Paul stepped forward to where the lad lay, and surveyed the shapely limbs. He was conscious now, but still dull and stupid, and not averse to being a centre of interest. Paul laid his hand on his brow, and felt his chest, and thought he was as fine a man of his years as he ever beheld. The squaw in the red blanket looked up at him, while she continued to chafe the boy's hands, and seemed greatly moved; but it would have been unworthy of a "respectable" Indian of Paul's standing, to take notice of a squaw on a public occasion like the present. He moved away, and out of the throng in time, preparing to smoke a pipe in quiet. The squaw in the red blanket followed him, and when she had got him well out of notice, that his lordly superiority might not be ruffled by the familiarity in public, she laid her hand on his arm, and said, "Paul." Paul turned his sleepy eyes that way, but it was only a squaw, a strange squaw. He had nothing to say. "Your son!" said the squaw, touching his arm again. He stopped at that, and she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb to the crowd they had come from. "Mine?" "Yours, Paul." "Who are you?" "His mother--Fidèle--Your squaw." "My son? Where born?" "Brautford. You bade me go to Brautford." "Ouff." It would have been undignified for a man like Paul to say more. It meant all he had to say, too, very likely. For, doubtless, language which is never uttered ceases to be given birth to in the mind. He turned, however, with Fidèle, and both walked back to the tent. The lad was better now. Refreshment was going on, the people seeing him able to dispense with their care, had turned their attention to sustaining themselves. He got up and joined his mother coming in, and they went out again to a quiet place, followed by Paul, that his parental feelings might be gratified with an interview, without compromising his dignity by an exhibition before the world. It seemed an unnecessary precaution. Paul's feelings, if he had any, were under far too good control to lead him into impropriety. He sat down with them on a deserted bench, however, questioned them both, and finally accepted his son and his long absent spouse to his heart; that is to say, he bade them follow him to Lachine, and then conducted them across the river, and to his home in Caughnawaga.