sculptor alike, for Father Francis Xavier had gone down to his grave
with his secret and his cameo hidden in his heart. He had kept both well
for two centuries, and when the heart crumbled in dust it took its
secret with it, leaving only the cameo to bewilder conjecture.

Its story was, after all, a simple one. On the southern shore of
Michillimackinac, in the romantic days of the first exploration of the
great lakes by the Courreurs de Bois and pioneer priests, had settled
good Père Ignace, a devoted Jesuit missionary. The old man was revered
and loved by the Indians among whom he dwelt. His labors blossomed in a
little village, called from his patron saint the mission of St. Ignace,
that displayed its cluster of white huts and wigwams like the petals of
a water-lily on the margin of the lake. Just back of the village was a
round knoll which served as a landmark on the lake, for the shore near
St. Ignace was remarkably level. On the summit of this mound the good
father had reared a great white cross, and at its foot the superstitious
Indians often laid votive offerings of strongly incongruous character.
Here he had lived and taught for many years, succeeding in instructing
his little flock in the French tongue, and in at least an outward
semblance of the Catholic religion. Even the rude trappers, who came to
trade at regular intervals, revered him, and lived like good Christians
while at the mission, so as not to counteract his teaching by their
lawless example. Here Père Ignace was growing old, and even this
grasshopper of a spiritual charge was becoming a burden. His superior,
at Montreal, understood this, and sent him an assistant.

Very unlike Father Ignatius was Père François Xavier, a man with all the
fire and enthusiasm of youth in his blood--just the one for daring,
hazardous enterprises; just the one to undergo all the privation and
toil of planting a mission; to undertake plans requiring superhuman