n which he lived with his wife on another hill, ten miles from
Shaknon, had but two rooms, and their little farm and the garden gave
them only enough to live--no more. Elsewhere there was good land in
abundance, but it had been said years ago to Tinoir by the great men,
that he should live not far from Shaknon, so that in times of peril he
might guard the fire and be sentinel for all the people. Perhaps Tinoir
was too dull to see that he was giving all and getting naught; that
while he waited and watched he was always poor, and also was getting
old. There was no house or home within fifty miles of them, and only
now and then some wandering Indians lifted the latch, and drew in beside
their hearth, or a good priest with a soul of love for others, came
and said Mass in the room where a little Calvary had been put up. Two
children had come and gone, and Tinoir and Dalice had dug their graves
and put them in a warm nest of maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon
the memories of them. But after these two, children came no more; and
Tinoir and Dalice grew closer and closer to each other, coming to look
alike in face, as they had long been alike in mind and feeling. None
ever lived nearer to nature than they, and wild things grew to be their
friends; so that you might see Dalice at her door tossing crumbs with
one hand to birds, and with the other bits of meat to foxes, martens,
and wild dogs, which came and went unharmed by them. Tinoir shot no
wild animals for profit--only for food and for skins and furs to wear.
Because of this he was laughed at by all who knew, save the priest of
St. Sulpice, who, on Easter Day, when the little man came yearly to Mass
over two hundred miles of country, praised him to his people, and made
much of him, though Tinoir was not vain enough to see it.

When word came down the river, and up over the hills to Tinoir, that war
was come and that he must go to watch for the hostile fleet and for the
friendly fleet as well, he made no murmur, though it was the time
of harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which she was not yet
recovered.

"Go, my Tinoir," said Dalice, with a little smile, "and I will reap the
grain. If your eyes are sharp you shall see my bright sickle moving in
the sun."

"There is the churning of the milk too, Dalice," answered Tinoir; "you
are not strong, and sometimes the butter comes slow; and there's the
milking also."

"Strength is coming to me fast, Tinoir," she said,