suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: "Did y' iver have a
wife, thin, Pierre?"

Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke
slowly: "Yes, once."

"And she died?" asked the other, awed.

"We all have our day," he replied enigmatically, "and there are worse
things than death. . . . Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other things.
To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I want. I
have ammunition and dogs."

A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the Fort
he heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the south,
and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs. Whelan,
now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find, one Tim
Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last.

She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off. "She
was comin'," she said, "to her own darlin' b'y, from whom she'd been
parted manny a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir touched
hand o' hers."

The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and he told it only to the
Chief Trader and Pierre. At a word from Pierre the man promised to hold
his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta's lodge. He found her with her
father alone, her head at her knees. When she heard his voice she looked
up sharply, and added a sharp word also.