ll that has past?"

"I've heard the same," nodded Mary McAdam.

"Belike the master remembers and often looks to the end of his journey.
Well, he's been a good harmless sort, as men go. He's kept the children
out of trouble far more than one could expect, and he's been a merciful
creature to humans and beasts. I wonder what he had in his life before he
washed up from the _La Belle_?"

All this seemed to end the discussion.

Mary McAdam was an important personage about that time. The White Fish
Lodge had become famous. Without bar or special privilege of any sort,
the house was patronized by the best class of tourist. Mary was a born
proprietress, and, while she extracted the last penny due her, always
gave full value in return. She and Mary Terhune did the cooking; a bevy
of clean, young Indian girls from Wyland Island served as waitresses and
maids, their quaint, keen reserve was charming, and no better public
house could have been found on the Little or Big Bay.

Priscilla drifted to the Lodge as naturally as a flower turns to the sun.
The easy-going people, the laughter and merriment appealed strongly to
her, and again did she cause Jerry-Jo serious displeasure and arouse her
father's lurking suspicions.

"Watch her! watch her!" was his warning, and Theodora returned to her
fears and tears.

CHAPTER VIII

Anton Farwell had, little by little, accepted the fate of those who,
deprived of many blessings, learn to depend on a few. As the remaining
senses are sharpened by the loss of one, so in this man's life the
cramping process, begun by his own wrongdoing, and prolonged and
completed by other conditions, had the effect of focussing all his power
on the atoms that went to the making up of the daily record of his days.
Had he kept a diary it would have been interesting from its very lack of
large interest. And yet, with all this narrowing down, a certain fineness
and purpose evolved that were both touching and inspiring. He never
complained, not even to himself. After recognizing the power which
Ledyard held in his life, he relinquished the one hope that had held him
to the past. Then, for a year or two, the light of the doctor's contempt,
which had been turned on him, took the zest from the small efforts he had
made for better living and caused him to distrust himself. He saw himself
what he knew Ledyard thought him--a mean, cowardly creature, and yet, in
his better moments, he knew this was not so.

"