rit there was no doubt. Neither father
nor son had any conception of happiness separate from noble
aggrandizement. Nay, that is scant justice; far more than they knew,
or than St. Pierre, at least, would have acknowledged, they had caught
the spirit of Bonaventure, to call it by no higher name, and saw that
the best life for self is to live the best possible for others. "For
all others," Bonaventure would have insisted; but "for Claude," St.
Pierre would have amended. They could not return to Grande Pointe.

Where, then, should they go? Claude stood with his arms akimbo, looked
into his father's face, tried to hide his perplexity under a smile,
and then glanced at their little pile of effects. There lay their
fire-arms, the same as ever; but the bundles in Madras handkerchiefs
had given place to travelling-bags, and instead of pots and pans here
were books and instruments. What reply did these things make? New
Orleans? The great city? Even Claude shrank from that thought.

No, it was the name of quite a different place they spoke; a name that
Claude's lips dared not speak, because, for lo! these months and
months his heart had spoken it,--spoken it at first in so soft a
whisper that for a long time he had not known it was his heart he
heard. When something within uttered and re-uttered the place's name,
he would silently explain to himself: "It is because I am from home.
It is this unfixed camp-life, this life without my father, without
Bonaventure, that does it. This is not love, of course; I know that:
for, in the first place, I was in love once, when I was fourteen, and
it was not at all like this; and in the second place, it would be
hopeless presumption in me, muddy-booted vagabond that I am; and in
the third place, a burnt child dreads fire. And so it cannot be love.
When papa and I are once more together, this unaccountable longing
will cease."

But, instead of ceasing, it had grown. The name of the place was still
the only word the heart would venture; but it meant always one pair of
eyes, one young face, one form, one voice. Still it was not love--oh,
no! Now and then the hospitality of some plantation-house near the
camp was offered to the engineers; and sometimes, just to prove that
this thing was not love, he would accept such an invitation, and even
meet a pretty maiden or two, and ask them for music and song--for
which he had well-nigh a passion--and talk enough to answer their
questions and conjectures