We landed on the north shore of the lake. I followed him along a trail, that led through a depression between two heights, upwards to a heavily wooded small plateau overlooking the lake. I followed his lead for another quarter of a mile through these woods. I could see no trail. Then we came into a path, a good one. I remarked on it. "Yes: I have made it these many years. I come here every year." We heard the rush of a near-by torrent. The air swept cool over through the woods and struck full on our faces. In a few minutes we were facing it--a singing mass of water pouring down the smooth face of a rock like the apron of a dam; the face was inclined at an angle of fifty degrees. The torrent plunged into a basin set deep among rocks. Above this pool, above the surrounding trees, towered one great pine. André led me to it. "I have been coming here so many years--count," he said, pointing to the notches from the butt upwards to a height beyond my reach. This was the tree about which Jamie had sung, notched year after year by André, since he was ten, that he might know his age. And what an age! I counted: "Eighty notches." "Oh, André, all those years?" "But yes--and so many more." He held up his ten fingers. "And Mère Guillardeau will be a hundred her next birthday?" He nodded. "Yes; my sister is no longer in her first youth." He began to count backwards and downwards. I counted after him: "Twenty-seven." By the last notch there was a deep gash. "What is this?" "Twenty-seven years ago she was here, she whom you are like. I have waited twenty-seven years." "Tell me about it; I am ready to hear." "Come here." He beckoned to me from a group of trees, tamaracks, on the other side of the path. He went behind one. I followed him. "Read," he said. And I read with difficulty, although the lettering was cut deep, one word "Heureuse", and a date "1883. 9. 10." "'Heureuse'," I repeated. "Happy--happy; oh, I know how happy!" He looked at me significantly for a moment, and I knew that his "fixed idea" had possession of him. He regarded me, Marcia Farrell, as the child of that "forest love" of nearly twenty-seven years ago. "You say true; they were happy." Without preliminaries he told me the story he had related to Mr. Ewart and Jamie last year. "Has Mr. Ewart or Jamie ever seen this tree, André?" "No. I have told them both of my tree and the notches--but never of this other. You are the first to see it since her blue eyes watched him cut those letters. I have shown it to neither my young comrade nor to the seignior." "And you say I am so like her?" "As like as if you were her own child?" He put up his hand suddenly to "feel the wind". There was a sudden strange movement among the tree tops. "Come, come quickly, mademoiselle; we must get back. The wind is shifting to the southwest. It is blowing hot. I know the sign. The seignior will not want you to be out even with old André with this wind on the lake."