again with arms stretched wide and the hat
dangling from his hand. "Because--because God will not let it sta-a-ay
given away! 'Give--it shall be give' to you.' Every thing given out
into God's worl' come back to us roun' God's worl'! Resem'ling the
stirring of water in a bucket."

But St. Pierre frowned. "Yass,--wat' in bucket,--yass. Den no man
dawn't keep nut'n'. Dawn't own nut'n' he got."

"Ah! sir, there is a better owning than to _own_. 'Tis giving, dear
friend; 'tis giving. To get? To have? That is not to own. The giver,
not the getter; the giver! he is the true owner. Live thou not to get,
but to give." Bonaventure's voice trembled; his eyes were full of
tears.

The swamper stood up with his own eyes full, but his voice was firm.
"Bonaventure, I don't got much. I got dat li'l' shanty on Bayou des
Acadiens, and li'l' plunder inside--few kittle', and pan',--cast-net,
fish-line', two, t'ree gun', and--my wife' grave, yond' in graveyard.
But I got Claude,--my boy, my son. You t'ink God want me give my son
to whole worl'?"

The schoolmaster took the woodsman's brown wrist tenderly into both
his hands, and said, scarce above a whisper, "He gave His, first. He
started it. Who can refuse, He starting it? And thou wilt not refuse."
The voice rose--"I see, I see the victory! Well art thou nominated
'St. Pierre!' for on that rock of giving"--

"Naw, sir! Stop!" The swamper dashed the moisture from his eyes and
summoned a look of stubborn resolve. "Mo' better you call me St.
Pierre because I'm a fisherman what cuss when I git mad. Look! You
dawn't want me git Claude back in Gran' Point'. You want me to give,
give. Well, all right! I goin' _quit_ Gran' Point' and give myself,
me, to Claude. I kin read, I kin write, I t'ink kin do better 'long
wid Claude dan livin' all 'lone wid snake' and alligator. I t'ink dass
mo' better for everybody; and anyhow, I dawn't care; I dawn't give my
son to nobody; I give myself to Claude."

Bonaventure and his friend gazed into each other's wet eyes for a
moment. Then the schoolmaster turned, lifted his eyes and one arm
toward the west, and exclaimed:

"Ah, Claude! thou receivest the noblest gift in Gran' Point'!"

CHAPTER VI.

CONVERGING LINES.

On the prairies of Vermilion and Lafayette, winter is virtually over
by the first week in February. From sky to sky, each tree and field,
each plain and plantation grove, are putting on the greenery of a
Northern May. Even on Cot