When we made our camp that night, Lucy and I, much to our delight, were allowed to take a share in the preparation of the meal, and afterwards we sate before the blazing fire, while the priest told us of his life among the roving Indians, of their strange customs and stranger beliefs, of their patient endurance in times of want, of their despair when disease made its appearance in their lodges, and of the ruin wrought among them by the white man's traffic in strong waters. "For the Indian it is no question of French or English; whichever conquers, he must go--nay, is passing even now--with only such feeble hands as mine to point the way of his going." And there were tears in his voice as he spake. Before we parted for the night I asked by what name we might address him. "Le pere Jean," he answered. "That is not difficult to remember," I said, smiling. "Which is important, my daughter, for it has to serve me from Gaspe to Michilimacinac. There is but little danger of confusion in the names of missionaries," he added, sadly; "the labourers are few." When we left him I was glad to find that even Lucy's strict views were not proof against his simple goodness. I had feared the very fact of his priestly office would have prejudiced her, for I knew her sect made little of much the older religions held sacred; but in speaking of him afterwards she simply said: "The Lord is wiser than we. He knows what vessels to choose for His service." We were so tired, and there was such a sense of security in our new keeping, that we were asleep before we knew; but during the night I fell into a strange dream, which so distressed me that I awoke, with tears streaming down my face. What it was, I could not clearly gather, but with the awakening came my sorrow afresh, and I lay staring up into the blackness with wide-open eyes. Presently I heard Lucy's soft whisper, "Dear heart, what is the matter?" "Lucy, why are you awake?" "Christopher," she answered. "I know my boy is in sore trouble on my account, and, alas, he has not my faith to support him." "Lucy," I whispered, after a pause, "I have been selfish. In my own trouble I have not remembered yours." "Why should you, mistress?" she said, simply. "You have been good to me, beyond what one in my condition has any right to expect. My trouble can have no claim, when you are burdened, perhaps even beyond your strength." It was strange she should remember the difference between us at such a time. To me, we were simply two women suffering a common sorrow in our severance from those most dear to us, and I longed to take her in my arms and tell her all my pain. Had she been a mere servant, I might have done so, if only for the comfort of crying together; but she was too near my own class, and yet not quite of it, to permit me to take this solace. So we talked quietly for a space, and then fell once more to sleep. CHAPTER XIV I AM DIRECTED INTO A NEW PATH