s wife saw him go over to the store-house, the door of
which was open too. He looked in, then stopped, and started back as if
in horror. Two flitches tied together with a rope were on the floor,
and inside was a man filling a bag with flour from a barrel.

"Well, well! this is a terrible thing," said old John Pontiac to
himself, shrinking around a corner. "Peter McGrath! Oh, my! oh, my!"

He became hot all over, as if he had done something disgraceful
himself. There was nobody that he respected more than that pigheaded
Peter. What to do? He must punish him of course; but how? Jail--for
him with eleven children! "Oh, my! oh, my!" Old John wished he had not
been awakened to see this terrible downfall.

"It will never do to let him go off with it," he said to himself after
a little reflection. "I'll put him so that he'll know better another
time."

Peter McGrath, as he entered the store-house had felt that bacon
heavier than the heaviest end of the biggest stick of timber he had
ever helped to cant. He felt guilty, sneaking, disgraced; he felt that
the literal Devil had first tempted him near the house, then all
suddenly--with his own hunger pangs and thoughts of his starving
family--swept him into the smoke-house to steal. But he had consented
to do it; he had said he would take flour too,--and he would, he was
so obstinate! And withal, he hated old John Pontiac worse than ever;
for now he accused him of being the cause of his coming to this.

Then all of a sudden he met the face of Pontiac looking in at the
door.

Peter sprang back; he saw Stambrook jail--he saw his eleven children
and his wife--he felt himself a detected felon, and that was worst of
all.

"Well, Peter, you'd ought to have come right in," were the words that
came to his ears, in John Pontiac's heartiest voice. "The missis
would have been glad to see you. We did go to bed a bit early, but
there wouldn't have been any harm in an old neighbor like you waking
us up. Not a word of that--hold on! listen to me. It would be a pity
if old friends like you and me, Peter, couldn't help one another to a
trifling loan of provisions without making a fuss over it." And old
John, taking up the scoop, went on filling the bag as if that were a
matter of course.

Peter did not speak; he could not.

"I was going round to your place to-morrow," resumed John, cheerfully,
"to see if I couldn't hire you again. There's a job of hewing for you
in the Conlonge shanty,-