of an animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling from its crown-
tip; "and here is a letter for you, Father. The batteau is from
New Orleans. Eight men started with it; but one went ashore to
hunt and was killed by an Indian."

Father Beret took the letter without apparent interest and said:

"Thank you, my son, sit down again; the door-log is not wetter
than the stools inside; I will sit by you."

The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the
open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the
floor's puncheons. They sat down side by side, Father Beret
fingering the letter in an absent-minded way.

"There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville
remarked, "a roaring time."

"Why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded.

"The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be
done. The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and
are as thirsty as sand. They are making ready to enjoy themselves
down at the river house."

"Ah, the poor souls!" sighed Father Beret, speaking as one whose
thoughts were wandering far away.

"Why don't you read your letter, Father?" Rene added.