Again, as at the station with Delia Beaseley's blessing ringing in my ears, I felt the unaccustomed tears springing in my eyes. Jamie leaned forward and knocked the ashes from his pipe; he continued to stare into the fire. "And who are the others?" I asked unsteadily; my lips trembled in spite of myself. "The others? Oh--," he seemed to come back to us from afar, "there is André--" "And who is André?" "Just André--none such in the wide world; my guide's old father, old Mère Guillardeau's brother, old French voyageur and coureur de bois; it will take another evening to tell you of André.-- Mother," he spoke abruptly, "it's time for porridge and Cale." "Yes, I will speak to Marie." She rose and left the room by a door at the farther end. "Remark those fourteen candles, will you?" said Jamie, between puffs. "I have noticed them; I call that a downright extravagance." "I pay for it," he said sententiously; then, with a slight flash of resentment; "you need n't think I sponge on Ewart to the extent of fourteen candles a night." I laughed a little under my breath. I knew a little friction would do him no harm. "And when those fourteen candles burn to within two inches of the socket, as at present, it is my invariable custom, being a Scotsman, to call for the porridge--and for Cale, because he is of our tongue, and needs to discourse with his own, at least once, before going to bed. I say a Scotsman without his nine o'clock porridge is a cad." "Any more remarks are in order," I said to tease him. "You really must know Cale--" "I thought I made his acquaintance this afternoon." He laughed again his hearty laugh. "I forgot; he drove you out. We did n't send Pete because we thought you might not understand his lingo. But you must n't fancy you know Cale because you 've seen him once--oh, no! You 'll have to see him daily and sometimes hourly; in fact, you will see so much of him that, sometimes, you will wish it a little less; for you are to understand that Cale is omnipresent, very nearly omnipotent here with us, and indispensable to _me_. You will accept him on my recommendation and afterwards make a friend of him for your own sake." "Who is he?" "Cale?--He 's just Cale too. His name is Caleb Marstin; 'hails', as he says, from northern New England. I have noticed he does n't care to name the locality, and I respect his reticence; it's none of my business. He says he has n't lived there for more than a quarter of a century and has no relations. He can tell you more about forests, lumber and forestry, in one hour than a whole Agricultural College. He has been for years lumbering in northern Minnesota and across the Canadian border. He 's here to help reforest and conserve the old forest to the estate; he 's--in a word, he 's my right hand man." "Is Mr. Ewart lord of Cale too?" At my question, Jamie's long body doubled up with mirth.