her father's roof, and she
would suffer the offence to pass. The persistent gallant
was more crest-fallen by this last silent rebuke, than
by the first with its angry words. The first, in his
vanity, he had deemed an outburst of petulance, instead
of an expression of personal dislike, especially as the
girl had so suddenly calmed herself and extended
hospitalities. He gnashed his teeth that a half-breed
girl, in an obscure village, should resent his advances;
he for whom, if his own understanding was to be trusted,
so many bright eyes were languishing. At the evening meal
he received courteous, kindly attention from Marie; but
this was all. He related with much eloquence all that
he had seen in the big world in the East during his school
days, and took good care that his hosts should know how
important a person he was in the colony of Red River. To
his mortification he frequently observed in the midst of
one of his most self-glorifying speeches that the girl's
eyes were abstracted, as if her imagination were wandering.
He was certain she was not interested in him, or in his
exploits.

"Can she have a lover?" he asked himself, a keen arrow
of jealousy entering at his heart, and vibrating through
all his veins. "No, this cannot be. She said in her
musings on the prairie that she had nobody who would sing
a sad song if she were to go to the South. Stop! She
may love, and not find her passion requited. I shall
stay about here some days, upon some pretext, and I shall
see what is in the wind."

The next morning, when breakfast was ended, he perceived
Marie rush to the window, and then hastily, and with a
dainty coyness withdraw her head from the pane.
Simultaneously he heard a sprightly tune whistled, as if
by some glad, young heart that knew no care. Looking now,
he saw a tall, well-formed young whiteman, a gun on his
back, and a dog at his heels, walking along the little
meadow-path toward the cottage.

"This is the lover," he muttered; "curses upon him." From
that moment he hated with all the bitterness of his nature
the man now striding carelessly up toward the cottage
door.

"Bon jour, mademoiselle et messieurs" the newcomer said
in cheery tones, as he entered, making a low bow.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Scott," was the reply. Louis Riel,
intently watching, saw the girl's colour come and go as
she spoke to the young man. This was the same Scott, the
Thomas Scott, the tidings of whose fate, at the hands of
the