“Does not the master trust his friend? It is the time to come. Therefore, I am here.” “Of course. I just thought about that. But, Joseph, the master is ill. He knows nothing any more. If he ever needed you, he needs you doubly now. Come, come at once.” Then, indeed, though there was little outward expression of it, was old Joseph moved. He stopped for nothing, but leaving his fire burning on the hearth and his supper cooking before it, went out and closed the door. Even Margot’s nimble feet had ado to keep pace with his long strides, and she had to spring before him to prevent his pushing off without her. “No, no. I’m going with you. Here--I’ll tow my own boat, with Tom and Reynard--don’t you squabble, pets--but I’ll paddle no more while you’re here to do it for me.” Joseph did not answer, but he allowed her to seat herself where she pleased, and with one strong movement sent his big birch a long distance over the water. Margot had never made the passage so swiftly, but the motion suited her exactly; and she leaped ashore almost before it was reached, to speed up the hill and call out to Angelique wherever she might be: “All is well! All will now be well--Joseph has come.” The Indian reached the house but just behind her and acknowledged Angelique’s greeting with a sort of grunt; yet he paused not at all to ask the way or if he might enter the master’s room, passing directly into it as if by right. Margot followed him, cautioning, with finger on lip, anxious lest her patient should be shocked and harmed by the too-sudden appearance of the visitor. Then, and only then, when her beloved child was safely out of sight, did Angelique throw her apron over her head and give her own despairing tears free vent. She was spent and very weary; but help had come; and in the revulsion of that relief nature gave way. Her tears ceased, her breath came heavily, and the poor woman slept, the first refreshing slumber of an unmeasured time. When she waked, at length, Joseph was crossing the room. The fire had died out, twilight was falling, she was conscious of duties left undone. Yet there was light enough left for her to scan the Indian’s impassive face with keen intensity; and though he turned neither to the right nor left, but went out with no word or gesture to satisfy her craving, she felt that she had had her answer. “Unless a miracle is wrought, my master is doomed. Oh, the broken glass--the broken glass!” CHAPTER XIX THE LETTER From the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe assumed all charge of it, and with scant courtesy banished from it both Angelique and Margot. “But he is mine, my own precious uncle. Joe has no right to keep me out!” protested Margot, vehemently. Angelique was wiser. “In his own way, among his own folks, that Indian good doctor. Leave him be. Yes. If my master can be save’, Joe Wills’ll save him. That’s as God plans; but if I hadn’t broke--”