he waited and watched he was always poor, and also was getting old. There
was no house or home within fifty miles of them, and only now and then
some wandering Indians lifted the latch, and drew in beside their hearth,
or a good priest with a soul of love for others, came and said Mass in
the room where a little Calvary had been put up. Two children had come
and gone, and Tinoir and Dalice had dug their graves and put them in a
warm nest of maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon the memories of
them. But after these two, children came no more; and Tinoir and Dalice
grew closer and closer to each other, coming to look alike in face, as
they had long been alike in mind and feeling. None ever lived nearer to
nature than they, and wild things grew to be their friends; so that you
might see Dalice at her door tossing crumbs with one hand to birds, and
with the other bits of meat to foxes, martens, and wild dogs, which came
and went unharmed by them. Tinoir shot no wild animals for profit--only
for food and for skins and furs to wear. Because of this he was laughed
at by all who knew, save the priest of St. Sulpice, who, on Easter Day,
when the little man came yearly to Mass over two hundred miles of
country, praised him to his people, and made much of him, though Tinoir
was not vain enough to see it.

When word came down the river, and up over the hills to Tinoir, that war
was come and that he must go to watch for the hostile fleet and for the
friendly fleet as well, he made no murmur, though it was the time of
harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which she was not yet
recovered.

"Go, my Tinoir," said Dalice, with a little smile, "and I will reap the
grain. If your eyes are sharp you shall see my bright sickle moving in
the sun."