been going to ask you
more than once what has become of that poor Indian girl."

"Nay, you ought to know better than I, to judge from this wampum belt,"
replied Boulanger.

"Why so? What has become of her?"

"Well," answered the Canadian, "if you had asked me a few minutes ago I
should have spoken out pretty strongly about her, but I suspect she is
not so bad after all."

"Bad! What do you mean?"

"Why, you see, monsieur," replied Boulanger, "you had scarcely left us
a couple of days when she bolted without a word, not even saying as
much as 'thank ye,' or 'good-bye.' I did feel vexed, I confess, for I
was quite sure she had joined a tribe of Indians that had been loafing
about here for some time. I had more than once noticed her at work
over a wampum belt, as if she had a hankering after her old life.
'What's bred in the bone is sure to come out in the flesh,' I said to
Bibi, and 'you can't make a silk purse out of a pig's ear.' However,
as she seems to have had some hand in your escape, I'll not say a word
against her. But what does monsieur intend to do now?"

Isidore did not answer him, and Boulanger was making some remarks as to
the need in which his guest stood of a long rest after so much fatigue
and anxiety, when Bibi suddenly held up her hand, saying softly, "Hush,
I declare he has dropped off."

There was no mistake about that--the seat which the young soldier
occupied, and which very possibly did duty as a bed by night, made by
day a particularly comfortable couch, covered as it was with a fine
soft buffalo-robe of huge dimensions. More than once towards the
conclusion of his story Isidore had nodded, but had roused himself with
a spasmodic start. At last, utterly overcome by prolonged fatigue, he
had sunk down gradually and fallen fast asleep.

"Poor gentleman," said Boulanger, in a whisper, "I don't wonder at it,
and I would not wake him for the world after all he has had to go
through."

So the little curtain was drawn as noiselessly as possible to keep out
the rays of the now setting sun, and creeping away stealthily on
tiptoe, the kind-hearted and hospitable couple left their visitor to
his dreams.

The sun had not only set, but had risen again when Isidore was aroused
from his sleep by the noisy gambols of Boulanger's little ones beneath
the window. Refreshed by his long rest, he was soon fortifying himself
still further by a hearty breakfast, at which the conversation of the
pre