When a turkey comes to grief, through sickness or accident, the rest of the flock are apt to set upon it and peck it to death. It is a Spartan regimen, and encourages the others to keep well. The spirit prevailing in Caughnawaga was in so much Spartan or turkey-ish--it is a spirit not unknown at times in more cultured circles. Nobody dreamed of coming forward out of natural kindness; and, as a matter of duty, there was too much of the improper in the whole story, for any one brazenly to claim praise from the ladies of the convent for sheltering homeless ones such as these. It seemed irreverent, even, to suppose it could be a Christian duty to succour them. The outcasts walked down the village street, hiding their faces in their blankets, bruised and ashamed. No one spoke to them or pitied them. The squaws, their daily companions, sitting at their doors, sewing, smoking, idling, looked steadily at them as they went by; some with a wooden stolidity which showed no sign of recognition, some with a spiteful and vindictive leer. Thérèse had been better off than many of them, but who would change places with her now? The dusk was falling, and the nights were growing chilly now; there might be frost before morning. The gleam of firelight, the twinkle of lamps, shone through cabin windows and from open doors, but no one bade them enter. There was heavy dew in the air, the herbage was soaked with moisture, and therefore they would not turn aside into the bush, to drench themselves among the dripping leaves, and be chilled to the bone with hoar frost, perchance, ere morning. They went forward to the river-side, and out upon the pier, where the water swept smoothly by, murmuring monotonously in a sombre passionless sough, black as their own desolate misery, still and undemonstrative as themselves. They huddled themselves together under the lee of some bales and boxes, their chins upon their knees within their blankets, and there they crouched and shivered, all through the livelong night, sleeping at times or drowsing, but always motionless, with the sound of the mighty river in their ears, promising nothing, regretting nothing, yet consoling in its changeless continuance--a life, and one in harmony with their own, a seeming sympathy, when all the world beside had cast them off. CHAPTER XIV. THÉRÈSE'S REVENGE. The daylight had returned, but the sun was not yet up, and the air was cold, when a heavy hand was laid upon the sleeping squaws, and shook them roughly. "What are yez doin' here? Stailin' is it ye're afther, eh?" "Sleep here all night," was Thérèse's answer, as she slowly regained her feet. She was stiff with cold. "No home to go to--come here."