ing waters on the pebbly beach, and a plough lay in the last
furrow.

The stranger stood in amaze and gazed on the scene before him.

While he looked women came from the cabins and passed blithely about
at evening tasks, and one went to the lake with a vessel for water. He
could see its gleam in the reflection of the gorgeous light.

Thin and high came the sound of a voice singing, the ring of an axe
somewhere in the wood beyond the cabins, and peace ineffable seemed to
lie upon this blessed place. Here truly was Arcadia.

Long he stood in the fringe of the forest and looked eagerly among the
distant figures for one, taller than all the rest, clad in plain dark
garments, whose regal head should catch the dying glow, but strain as he
might, he saw no familiar form, could not detect the free and swinging
step.

Now that the goal of his hope was so near, within the very grasp of his
hand, a strange timidity fell upon him, and he shrank from crossing the
open field.

Rather would he follow the circling wood and come out at the upper end
by the lake, going down along the shore to the cabins.

Keeping well within the trees, giants of the wild nursed in this cradle
of sun and water, he bore to the north and ever his eager eyes peered
between the bolls at the distant habitat.

He had gone but short space when, suddenly, he stopped, drawn up by
sight of what lay in his path.

He had pierced a thicket of hanging vines, too eager to go around, and
come abruptly upon some pagan shrine, some savage Holy of Holies.

And yet not wholly savage, for the signs of the red man and the white
were strangely blended.

In the centre of the open space within the hanging wall of the
vines,--perfect sylvan temple,--there lay a mounded grave, covered from
head to foot with articles he knew at once to be the gifts of Indians
to some great chief gone to the shadowy hunting-grounds. Rich they
were, these gifts, in workmanship and carving, though mean and poor in
quality, showing that great love had attended their giving, though the
givers themselves must be a meagre people.

At the head of the mound towered a gigantic totem pole, carved and
painted with scenes of a most minute history, while at the foot of a
smaller stake, alike carved and coloured, bore, one upon another, twelve
rings of bone, each one of which stood for the circle of a year.

Crossed and shielded with infinite care, in the centre there lay a set
of smith's tools, cr