his hand rapidly over his forehead and his eyes, then
grounding his musket, and seizing Barbin by the collar, he exclaimed:

"You don't mean it. I knew it would come, but did not expect it so soon.
The wolf, you said? Ah! sixteen years are a long time, but it passes,
Barbin. We are old now, yet not broken--"

He would have continued in this strain, but his interlocutor suddenly
stopped him.

"Yes, yes, Batoche, it is thus. Make yourself ready, as we are doing.
But I must go. My companions are waiting for me. We have important work
to do to-night."

"And I?" asked the old man reproachfully.

"Your work, Batoche, is not now, but later, not here, but elsewhere. Be
quiet; you have not been forgotten."

Barbin then disappeared in the wood, while Batoche slowly returned
toward the road, shaking his head, and saying to himself:

"The wolf! I knew it would come, but who would have thought it? Will my
violin sing the old song to me to-night? Will Clara glide under the
waterfall?"

X.

THE CASKET.

Little Blanche had not been forgotten all this time. The old man when he
reached the road, looked in the direction of Quebec for a moment, as if
hesitating whether to turn his steps in that direction. But he
apparently changed his mind, for he deliberately walked across the road,
and plunged into the narrow path leading to his cabin. When he arrived
there, he saw a horse and sleigh standing a little away from it under
the trees. He paid no attention to them, however, and walked up to the
door, which was opened for him by little Blanche. Bending down, he
kissed her on the forehead, laid his hand upon her hair, and said:

"It is well, child, but why so late?"

"I could not return earlier, grandpapa."

"Who detained you?"

She pointed to a muffled figure seated in a shaded angle of the room.
Still trailing his carbine in his left hand, Batoche walked up to it.
The figure rose, extended its hand and smiled sadly.

"You don't know me, Batoche?"

The old man looked into the face of the stranger for a long time, then
the light of recognition came and he exclaimed:

"I must be mistaken. It cannot be."

"Yes, it is I--"

"M. Belmont!"

"Yes, Batoche, we remember each other, though we have not met for some
years. You live the life of an anchorite here, never coming to the city,
and I remain in retirement, scarcely ever going from the city. We are
almost strangers, and yet we are friends. We _must_ be friends n