ings. She spoke of God and religion. The
untutored child of the forest rose with the occasion. There was nothing
conventional in her mind or words on these topics--as how could there be
under the wayward teaching of Batoche? But her intuitions were crystal
clear. There were no breaks, no obscurations in her spiritual vision. It
was evident that she had studied and communed direct with nature, and
that her soul had grown in literal contact with the winds and the
flowers, the trees and the water courses, and the pure untrammelled
elements of God.

She knelt before the lap of Zulma and recited all the prayers she
knew--the formulas which the priest and Pauline had taught her, and the
ejaculations which she had taught herself to say, in the bright morning,
in the dark evening, in the silent days of peace, in the crash of the
tempest, or when her little heart ached from whatever cause as she
passed from infancy to adolescence. The contrast between the styles of
these prayers impressed Zulma very strongly. The former were such as she
herself knew, complete, appropriate and pathetic in their very
phraseology. The latter were fragmentary, rude, and sometimes
incongruous in syntax, but they spoke the poetry of the heart, and their
yearning fervour and indubiety made Zulma understand, as she listened to
them through her tears, how it is that wayside statues of stone, and
wooden figures of the Madonna in lofty niches, are said to hear and
answer by visible tokens the prayers of the illiterate, the unfortunate,
and the poor.

"Are you not lonely here my dear?" asked Zulma raising the child from
her knees and stroking back her hair as she stood leaning against her
arm.

"I am used to be alone, mademoiselle," was the reply. "I have never had
any company but my grandfather, who is often absent. He seeks food for
both of us. He kills birds and animals in the woods. He catches fish in
the river. Nobody ever came to see us except of late when my grandfather
has been called away by strange men and has remained absent longer than
usual. When he is here he speaks to me, he tells me stories, he teaches
me to understand the pictures in some of his old books, he plays the
violin for me. When he is gone I take more time to do my work, washing
clothes, cleaning the dishes, sweeping the room, mending my dresses.
When this is done, if the weather is fine, I gather flowers and fruits,
I sit at the Falls making wreaths for our pictures and my gra