"Yes, my dear,--and that reminds me I have n't shown you what I brought you here to see. Come." He penetrated farther into the woods and off the trail to the left. There we found a blasted tree in which was a great hollow. "It is filled with honey, Marcia, wild honey. I wonder that no track of bear is to be seen about here." "Who would ever think of finding such a store of sweet in this poor old lightning-blasted tree!" I exclaimed, looking more closely at it. "What a feast Bruin will have some day." "You see there is honey even in the wilderness, Marcia. I wanted to convince you that there is such--may you, also, find it so." He turned towards the camp, I following his lead. "By the way," he said, as he walked on rapidly, "do you know anything that could have given old André any physical or nervous shock recently?" "No--I don't recall anything, at least anything that he might feel physically. It's just possible a fright I gave him unintentionally that day of the storm may have affected him for a time. Why, does he show any effect of shock?" "Yes, decidedly. What was it?" I told him of my carelessness with the paddle while crossing the lake; of the careening of the canoe; of André's terrified shriek and his muttered fear of the depth of the lake. "That must have been it. I felt sure there was some nervous shock." "Oh, how could I do it! Dear old André--and I of all others!" "It's his age, Marcia; it was liable to come at any time; this is why Ewart felt so anxious about you that day and required the promise. Old as he is, he is tough as a pine knot, wiry as witch grass, with great powers of endurance, good eyesight, good teeth; he has seemed less than seventy till this year. Now he is breaking up. It would not surprise me if this were his débâcle." "I can't bear to think of it. Why must all these changes come at once! What am I to do in the midst of this general débâcle?" "Marcia," he stopped short, turned to face me, "remember that now and hereafter when you need a friend you will find one in me. Don't hesitate to come to me, to call on me whenever there may be need, or when there is no need. I had once, many years ago, not only a son but a darling daughter. She would have been about your age--a year younger." I could not thank him, grateful as I was, for I was inwardly rebellious that he should feel called upon to offer me the protection of his friendship, when he must see that his friend was the only one to give me the needed shelter---and that in Lamoral, because he loved me. For a moment his words seemed almost an insult to Mr. Ewart. Suddenly he laughed out--his hearty kindly laugh. It put new heart into me. "What is it?" I asked quickly, ready to respond to a little cheer.