“_Gran’-père, mon gran’-père!_” she cried, “I will work! I can plow—I can dig! I am young it is true, and small, but we women of Acadie are strong. You shall care for the house—it is I who will till the land. Let us not leave Acadie. Gabriel may return—sick, wounded, who knows? and we gone, the house desolate! If _M. l’Abbé_ sets his Micmacs on us to drive us forth, I will plead with them. They have hearkened to me before now, they will again. If not, then we must go forth indeed, but not yet, not yet!” [Illustration: “Suddenly the girl raised her head.”] Weeping they clung together. Suddenly the girl raised her head. A moment more she was on her feet, gazing intently into the black depths of the forest. “_Gran’-père_,” she whispered, “do you hear?” “Only the night-hawk, my daughter.” “Ah, but the night-hawk! Many a time have I heard my cousin call thus in the woods in our happy play times. There, again!” Like an arrow from a bow she was gone, speeding through the long grass, but keeping well in the shadows. The old man rose with difficulty. He was weary and cramped with the long day’s work, of which since his grandson began to grow toward manhood his share had until these evil days been slight. As the minutes crawled by and Margot did not return, anxiety swelled to terror. The Indians—they did not all know her. With shaking hand he took his ancient-fowling piece from the peg where it hung. His vision was dim, and as he started blindly on his way, he found himself arrested, gently pushed back into the hut, the door barred, the small windows shuttered. All was done quickly and quietly, as by an accustomed hand. Pine cones were thrown upon the half-dead fire, there was a blaze of light, and Pierre Grétin fell into the arms of his grandson. But joy sobered as Grétin and Margot surveyed their recovered treasure by the additional illumination of home-made tallow dips. Gabriel, indeed, was but the ghost of his former buoyant, radiant self. Only the blue, brave light in his eyes betrayed the old Gabriel. His cheeks were hollow, his frame gaunt, his home-spun clothing torn to rags. “That I can soon remedy,” said the little housewife to herself, as she thought of the new suit in the oaken chest, set aside for his first communion. Strange scars were on his legs and hands, and these Margot soon fell to examining, a growing dread in her face, though he strove to draw his fingers from her clasp. “Heed them not, _ma cousine_,” he said tenderly. “I have weightier matters to speak of with thee and with the _gran’-père_.” “Speak on, my son.” “Nay,” said the girl quickly, “let him rest and eat first.” Glancing into the pot, which hung, French fashion, over the fire, she added to it shredded meat and vegetables until the whole was a savory mess. While she prepared it, the boy sat with his head in his hands, a man before his time.