Old André moored his dugout to the pier, and leaving tragic-eyed Pierre within as sentinel, slow-blinking towards the east, he turned his steps to that high-columned gate, the prototype of heaven on this our earth, and passed beneath the portal as the sun rose o'er the Lake in gorgeous crimson state. X I can still hear in memory the sudden hiss from a bursting air-pocket in the forelog; it broke the silence which followed Jamie's reading. At the sound, it seemed as if we drew a freer breath. Was it Jamie Macleod who was sitting there with flushed cheeks, bright eyes, dilated pupils, and eager inquiring look which asked of his friends their approval or criticism? Or was it some changeling spirit of genius that for the time being had taken up its abode in the frail tenement of his body? His mother leaned to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "My dear boy," was all she said, for they were rarely demonstrative with each other; but, oh, the pride and affection in her voice! I saw Jamie's mouth twitch before he smiled into her eyes. "You 've made us live it, Boy," said the Doctor quietly and with deep feeling; "but I never thought you could do it--not so, for all the faith I 've had in you." Jamie drew a long breath of relief; he spoke eagerly: "It was the trial trip, Doctor, and I did hope it would stand the test with you and Ewart." Mr. Ewart rose and crossed the hearth to him. He held out his strong shapely hand. Jamie's thin one closed upon it with a tense nervous pressure, as I could see. "I congratulate you, Macleod." The tone of his voice, the address as man to man, expressed his pride, his love, his admiration. Jamie smiled with as much satisfaction as if for the first time there had been conferred upon him manhood suffrage, the freedom of the city of London, and a batch of Oxford honors. Then, satisfied, he turned to me. I spoke lightly to ease the emotional tension that was evident in all the rest of us: "You 've imposed upon me, Jamie Macleod. You 're classed henceforth with frauds and fakirs! How could I know when you were scrapping with me the last three weeks over such prosaic things as rag carpets, toilet sets and skins, that you were harboring all this poetry!" "Then you think it's poetry? You 've found me out!" Jamie said, showing his delight. "Honestly, Marcia, you like it? I want you to, though I say it as should n't." "Yes, I do," I answered earnestly; "I can understand the song the better for it." "What song?" the Doctor asked, before Jamie could speak. "'_O Canada, pays de mon amour_'," I quoted. "You know that?" Mr. Ewart spoke quickly. "Only as I have heard it through the graphophone, in the cabaret below the steamboat landing." "I say, Marcia, that's rough on the song!--Gordon," he exclaimed, "do you sing it for us, do; then she 'll know how it ought to sound." "It's the only possible epilogue for the 'Odyssey'--what a capital title, Boy! Sing it, Ewart." "Wait till I have a piano."