Oh, what a far, far cry it must have been from this Canadian wilderness not made by man, to that other hundreds of miles away--that great metropolis, man made! We paddled for the rest of the way in silence. That evening we sat late around the camp fire, and before we separated for the night Mr. Ewart said, turning to me: "I want a promise from you, Miss Farrell." "What is it?" "Caution, caution!" said the Doctor. "That you will make no more _solitude à deux_ excursions, as John calls them, with old André. He is old, despite his seeming strength, and his age is beginning to tell on him. I see that he has failed much since last year." "You 're right there, Gordon; she should not risk it with him," said Jamie, emphatically. "I 've noticed the change from last year when I have been out with him on the trails. Why, he fell asleep only the other day with his line in his hand and his bait in the water!" "Did you see that?" said Mr. Ewart. "It happened, too, the other day with me. I was amazed, but not so much as I was last week when we were in the woods making the north trail. He sat down to smoke and, actually, his pipe dropped from his hand. I trod out the fire or there would have been a blaze. Apparently he was asleep. I watched him for an hour, when he seemed to come to himself. It was not a sleep; it was a lethargy. You say it is often so, John--the beginning of the end. We must not let him know anything of this--dear old André!" "He is already immortalized in that Odyssey of yours, Jamie. People won't forget him, for he lives again in that." The Doctor spoke with deep feeling. "And your promise, Miss Farrell?" "Since you insist, yes. But it is hard to give it; we have had so much pleasure together André and I; we have been great chums--dear old André!" Unconsciously I echoed Mr. Ewart's words. I am sure that was the thought of all of us; our good nights were not the merry ones of the last two months. We were saddened at the thought that he might not be with us again. For a moment or two Mr. Ewart and I stood alone by the embers of the camp fire; he was covering them with ashes. "Thank you for your promise. I don't care about experiencing another hour like that when I was crossing the lake this afternoon, with a young cyclone on its way. I have lost so much of life--I cannot lose you." His speech was abrupt; his voice low, but tense with emotion. "There will be no need of losing me. I will keep my promise." I spoke lightly, but I knew he knew the significance of my words, as I knew that of his, for with those words I gave myself to him. I felt intuitively that he would not speak of love to me, until he had broken completely with that past to which in thought he was still, in part, a slave. I was willing to wait patiently for his entire emancipation. XXVIII