e--"

"Hush now, Patsy," said his father hurriedly. "Don't ye want to go on
the pony with Marion? Come on now, an' Oi'll put ye up."

"Oh, goody, goody!" shouted little Patsy, his pale, beautiful face
aglow with delight.

"Poor little manny!" groaned Carroll to his wife, looking after the
pair as they rode off up the trail. "It's not many ye'll be after
lickin', except with yer tongue."

"But, begorra," said his wife, "that's the lickin' that hurts, afther
all. An' it's harrd tellin' what'll be comin' till the lad."

Her husband turned without more words and went into the house. Meantime
Marion and Patsy were enjoying their canter.

"Take me up to the Jumping Rock," said the boy, and they took the trail
that wound up the west side of the lake.

"There now, Patsy," said Marion, when they had arrived at a smooth
shelf of rock that rose sheer out of the blue water of the lake, "I'll
put you by the big spruce there, and you can see all over the lake and
everywhere."

She slipped off the pony, carefully lifted the boy down and set him
leaning against a big spruce pine that grew seemingly up out of the
bare rock and leaned far out over the water. This was the swimming
place for the boys and men of the village; and an ideal place it was,
for off the rock or out of the overhanging limbs the swimmers could
dive without fear into the clear, deep water below.

"There now, Patsy," said the girl after she had picketed her pony,
"shall I tell you a story?"

"No. Sing, Mayan, I like you to sing."

But just as the girl was about to begin he cried, "Who's that comin',
Mayan?" pointing down the trail.

The keen eyes of the lad had descried a horseman far away where the
long slope rose to the horizen.

"I don't know," answered the girl. "Who is it, Patsy? A cowboy?"

"No," said Patsy, after waiting for a few minutes, "I think it's
Perault."

"No, Patsy, that can't be. You know Perault went out with father last
week."

"Yes, it is," insisted Patsy. "That's father's pony. That's Rat-tail, I
know."

The girl stood up and gazed anxiously at the approaching rider.

"Surely it can't be Perault," she said to herself. "What can have
happened?"

She unhitched her horse, rolled up her picket rope, and stood waiting
with disturbed face. As the rider drew near she called, "Perault! Ho,
Perault!"

"Hola!" exclaimed Perault, a wizened, tough-looking little Frenchman,
pulling up his pony with a jerk "Bo jou, Mam'selle," he ad