"That is how they will find me some day. Each one in their turn. Ah! well—since she is dead we can only bury her." That was all the strange, taciturn man said to his companion, a hunter who had been with him, and yet he had always shown his wife the greatest kindness and affection. It was not that he was heartless, but that he would rather have died than reveal the depth of his feeling. He amused the abbé very much by relating the various devices to which he had resorted in order to heighten his reputation for diabolic associations. He would go to a country inn, for instance, order a supper for two to be served in a private room, stating that he expected a gentleman in sable garments to share it with him. When the supper was ready he would then lock himself up in the room, polish the supper off unaided, and summon the astonished landlady to clear the remains away, as he and his friend had supped and were satisfied. He would further increase their mystification by sundry rappings, and inexplicable openings and shuttings of doors. He could also employ more sinister means of protecting himself when necessary. One day, when he was quite alone, a canoe glided into the bay, and presently a gigantic Montagnais Indian stepped ashore, armed to the teeth, and advanced with a firm step towards the house. He was evidently crazed with fire-water, and Gamache felt in no mood to try a tussle with so brawny an opponent. Standing in the doorway, with a rifle in his hands, he called out in his sternest tones,— "Stop! I forbid you to advance." The intruder took not the slightest notice of him. "Take another step and I fire," shouted Gamache. The step was taken, but before it could be repeated, the rifle spoke and the Indian fell, his thigh-bone smashed with the bullet. In an instant Gamache was beside the wounded man. Removing his weapons, he lifted him to his shoulder, and bore him tenderly to the house, and there nursed him until he was completely recovered. Then filling his canoe with provisions, he sent him back to his tribe, with a warning never to intrude upon Gamache again unless he wanted a bullet through his head instead of his thigh. In 1854, Louis Olivier Gamache died, like his poor wife, alone and unattended. For weeks no one had visited his abode, and when at last some seafarers chanced that way they found only the corpse of the once dreaded wizard, whose supposed league with evil spirits did not avail to save him from fulfilling his own prophecy. The wrecks continue at Anticosti. Not long ago the shattered skeletons of four fine ocean steamers might have been seen upon its fatal shores, but with Gamache the reign of the wreckers ended, never to return. *A LUMBER CAMP.*