for good, he would be glad of it.

The chapel of saplings and bark which first sheltered Father Petit's
altar had been abandoned when Saint-Castin built a substantial one
of stone and timber within the fortress walls, and hung in its little
tower a bell, which the most reluctant Abenaqui must hear at mass
time. But as it is well to cherish the sacred regard which man has for
any spot where he has worshiped, the priest left a picture hanging on
the wall above the bare chancel, and he kept the door repaired on its
wooden hinges. The chapel stood beyond the forest, east of Pentegoet,
and close to those battlements which form the coast line here. The
tide made thunder as it rose among caverns and frothed almost at the
verge of the heights. From this headland Mount Desert could be seen,
leading the host of islands which go out into the Atlantic, ethereal
in fog or lurid in the glare of sunset.

Madockawando's daughter tended the old chapel in summer, for she had
first seen religion through its door. She wound the homely chancel
rail with evergreens, and put leaves and red berries on the walls, and
flowers under the sacred picture; her Etchemin woman always keeping
her company. Father Petit hoped to see this rough shrine become a
religious seminary, and strings of women led there every day to take,
like contagion, from an abbess the instruction they took so slowly
from a priest.

She and the Etchemin found it a dismal place, on their first visit
after the winter retreat. She reproached herself for coming so late;
but day and night an influence now encompassed Madockawando's daughter
which she felt as a restraint on her freedom. A voice singing softly
the love-songs of southern France often waked her from her sleep. The