he dismounted, before Morico knew of her presence, for he sat
with his back partly turned to the open door. As she entered and
greeted him, he arose from his chair, all trembling with excitement at
her visit; the long white locks, straggling and unkept, falling about
his brown visage that had grown old and weather beaten with his cabin.
Sinking down into his seat--the hide covered chair that had been worn
smooth by years of usefulness--he gazed well pleased at Therese, who
seated herself beside him.

"Ah, this is quite the handsomest you have made yet, Morico," she said
addressing him in French, and taking up the fan that he was curiously
fashioning of turkey feathers.

"I am taking extra pains with it," he answered, looking complacently
at his handiwork and smoothing down the glossy feathers with the ends
of his withered old fingers. "I thought the American lady down at the
house might want to buy it."

Therese could safely assure him of Melicent's willingness to seize on
the trophy.

Then she asked why Jocint had not been to the house with news of him.
"I have had chickens and eggs for you, and no way of sending them."

At mention of his son's name, the old man's face clouded with
displeasure and his hand trembled so that he was at some pains to
place the feather which he was at the moment adding to the widening
fan.

"Jocint is a bad son, madame, when even you have been able to do
nothing with him. The trouble that boy has given me no one knows; but
let him not think I am too old to give him a sound drubbing."

Jocint meanwhile had returned from the mill and seeing Therese's horse
fastened before his door, was at first inclined to skulk back into the
woods; but an impulse of defiance moved him to enter, and gave to his
ugly countenance a look that was far from agreeable as he mumbled a
greeting to Therese. His father he did not address. The old man looked
from son to visitor with feeble expectancy of some good to come from
her presence there.

Jocint's straight and coarse black hair hung in a heavy mop over his
low retreating forehead, almost meeting the ill-defined line of
eyebrow that straggled above small dusky black eyes, that with the
rest of his physique was an inheritance from his Indian mother.

Approaching the safe or _garde manger_, which was the most prominent
piece of furniture in the room, he cut a wedge from the round loaf of
heavy soggy corn bread that he found there, added a layer of fat po