very near to the place where he had paused the night before.
There was a low talking in the bushes. He waited for a moment, and then parted the branches and stood just within the little circle.
"François!" he said. His voice was very clear. They were seated on the low stone, and had not heard him. They started. François stood up and looked at Octave standing in among the ghostly white poplars.
"François, do not speak. Last night I heard you. You need not go away, you and Keila. She loves you, and I–I love you both. I am older than you, little brother. And do you remember when I gave you the little doe I caught back by the Ruisseau?–so long ago; and now–now it is Keila that I give you. You need not go away, and I will come and see you sometimes."
Keila had hidden her face and was trembling, and François had turned away. When the voice ceased he came forward, but Octave said: "No, little brother, do not come near me–you will see me often–but I will go home now," and the bushes closed behind him.
The sun was setting one October evening, and under a steep ridge of rock, that rose in steps and made a jagged outline against the sky, two men were talking.
"Where are you going, Octave?"
"Home."
"To-night?"
"Yes, to-night. You will stay here?"
"Yes. Will you be down in the morning?"
"I don't know."
"You will come down for the wedding?"
"Yes, I think so."
"You must come, Octave."
"Yes, I must come."
"Are you going now?"
"Yes."
It was growing dark rapidly. The sun had set and the sky was flushed and knotted like the forehead of an angry god. François turned his back to the hill, but lingered to look after Octave. He could not see him leaping up from ledge to ledge, but suddenly he sprang from the low brow of the hill and stood for a moment outlined firmly against the sky, then as suddenly vanished. Into the gloom, François thought; but all the little hollow was filled with clear light, and away where the low bushes crouched along the stream a wakeful bird was uttering a few long-drawn, passionate notes. The night that followed was dark and starless, and the wind, searching for forgotten paths among the trees, heaved long, low, tremulous sighs.
On the morrow there was a wedding at the Mission; but hearts would have been happier for the presence of one who never came, and eyes would have been brighter for the sight of one they never saw again.
Years have passed. On many silent hills and in many lonely valleys the stumps of pines stand where the sun used to touch the green tops a hundred feet above them. The stalwart trunks have gone to cover homes in the south, and to shelter the heads of happy children from the storms which they learned to resist on their native hills in the north.
But greater changes have taken place at the Castor. The lake seems wider now, but that is because there is only one little strip of forest on the west side. The fields rise gradually on the rounded hill, and the sun, which used to cast gloomy shadows into the lake, has to smile now across golden fields of ripe oats and barley.
The rocky eastern shore remains unchanged; but on the west there are two houses, with their barns and low out-buildings.
In the evening the collie drives home the cows, and the bells clang wildly through the bushes. A young voice keeps calling to him, and he answers with sharp yelps. Soon a stalwart lad bursts through the underbrush into the path, and goes singing after the cows. He hears a voice calling from the bars. "Octave! Octave! Octave!" His brother waits there for him to pass, and they put up the bars and go home together.
Then there is often singing in the evening, and laughter; and White Mc-
