freshness of his fragrant couch insured a long sleep to Feuardent. The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke. He found beside him a pitcher of water, bread and meat, and a cup of coffee, fragant and inviting, prepared by the father's own hands. It was Sunday morning, and from the sounds in the adjoining chapel Robert judged that preparations for service were in progress. Dressing noiselessly, he made his escape through the window and betook himself to the Indian settlement, not far distant. While the priest was ministering to the spiritual needs of his dusky flock, Robert, in company with a pair of Sabbath-breaking redskins, went on a hunting tour, the result of which was highly favorable to the larder of his host. Through the well-known haunts he tramped, whistling as he went an old Creole love-song, his gun on his shoulder, his dogs following him. He was thinking joyfully of Margaret; yesterday's dark mood had been dispelled by the scenes and faces which were so familiarly dear to him, and by the counsels of that wise old man who had so little of this world about him.
Robert Feuardent felt all the beauty of his forest home because something in him claimed kindred with the wood-life. He felt but could not express the delights of an existence governed only by the laws of Nature. The priest, who
