mightn't know how
the world needed you."

"But there you are mistaken," he said; "I haven't anyone who would
really care, worse luck! except the dowager; and she, perhaps, would be
consoled to know that I had died in battle,--even with a moose,--and
was clear of the possibility of hanging another lost reputation on the
family tree, to say nothing of suspension from any other kind of tree.
But, if it should be the other way; if I should see your father in the
path of an outrageous moose--what then?"

"My father is a hunter born," she responded; "he is a great man," she
proudly added.

"Of course, of course," he replied. "Good-bye. I'll take him your
love.--Good-bye!" and he turned away.

"Good-bye," she gaily replied; and yet, one looking closely would have
seen that this stalwart fellow was pleasant to her eyes, and as she
closed the door to his hand waving farewell to her from the pines, she
said, reflecting on his words:

"You'll take him my love, will you? But, Master Gregory, you carry a
freight of which you do not know the measure; and, perhaps, you never
shall, though you are very brave and honest, and not so impudent as you
used to be,--and I'm not so sure that I like you so much better for that
either, Monsieur Gregory."

Then she went and laid her cheek against her mother's, and said:
"They've gone away for big game, mother dear; what shall be our quarry?"

"My child," the mother replied, "the story of our lives since last you
were with me is my only quarry. I want to know from your own lips all
that you have been in that life which once was mine also, but far away
from me now, even though you come from it, bringing its memories without
its messages."

"Dear, do you think that life there was so sweet to me? It meant as
little to your daughter as to you. She was always a child of the wild
woods. What rustle of pretty gowns is pleasant as the silken shiver of
the maple leaves in summer at this door? The happiest time in that life
was when we got away to Holwood or Marchurst, with the balls and calls
all over."

Mrs. Malbrouck smoothed her daughter's hand gently and smiled
approvingly.

"But that old life of yours, mother; what was it? You said that you
would tell me some day. Tell me now. Grandmother was fond of me--poor
grandmother! But she would never tell me anything. How I longed to be
back with you!... Sometimes you came to me in my sleep, and called to
me to come with you; and then again, whe