreal. In the meantime they were overtaken by forty Hurons and several Christian Algonquins. When they saw the rushing, foaming waters of the Sault they decided to go no farther, for they knew that the Iroquois were sure to pass there. He pointed out a spot just below the rapids, where the woods slope gently down to the shore, where an old Algonquin palisade fort stood. 'It was,' he said, 'a mere enclosure of trunks of trees planted in a circle.' In a few days they saw two Iroquois canoes coming down the Sault. Daulac and his men hid behind the bushes and, as they landed, shot all but one, who escaped and fled through the forest to the main body.

"'Suddenly,' said the priest, 'a fleet of canoes filled with Iroquois came bounding down the rapids. Soon as they landed they smashed the bark canoes of the French, and, kindling the bark, ran up to set fire to the palisade. Three times they attempted to storm the little fort, but were driven back by the deadly fire of the small garrison. Their rage was unbounded. They sent word to five hundred of their tribe, who were camped at the mouth of the Richelieu, to come to their aid. This so frightened the Hurons that they deserted and betrayed the smallness of their force to the enemy, who advanced with yells, firing as they came on. But again they had to fall back, owing to the deadly fire of the French. The latter held out for three days, and the Iroquois were on the verge of giving up the siege when they resolved to make one last attempt. They made large, heavy shields, four or five feet high, by lashing together three split logs fastened together with cross bars. Under cover of these they advanced, reached the palisade, and, crouching below the range of shot, hewed furiously with their axes until they cut their way through. Daulac filled a large musketoon with powder, and after plugging up the muzzle attached a fuse, and tried to throw it over the palisade, but it fell back among the French and exploded, killing and wounding several and blinding others.

"'In the confusion that followed the Iroquois got possession. All was soon over. Daulac was the first killed, and a burst of triumphant yells went up from the savages. Five of the heroic defenders escaped and brought the news to Montreal. It proved the salvation of our French colonists in Canada,' continued the priest, 'for they felt that if seventeen white men could hold seven hundred warriors at bay so long in an old palisade like that, there would be no chance of capturing walled towns like Quebec and Montreal.'"

"If that is true," said the officer, thoughtfully, "the French must have more nerve than I ever gave them credit for."

"It was a daring deed," said the Chief, who walked off with Thomas, leaving the others to follow.

CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW TUTOR.

1806.

The Chief had been detained in Quebec several days longer than he intended, awaiting a schooner, when a stranger approached him and said:

"Pardon me, sir, but I have a note here from Lieutenant Randall."

Breaking the seal, the Chief read as follows:

    THE CITADEL, August 7th, 1806.

P. WRIGHT, Esq.

DEAR SIR,—This will introduce to you Harold Wrenford, an old school friend from Wilton, England, who has just arrived and is seeking employment. He has references from his rector and others which would indicate that he is well fitted for the position of tutor, which I believe you wish to fill.

Wishing you and Miss Wright a bon voyage.—Believe me, sir,

    Yours very sincerely,
            WM. RANDALL.

The young Englishman was about the same height as the officer, but, unlike his friend, had a clean shaven face and dark auburn hair, which came almost to his shoulders. The expression of his face when in repose was pensive. An air of refinement distinguished his voice and manner. His general appearance and testimonials created a most favorable impression on the Chief, and the two were not long in coming to terms of agreement. A few hours later they were stemming the mighty current of the St. Lawrence in a small schooner, en route for Montreal, where the Colombo, a flat-bottomed bateau, was waiting to take them to their destination.

The advent of the tutor proved a most important event in the history of the backwoods settlement, and marked the beginning of a new era. Though courteous and obliging to the Chief and his family, he ever manifested a cool reserve to the neighbors, which made him most unpopular among them. They would call at the office, pay their accounts, and depart without a word of friendly greeting, or even of common courtesy.

Some regarded the tutor as a recluse with very exaggerated ideas of his own importance. Others looked upon him with suspicion, and whispered that he was probably the son of a nobleman in England who had committed a crime and had to flee the country. A general feeling of dislike began to manifest itself, which was intensified by the fact that the Chief, who had always been geniality itself, became almost inaccessible to them. When they would call at the Wigwam to discuss current events they invariably found him engaged with Wrenford. When they would call at the office in hope of hearing something of the outside world—for newspapers rarely reached the township at that time, and the Chief was the only link between them and civilization—the ubiquitous Wrenford was ever intruding and diverting the Chief's attention.

