Jamie came in at this moment, looking thoroughly cross as well as crestfallen. "He won't come," he announced bluntly, taking his seat and leaning forward to the fire, his long arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped and hanging between them. He glared at the andirons. "What's the matter, Jamie?" I asked; I knew something had gone wrong. "He says he does n't belong here, and all that rot. Confound it all! When you come up against Cale's crotchets you might as well go hang yourself for all you can move him." I looked at Mr. Ewart. I saw the gray eyes flash suddenly. "We must change all that, Jamie. Just give him leeway till I 've looked about a bit and struck root into my--home." I noticed the slight hesitation before the word "home". "By the way, it's early yet." "Early!" Jamie was rousing himself from his private sulk. "You might like to know that generally we have porridge at nine and are in bed by half-past." "We 'll change all that too, Mrs. Macleod--with the Doctor's permission, of course," he said, sitting down beside her. "We 're not going to lose the pleasure of these long winter evenings. After porridge, we 'll have grand bouts of chess, Jamie, and a little music--I see that Miss Farrell has not included a piano in her furnishings--" "Not for eighty-seven dollars," I said, hoping he would appreciate the financial fact; but he only looked a little mystified, and went on: "--And hours with the books, and some snowshoeing on fine moonlight nights; you 'll see that the winter is none too long in Canada--_O pays de mon amour_!" he said smiling. Clasping his hands behind his head, he looked steadily at the leaping flames. The tone in which he said all this would have heartened a confirmed pessimist; upon Jamie Macleod it acted like new wine. His face grew radiant, and the look he gave his friend held something of worship in it. Doctor Rugvie groaned audibly as he laid aside his pipe. "What is it, _mon vieux_?" said Mr. Ewart. "You make me envious," he said, rising and putting on another log; "but if I can be with you only one week, I 'm going to make the most of it. No turning in before eleven-thirty while I 'm here." "I 'll make it one with you any time you say, John." Underneath the banter we heard the undercurrent of deep affection. "You 'll be up here two or three times during the winter, and next summer you 've promised to camp with Jamie and the Andrés, father and son, and me, for two months on the Upper Saguenay. Speaking of André, père, Jamie, have you redeemed the promise you gave me last summer?" Jamie twisted his long length in his chair before answering. "Yes, in a way." "What does 'in a way' mean? What promise?" asked the Doctor eagerly. Mr. Ewart answered for him. "It was about André--old André's story of his voyage to the Columbian Exposition in 'ninety-three. Have you written it up?" "In a way I have, yes."