all-way, and Malachi stood before them. At his
shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness too;
and the eyes had depths which any man might be glad to drown his heart
in.

Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or awkwardness fell on the
group at the table.

But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: "May we come in?"

In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and had her by the hand,
her and her father, drawing them over.

His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for many a day.

And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy.

THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE

When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so called, Pierre said:
"Because of the Great Slave;" and then paused.

Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If he wished to tell,
he would in his own time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. It was
nearly an hour before Pierre, eased off from the puzzle he was solving
with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had been
speaking the moment before:

"They have said it is legend, but I know better. I have seen the records
of the Company, and it is all there. I was at Fort O'Glory once, and in
a box two hundred years old the factor and I found it. There were other
papers, and some of them had large red seals, and a name scrawled along
the end of the page."

Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. He was a born
story-teller. Tybalt was aching with interest, for he scented a thing of
note.

"How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, begin?" he asked.

"'To our dearly-beloved,' or something like that," answered Pierre.
"There were letters also. Two of them were full of harsh words, and
these were signed with the scrawl."

"What was that scrawl?" asked Tybalt.

Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. "Like
that," he answered.

Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath.
"Charles Rex," he said, hardly above his breath.

Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. "That name was droll, eh?"

Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. "It is a great
name," he said shortly.

"The Slave was great--the Indians said so at the last."

"But that was not the name of the Slave?"

"Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex--like that! was the man who wrote
the letters."

"To the Great Slave?"

Pierre made a gesture of impatience. "Very sure."

"Where are th