Nor were the neighbors alone in feeling that they had lost a friend. The sons began to realize that the young Englishman was determined to have the sole monopoly of their father's society. From early childhood they had been the inseparable companions of their father. Rarely did he enter upon any new enterprise without first discussing it with them in all its bearings; but, since the new regime, their father's plans and projects were generally communicated to them through the tutor. Even Mrs. Wright had cause to regret the advent of the new tutor, for she was not slow to observe a growing apathy in her husband to the Sunday service in the little congregational meeting-house.

The basis of union between the Chief and the tutor was not altogether unintelligible, and was not as unreasonable as the family seemed to think. It was founded upon mutual interests, strengthened by mutual assistance. The tutor wrote a good hand, the Chief a very poor one, having lost the use of his right hand through an injury. The tutor had a natural talent for making out estimates and accounts. He had a kind of information which had been gleaned from centres of civilization which was helpful to the Chief, who had spent years in the seclusion of the settlement.

Months passed. Unknown to any one, Wrenford often imagined what his life would be if Abbie could be induced to love him. This one thought, fervent and strong within him, filled him with constancy of purpose. Through all the duties of life this purpose inspired him, but any advances that he ventured to make were met with a cool reserve, which repelled him. He strove against the cruel wounds in his heart, and sought by every art in his power to win her.

It was evident to all in the family circle that Abbie had become a changed girl since her stay in Quebec. Cheerfulness had always been her chief characteristic. Peals of laughter and French and English songs, with choruses, could be heard wherever she presided. Even in the poultry yard her rich fund of humor manifested itself in the naming of her feathered flock. A bronze turkey, stately and dignified, was addressed as Chief Machecawa; a big Brahma cock, who held his head above the others, she called "Harold the Great;" while another cock, almost as gay and proud in appearance, and who manifested a decided antipathy to the Brahma, was designated as "Thomas à Becket;" while still another was "William the Conqueror." All these creatures had distinct personalities and dispositions of their own, and were called after noted historical characters whose first names corresponded to those of her numerous suitors whom they were supposed to resemble. Like Bearie, her stories of bygone days were the product of a shrewd mind, a keen sense of humor, and a clear memory. She disliked housework and fancy-work, and all kinds of systematic work except weaving. When set to tease wool, every hard and knotty tuft was tossed into the fire. When stockings were given her to darn, she ran a gathering string round each hole and drew it together regardless of the discomfort of the wearer. She liked weaving. It was the only work she did like, and it fell to her lot consequently to supply the house with flannel and linen. The coarse but snowy table covers Abbie had spun and woven with her own hands from flax grown on the farm. The boys' shirts were made by her from the wool of their own sheep. Few women of the settlement could outrival her in the lost art, for she could make between forty and fifty yards of flannel in a week.

Since her visit to Quebec much of Abbie's buoyancy seemed to have faded from her life. Her eye had lost much of its animation. Her step had lost its sprightliness.

"If Abbie had remained in the convent another month," said Christie to his mother, "you would never have seen her again except with a black veil and through iron bars. In fact, it would not surprise me if she has not even now serious intentions of taking the veil."

Bearie suspected the true cause of the melancholy state of mind into which his sister had fallen, but said nothing.

By night and by day there remained with her a vision of a tall, handsome young man, with flaxen hair and moustache—a rare appendage in those days—dressed in the gay uniform of a British officer, with its large epaulets, queer cocked hat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and with polished sword dangling by his side—an officer as gay as his uniform.

"Why have so many letters remained unanswered?" she mused. "He seemed almost overwhelmed with emotion when we parted. I feel convinced that nothing but my father's presence prevented him from pouring forth a passionate farewell. His hand trembled as it touched mine. How tender, how embarrassed he seemed when he attempted to express his last words. Why, oh! why does he not write?"

Disappointment was overshadowing her life. She was not aware that her father had rejected him as a suitor, and there had stolen into her mind solemn wonderings and hopes that sometime, somewhere, the deepest longings of her heart might be realized. She had nothing against Harold Wrenford. On the contrary, she saw much in him to admire. His English voice and manner reminded her in many ways of Randall's. Notwithstanding his unpopularity with the neighbors and her brothers, her soft heart and susceptible spirit were well calculated to respond to the slight ebullitions of tender regard which he had on several occasions ventured to manifest, but which she ever resented.

