At the center of each end of the box, were half circular rests, probably designed to hold a chalice. The space contained a breviary, bound in leather, and much worn, some ink stained quill pens, a small box of fine sand that had been used for blotting, and some loosely folded papers. They consisted mostly of letters from the Superior of the Mission, and pertained to routine affairs, suggestions regarding the work of the little mission, and congratulations on its successful progress. Comparison of the depth of the opening with the outside of the box revealed the existence of a secret space, and it was only after long study and experiment that I discovered the means of access to it. On lifting its cover I found a flexible cloth covered book and a letter enclosed in oiled silk, that was much tattered. The book, which was yellow with age, and frayed at the edges, contained closely written pages in French, many of them much faded, obscure, and in some places entirely obliterated. The chirography was in the main neat and methodical, but apparently the writing had been done under many varying conditions that made uniformity impossible. Several small drawings were scattered through the text. Some of them showed considerable skill and care, and the others were rough topographic sketches and memorandums of routes. The book was the journal of Pierre de Lisle, a young Jesuit missionary who left France in 1723 to carry salvation to the heathen in the remote wilderness of the new continent. The early entries related to his novitiate in Paris, his work in the Jesuit college, and the preparations for his departure for America. They reflected his hopes for the success of his perilous undertaking. There were vague references to a deep affliction, and to periods of heart sickness and mental depression, by reason of which he had taken the long and difficult path of self denial and self effacement that led him into the activities of the Society of Jesus. He had spent the required years in the subjugation of the flesh and the sanctification of mind and soul, when he went on board the vessel that was to take him to Quebec. In the hope of finding a clue to Pierre’s sorrow, I extracted the letter from its silk covering. It had evidently been cherished through the vicissitudes of purification and the perils of arduous journeyings. It was signed by Marie d’Aubigney, and told of her love, that was undying but hopeless, and of her approaching compulsory marriage to “M. le Marquis.” His name did not appear in the letter. Mingled with the musty odor of the ancient missive, I thought I detected a faint lingering perfume—at least there was one in the message, if not in the paper that bore it. Several pages of the journal were devoted to the tempestuous voyage across the Atlantic, and a gloomy week spent in the fog off the Grand Banks. The vessel finally reached Quebec, where Pierre reported to the Superior of the Canadian Mission.