excused himself. They had business, he said, with the Preacher; was he
at home?

He was; had anything been sent to him from the East,--any clothes,
now, for the Indians?

Old Fog had heard something of a box at Mackinac, waiting for a
schooner to bring it over. He was glad it was on the way, it would be
of so much use to the Indians,--they wore so many clothes.

The patriarchs grinned, and allowed the two to pass on. Waring had
gazed within, meanwhile, and discovered the plural wives, more or less
good-looking, generally less; they did not seem unhappy, however, not
so much as many a single one he had met in more luxurious homes, and
he said to himself, 'Women of the lower class are much better and
happier when well curbed.' It did not occur to him that possibly the
evil tempers of men of the lower class are made more endurable by a
system of co-operation; one reed bends, breaks, and dies, but ten
reeds together can endure.

The Preacher was at home on the outskirts,--a little man, round and
rosy, with black eyes and a cheery voice. He was attired entirely in
blanket-cloth, baggy trousers and a long blouse, so that he looked not
unlike a Turkish Santa Claus, Oriental as to under, and arctic as to
upper rigging. 'Are you a clergyman?' said Waring, inspecting him with
curious eyes.

'If you doubt it, look at this,' said the little man; and he brought
out a clerical suit of limp black cloth, and a ministerial hat much
the worse for wear. These articles he suspended from a nail, so that