Wrenford held to his purpose, unsuspected and unaided, with as much tenacity as Abbie held to hers.

CHAPTER X.

TOBACCO OFFERINGS.

1808.

It was a beautiful moonlight evening in August. A shadowy haze lingered over the river, which glistened and sparkled in the moonlight. The Chief and several members of his family were seated on the beach in front of the Wigwam listening to the Honorable Joseph Papineau, who, with his son, Louis Joseph, had come up in a canoe to see the falls. The former had recently purchased from Bishop Laval the unsettled seigniory of Petit Nation, and had erected an unpretentious cottage, which he occupied during the summer months.

"It was a lovely vision," said Mr. Papineau, who had just performed the feat of canoeing to the foot of the Chaudiere Falls for the first time. "On our return we climbed the rugged cliff on the south side, and never shall I forget the panorama that spread out before us. The sun, sinking slowly behind the Laurentian hills, had clothed himself with a robe of splendor. The long reflections lay soft on the waters of the river below. The clouds of ascending mist from the Chaudiere took a thousand shades of color as the western sky faded slowly from crimson into gold and from gold to green and gray, and finally displayed dark shapes, out of which imagination might well have formed a thousand monsters.*

* Louis Joseph, afterwards known as the Demosthenes of Canada, and who almost succeeded in making Canada a Republic, with himself as President, was evidently much impressed with the scene, which he described as follows: "Le soleil etait pret decendre sous l'horison, la mureille tout limpide etait d'une transparence vivre, tout penetree de lumiere vaguement prismatiseé."

"As we watched the gathering shadows my thoughts went back two hundred years, to the time when Champlain went on his first trip up the 'Riviere des Algoumequins,' as he called it. About two years before he took the trip he sent Nicholas de Vignan, a young Frenchman, up the river with some friendly Indians, and Nicholas had returned with the marvellous story that he had reached the North Sea. He said that the journey could be made in a few days. He also gave an account of having seen the wreck of an English ship.

"Champlain was completely taken in, and lost no time in starting off to verify the discovery for which the world had been looking for some time. His fleet consisted of two canoes with two Indians and three Frenchmen, one of whom was De Vignan. It was in May, when the river was at its height. When they reached the Gatineau the Indians told him that their tribe were often compelled to conceal themselves amid the hills of the Upper Gatineau from their dreaded enemies, the Iroquois. When Champlain beheld the twin curtain falls yonder, 'like a slow dropping veil of the thinnest lawn,' he exclaimed, 'Le Rideau! Le Rideau!' The Indians told him that the waters formed an arcade under which they delighted to walk, and where they were only wet by the spray. As they rounded the lofty headland opposite he saw the cloud of mist rising from the falls, which the Indians called the 'Asticou,' which means 'Chaudiere' in French, or 'kettle' in English, for the water has worn out a deep basin into which it rushes with a whirling motion which boils up in the midst like a kettle.

"You have probably been close enough to have seen it, Madame?" he said, addressing Mrs. Wright.

"No," she replied, "I have always been too timid to venture so near to it in a canoe."

"Champlain said," continued Mr. Papineau, "that he paddled as near as possible to the falls, when the Indians took the canoes and the Frenchmen and himself carried their arms and provisions. He described with great feeling the sharp and rugged rocks of the portages to pass the falls and rapids until at last, in the afternoon, they embarked upon the peaceful waters of a lake where, he said, there were very beautiful islands filled with vines and with walnut and other agreeable trees."

"There are no walnuts on the islands of Lake Chaudiere," interrupted Bearie, "I am quite sure."

"He probably saw a butternut tree," said young Louis Joseph, "and thought it produced walnuts."

"Champlain's journey came to an abrupt close a few days afterwards," said Mr. Papineau, "when he reached Allumette Island, about seventy miles farther up the river. There was a large settlement of friendly Algonquins, called 'Les Sauvages de l'Isle,' and Champlain tried to obtain several canoes and guides to proceed farther. They, however, had their own commercial reasons for keeping the French from the upper country, and they warned him of the danger of meeting the terrible tribe of the Sorcerers. Champlain said that De Vignan had passed through all these dangers. The head Chief then said to the impostor:

"'Is it true that you have said that you have been among the Sorcerers?'

