y eyes flitting
everywhere but toward his old factor. And farther down the bank, among
a group of warriors, a brown baby on his shoulder and his long curls
shining in the sunset, was that incomparable adventurer, Alfred de
Courtenay.

Apparently he had not come for barter, nor for anything save the love of
the unusual, the thirst for adventure that had brought him primarily to
the wilderness.

"A fine fit of apoplexy would he have, that peppery old uncle at
Montreal, Elsworth McTavish, could he see his precious nephew following
his whims up and down the land, leaving his post in the hands of his
chief trader," thought McElroy, as he looked at the scene before him.

While he stood so, there was a rustle of women behind him and voices
that bespoke more eager eyes for the Indians, and he glanced over his
shoulder.

Micene Bordoux and Mora LeClede approached, and between them walked
Maren Le Moyne. McElroy's heart pounded hard with a quick excitement as
he saw the listless droop of the face under the black braids and
stopped with a prescience of disaster. His glance went swiftly to
the long-haired gallant in the braided coat. Surely were the elements
brought together.

It seemed as if Fate was weaving these little threads of destiny, for
no sooner did Maren Le Moyne step through the gate among the lodges than
her very nearness drew round upon his heel De Courtenay.

His eyes lighted upon her and the sparkling smile lit up his features.
With inimitable grace he swung the child from his shoulder, tossed it
to a timid squaw watching like a hawk, and, shaking back his curls, came
forward.

"Ah, Ma'amselle!" he said, bending before her with his courtly manner,
"you see, as I said in the early spring,--I have come back to Fort de
Seviere."

"So I see, M'sieu," smiled Maren, with a touch of whimsical amusement
at the memory of that morning, and his venturesome spirit. "Have you by
chance brought me a red flower?"

"Why else should I come?" he returned, and, with a flourish, brought
from his bosom a second birchbark box which he held out to the girl.

Over her face there spread a crimson flood at this swift, literal
proving of a secret pact and she stood hesitating, at loss.

The stretch of beach was alive with spectators. Near the wall a group of
girls hugged together, with Francette Moline in the centre; down by the
canoes Pierre Garcon and Marc Dupre stood, the dark eyes of the latter
watching every move, while at