As we drew near the Forge, through the pleasant autumn woods, it wanted about an hour of noon. I heard, far off, the muffled thunder of a cock-partridge drumming. But there was no sound of hammer on clanging anvil, no smoke rising from the wide Forge chimney; and when we entered, the ashes were dead cold. It was plain there had been no fire in the forge that day. "Where can Babin be?" I muttered in vexation. "If he got my message, there can be no excuse for his absence." "I'll wager, Father," said Marc, "that if he is not off on some errand of yours, then he is sick abed, or dead. Nought besides would keep Babin when you called him." I went to a corner and pulled a square of bark from a seemingly hollow log up under the rafters. In the secret niche thus revealed was a scrap of birch bark scrawled with some rude characters of Babin's, whence I learned that my trusty smith was sick of a sharp inflammation. I passed the scrap over to Marc, and felt again in the hollow. "What, in the name of all the saints, is this?" I exclaimed, drawing out a short piece of peeled stick. A portion of the stick was cut down to a flat surface, and on this was drawn with charcoal a straight line, having another straight line perpendicular to it, and bisecting it. At the top of the perpendicular was a figure of the sun, thus:-- * | ----+---- "It's a message from Grul," said Marc, the instant that his eyes fell upon it. "H'm; and how do you know that?" said I, turning it over curiously in my fingers. "Well," replied Marc, "the peeled stick is Grill's sign manual. What does he say?" "He seems to say that he is going to build a windmill," said I, with great seriousness; "but doubtless you will give this hieroglyphic quite a different interpretation." Marc laughed,--yes, laughed audibly. And it is possible that his Penobscot grandmother turned in her grave. It was good to know that the lad _could_ laugh, which I had begun to doubt; but it was puzzling to me to hear him laugh at the mere absurdity which I had just uttered, when my most polished witticisms, of which I had shot off many of late at Chignecto, and in conversation with good Father Fafard, had never availed to bring more than a phantom smile to his lips. However, I made no comment, but handed him "Grul's sign manual," as he chose to call it. "Why, Father," said he, "you understand it well enough, I know. This is plainly the sun at high noon. At high noon, therefore, we may surely expect to see Grul. He has been here but a short time back; for see, the wood is not yet dry." "Sapristi!" said I, "do you call that the sun, lad? It is very much like a windmill."