"After a long pause he said: 'Yes, I've been there.'

"The Indians at once threw themselves upon him with fierce cries as if they would have torn him to pieces, and the Chief said:

"'You are a bold liar. You know that every night you slept by my side with my children. How have you the impudence to tell your chief such lies?'

"The upshot was that Champlain returned down the Ottawa, followed by an escort of fifty canoes.

"When the party reached the Chaudiere the savages, he said, performed their mystic rites. After having carried their canoes to the foot of the Falls, they gathered in a certain spot where one of them, provided with a wooden dish, passed it round, and each one placed in the dish a piece of tobacco.

"The collection finished, the dish was placed in the midst of the band and all danced around it, chanting after their fashion. Then one of the chiefs delivered a harangue, explaining that from olden times they had always made such an offering, and that by this means they are protected from their enemies and saved from misfortune, for so the devil persuades them. Then the same chief took the dish and proceeded to throw the tobacco into the Chaudiere, amid the loud shoutings of the band. 'They are so superstitious,' said Champlain, 'that they do not believe that they can make a safe journey if they have not performed this ceremony in this particular place.'

"Ah, Monsieur," Mr. Papineau continued, "it stirred my soul as I stood on that rocky cliff and thought of how many canoes of heroic missionaries, Indian braves and cheery voyageurs have paddled these waters and torn their feet on the rocky shores, going, some of them to death and some to tortures worse than death. As we drifted down with the current in the moonlight the gentle breeze in the pines along the shore seemed to be whispering sad tales of other days."

Mr. Papineau, who had spoken with such animation and fluency, relapsed into silence for several minutes, then, rousing himself, said, with even greater enthusiasm and vigor:

"Providence has crowned our lives with great blessing since the heroic Daulac struck the death-blow to the power of the Iroquois in this country, and since the English undertook the responsibility of its government. Though I am proud of the fact that every bone and muscle, nerve and sinew within me is French, though I dearly love my Mother Country and my fellow countrymen, I have no hesitation in making the solemn assertion that our country has enjoyed a greater degree of prosperity under the new regime than it ever did under the old. But it must ever be remembered that much of the foundation of that prosperity was laid in the blood of the early French martyrs and in the heroic achievements of the early French settlers."

It seemed incredible to the visitors that in a settlement of so recent date their host should have been able to show them a grist-mill, a saw-mill, a vegetable alkali factory, a tannery, a small foundry, a tailor shop, a bakery, a general store, and a hemp-mill, giving employment to over one hundred men.

Fortunately for the pioneers of the Ottawa, they were not dependent upon the small revenue derived from the cultivation of the land, but had other resources which afforded them much greater remuneration. The British Navy, which hitherto had been dependent upon Russia for its cordage and lumber, had to look elsewhere for its supply of hemp and timber, owing to the ports of the Baltic having been closed to British ships.

The price of hemp having risen from £25 to £118 per ton, they undertook the cultivation of it, and raised over three-fourths of the amount raised in Lower Canada at that time. The exportation of lumber and vegetable alkali, or potash, were also great sources of revenue. In the new clearances were tons of wood ashes from which the lye was extracted and boiled till it looked like molten iron, a barrel of which sold at that time for thirty dollars.

Prosperity and success crowned every commercial enterprise upon which they ventured until fire swept every mill, factory and dwelling in the thriving little village out of existence, including thousands of dollars in cash in a small safe in the office, quantities of wheat, hemp, sawn lumber, laths and general merchandise.

As there was no compensation in the way of insurance, the loss was much felt.

Philemon Wright was not the man to be deterred from climbing the ladder of success, even though he had to mount it by the rungs of adverse circumstances. Though the loss sustained was great, almost overwhelming, he rose above it with a courage which yielded not to disappointment or failure.

The cause of the fire long remained a mystery. That it was the work of an incendiary was beyond question. Various theories were advocated by the settlers, but suspicion rested upon Machecawa, who, it was alleged, had been seen by the bookkeeper at a late hour lingering about the mills, a suspicion which gained no credence with the Chief and his family.