"I mean what I say. The forest knows its own. She has come again; and my old eyes, that still see like the hawk, are glad at the sight of her--and of him. Have I not prayed all these years that Our Lady of the Snows might bless her--and _her child_?" There was no mistaking the emphasis on the last words.

"Andre,"--Jamie's voice dropped to an excited whisper, but I caught it,--"you mean that?"

"I mean _that_," he said.

I heard him rise; I heard his steps soft on the cedar-strewn path.

Jamie must have followed him, for in a moment I heard him calling from the sh.o.r.e:

"Mother, Marcia, come on! Andre says it's time to light the beacon."

I joined Mrs. Macleod, and in the dusk we made our way over to the pile of wood.

"You are to light it, mademoiselle," said Andre, handing me the flaming pine knot. I obeyed mechanically, for Andre's words were filling all the night with confusing sounds that seemed to echo conflictingly from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

"Just here, by the birch bark, mademoiselle."

The beacon caught; there was no wind. The bark snapped, curled and shrivelled; the branches crackled; the little flames leaped, the fire crept higher and higher till it lighted our faces and the waters in the foreground. We waited and watched till we heard a faint "hurrah", and soon, in the distance, a calcium light burned red and long. We went down again to the cove. Jamie was with his mother; I walked behind with Andre.

"Andre," I whispered to him, "when you first saw me you said, 'I have waited many years for you to come'. Why did you say that?"

"Why? Because I desired to speak the truth."

"Am I like some one you have seen before? Tell me."

"Yes."

"Who was she?"

"I do not know."

"Will you tell me sometime what you do know of her?"

"Yes, I will tell you."

"Soon?"

"When you will?"

"To-morrow?"

"As you please. I will take you to the tree, my tree--and to hers; you shall see for yourself."

"Thank you, Andre."

"I must watch the fire," he said, and retraced his steps. Dear old Andre! It was such a pleasure to be able to talk with him in his own tongue.

We heard the dip of the paddles, a call--our camp call. In a few minutes the Doctor was with us.

I made excuse the next afternoon to go fishing with Andre. I kept saying to myself:

"This thing is impossible; there can be no connection between me and any woman who may have been here in camp, and Mr. Ewart says several have been here to his knowledge. What if I do look like some other woman who, years ago, lived and loved here in this wilderness? What have I to do with her? I 'll settle this matter once for all and to my satisfaction; Andre will tell me. He is romantic; and that girl made a deep impression on him, especially in those circ.u.mstances. Now the thought of her has become a fixed idea."

The Doctor sulked a little because he was not of my party.

"I don't approve of your _solitude a deux_ parties; they 're against camp rules."

"Just for this once. Andre is going to show me something I have wanted to see ever since I came."

He was still growling after I was in the canoe.

"Only this once!" I cried, waving my hand to him before we dipped the paddles.

"She used to wave her hand like that," said Andre, paddling slowly until I got well regulated to his--what I called--rhythm.

I stared at him. Was this an obsession with him? It began to look like it.

We landed on the north sh.o.r.e of the lake. I followed him along a trail, that led through a depression between two heights, upwards to a heavily wooded small plateau overlooking the lake. I followed his lead for another quarter of a mile through these woods. I could see no trail. Then we came into a path, a good one. I remarked on it.

"Yes: I have made it these many years. I come here every year."

We heard the rush of a near-by torrent. The air swept cool over through the woods and struck full on our faces. In a few minutes we were facing it--a singing ma.s.s of water pouring down the smooth face of a rock like the ap.r.o.n of a dam; the face was inclined at an angle of fifty degrees. The torrent plunged into a basin set deep among rocks.

Above this pool, above the surrounding trees, towered one great pine.

Andre led me to it.

"I have been coming here so many years--count," he said, pointing to the notches from the b.u.t.t upwards to a height beyond my reach.

This was the tree about which Jamie had sung, notched year after year by Andre, since he was ten, that he might know his age. And what an age! I counted: "Eighty notches."

"Oh, Andre, all those years?"

"But yes--and so many more." He held up his ten fingers.

"And Mere Guillardeau will be a hundred her next birthday?"

He nodded. "Yes; my sister is no longer in her first youth."

He began to count backwards and downwards. I counted after him: "Twenty-seven." By the last notch there was a deep gash.

"What is this?"

"Twenty-seven years ago she was here, she whom you are like. I have waited twenty-seven years."

"Tell me about it; I am ready to hear."

"Come here." He beckoned to me from a group of trees, tamaracks, on the other side of the path. He went behind one. I followed him.

"Read," he said. And I read with difficulty, although the lettering was cut deep, one word "Heureuse", and a date "1883. 9. 10."