way, my child, and--"

"Then you will have pies galore and no end of claret!" she
interrupted, at the same time stepping to the withe-tied and peg-
latched gate of the yard and opening it. "Come in, you dear, good
Father, before the rain shall begin, and sit with me on the
gallery" (the creole word for veranda) "till the storm is over."

Father Beret seemed not loath to enter, albeit he offered a weak
protest against delaying some task he had in hand. Alice reached
forth and pulled him in, then reclosed the queer little gate and
pegged it. She caressingly passed her arm through his and looked
into his weather-stained old face with childlike affection.

There was not a photographer's camera to be had in those days; but
what if a tourist with one in hand could have been there to take a
snapshot at the priest and the maiden as they walked arm in arm to
that squat little veranda! The picture to-day would be worth its
weight in a first-water diamond. It would include the cabin, the
cherry-tree, a glimpse of the raw, wild background and a sharp
portrait-group of Pere Beret, Alice, and Jean the hunchback. To
compare it with a photograph of the same spot now would give a
perfect impression of the historic atmosphere, color and
conditions which cannot be set in words. But we must not belittle
the power of verbal description. What if a thoroughly trained
newspaper reporter had been given the freedom of old Vincennes on
the Wabash during the first week of June, 1778, and we now had his
printed story! What a supplement to the photographer's pictures!
Well, we have neither photographs nor graphic report; yet there
they are before us, the gowned and straw-capped priest, the fresh-