"Do you know any White Chief?" "I do not, Mother." "Do you know for whom this missive was intended?" Therese hesitated. The question was repeated. "I do, Mother," she said. "Do you know by whom it was written?" Taking the letter in her hand she said, slowly: "I do, Mother." "Then, Therese, I must demand the names of both the sender and the intended recipient." "Who wrote that letter?" "I shall not tell," she said, slowly and with great determination. "I shall give you five minutes to answer my question, Therese, and if you stubbornly persist in concealing these facts from me I shall declare you expelled." There was silence in the hall--not a soul stirred. Therese stood calmly awaiting her doom, when suddenly there was a shuffling at the back of the hall and Abbie came forward and addressed the Superior: "I wrote that letter. It was intended for a young officer at the Citadel. If you are going to expel anyone, expel me." The Mother Superior hesitated. She looked at Abbie, then at Therese, and said, solemnly: "Insubordination and deceit must not go unpunished. I shall communicate all the circumstances of the case to your parents. The classes may now go to their respective class-rooms." A few days later Abbie was summoned to the reception room, and was much surprised to find her father and her brother Bearie in consultation with the Mother Superior. They had just arrived with a raft of timber--the first raft from the Ottawa--and had come to arrange with the nuns to have Abbie spend the evening with them. The Chief looked very grave as he tried to decipher the tattered letter which the Mother Superior translated to him. He said: "Abbie is a giddy, foolish, light-hearted girl, whose spirits often carry her beyond bounds. I shall be returning to the Utawas in a few days and shall take her home with me. She will be safe at home," he said, as the Mother tried to dissuade him from his purpose. "Now that your daughter is on restriction of leave she will be perfectly safe with us. We make an exception, of course, in the case of parents taking their daughters out." No sooner had they emerged from the stone walls of the convent than Abbie related the whole affair to her father, who reproved her for her folly and gave her what is rarely appreciated, sound, fatherly advice. On reaching the hotel Bearie introduced to his sister an awkward, bashful youth named Thomas Brigham, who had come down with them on the raft. "What part of the backwoods do you come from?" she asked, coldly. "From the township of Hull," he responded. "Did you ever see a city before?" "Well, no, I cannot say that I have, except Montreal and Three Rivers," he replied, as he scraped the mud off his long boots with his pocket knife. "I thought not," she said. Her father moved uneasily in his seat on observing the embarrassment of the young man, and said, gravely: