e so to tell you how very sorry! But the Yankee words--I
know not those which tell how sorry I shall be. It is not much I can do
for the poor little childs--only whittle and save pennies for the fresh
air."

Another man, another tone, might have put rebuke, indirectly, into those
words. But old Etienne, rasping his hard palms nervously, was merely
vowing himself to sacrifice because there was no one else left to do so.
Farr understood and was softened.

"And now I must go to the bed for my sleep, because the rack must be
cleared before the wheel start to go roompy-roomp in the big pit asking
for its water." He was showing nervousness, haste, his voice trembled;
he staggered when he lifted himself out of his chair.

"You'd better say good-by to me now," said Farr, rising with the old
man. "It's a good night under the stars. I shall probably be far out on
the road by daylight."

"Good-bye," muttered old Etienne, fumbling his hat and bowing.

"But aren't you going to say something else to me--say you're sorry to
have me go?" demanded the young man. "We have been close together in
some things we shall never forget."

"I have told you. I cannot say how sorry." The old man's voice was
little more than a husky whisper.

"I like you, Uncle Etienne. I want you to know it. You are an old
saint." He put out his hand, but the rack-tender turned and hurried to
the door. "Not take my hand?" cried Farr. "Am I as much of a traitor as
all that?"

"Oh, I cannot speak! I have no word," wailed the old man from the gloom
in the street. His voice rose in shrill, cracked tones. He began to weep
aloud. He had been restraining his feelings with all the strength of his
will since Farr had announced his intentions. His departure was flight.
He began to run away down the sidewalk. "Saint Joseph, guard my tongue!"
he gasped over and over. "I'll go very fast so that I not say it, for I
am only old Pickaroon, and he is fine gentlemans!" He continued to weep
broken-heartedly.

"Mr. Farr, he was afraid he would tell you how much he loved you--afraid
that you would be insulted if he presumed to tell you of it."

"I don't think I just understand that," commented Farr, staring into the
night, peering to get another glimpse of Etienne.

"I understand!" said the girl. "It would be too bad for you to go away
and think that at parting he was not polite to you. I would not like to
have you suppose that fault is in one from Tadousac. He has told me