That evening was a busy one; but I snatched leisure to sit by Marc's bedside and give the dear lad a hasty outline of our adventure. The tale called a flush to his face, and breathless exclamations from Prudence; but Mizpah sat in silence, save for a faint protest once or twice when I told of her heroism, and of her noble self-sacrifice on behalf of the Indian lad. She was weighed down with a sadness which she could make no pretence to hide,--doubtless feeling the more little Philip's absence and loneliness as she contemplated Marc's joy on my return. My hands and lips ached with a longing to comfort her, but I firmly forbade myself to intrude upon her sorrow. By and by, when I spoke of my positive determination to set out for Annapolis in the early morning, both Marc and Prudence strove hard to dissuade me, crying out fervently against my going; but Mizpah said nothing more than-- "Why not take _one day_, at least, to rest?" And I was somewhat hurt at the quiet way she said it. Said I to myself within, "She might spare me a little thought, now that she knows Philip is safe, and sure to be brought back to her." In the morning I saw Big Etienne and Xavier set forth upon their quest,--and Mizpah stood beside me to wish them a grateful "God-speed." Pale and sad as was the exquisite Madonna face, her lips were marvellously red, and wore an unwonted tenderness. Her eyes evaded mine,--which hurt me sorely, but I was comforted a little by her word as the canoe slipped silently away. "I wish we were going with them," said she, in a wistful voice. It was that "we" that stirred my heart. "Would to God we were!" said I. Half an hour later I hung over my dear lad's pallet, pressing his hands, and bidding him adieu, and kissing his gaunt cheeks. When at last I turned away, dashing some unexpected drops from my eyes (for I had eagerly desired his comradeship in this venture, and had dreamed of him fighting at my side), I found that Prudence and the Cure had gone down to the landing to see me off, and that Mizpah stood alone just outside the door, looking pale and tired. I think I was aggrieved that she should not take the trouble to walk down as far as the landing,--and this may have lent my voice a touch of reserve. "Good-bye, Madame," said I, holding out my hand. "May God keep you!" In truth it lay heavily upon my soul that she should not have one thought to spare from the child, for me. Yet I was not prepared for the way she took my farewell. "It was 'comrade' but yesterday," she murmured, flushing, and withdrawing her hand ere I could give it an instant's pressure. But growing straightway pale again, she added with the stateliness so native to her:--