A Cry in the Wilderness. Mary E. Waller

Gordon's setters in fact." He made some pun at which his mother smiled, but it was lost on me. "They 're not mine, they 're my friend's, and that amounts to the same thing when he 's away."

      "And who is this friend of dogs and of man?"

      "He? Guy Mannering, hear her! Why there's only one 'he' for this place and that's—"

      "Doctor Rugvie?"

      "Doctor Rugvie!" he repeated, looking at me in unfeigned amazement; then to his mother:

      "Have n't you told her yet, mother?"

      "I doubt if I mentioned his name—I had so many other things to say and think of." She spoke half apologetically.

      "The man who owns this house, Miss Farrell,"—he was speaking so earnestly and emphatically that he forgot our agreement—"the man who owns these dogs, the lord of this manor, such as it is, and everything belonging to it, lord of a forest it will do your eyes and lungs and soul good to journey through, the man who is master in the best sense of Pete and little Pete, of Angélique and Marie, of old Mère Guillardeau, of a dozen farmers here on the old Seigniory of Lamoral, my friend, Doctor Rugvie's friend and friend of all Richelieu-en-Bas, is Mr. Ewart, Gordon Ewart—and you missed my pun! the first I've made to-day!—and I hope he will be yours!"

      "Well, I 'll compromise. If he will just tolerate me here for your sakes, I 'll be his friend whether he is mine or not—for I want to stay."

      I meant what I said; and I think both mother and son realized, that under the jesting words there was a deep current of feeling. Mrs. Macleod leaned over and laid her hand on mine.

      "You shall stay, Marcia; it will not depend on Mr. Ewart, your remaining with us. When the farm is ready, Doctor Rugvie will place us there, and then I shall need your help all the time."

      Again, as at the station with Delia Beaseley's blessing ringing in my ears, I felt the unaccustomed tears springing in my eyes. Jamie leaned forward and knocked the ashes from his pipe; he continued to stare into the fire.

      "And who are the others?" I asked unsteadily; my lips trembled in spite of myself.

      "The others? Oh—," he seemed to come back to us from afar, "there is André—"

      "And who is André?"

      "Just André—none such in the wide world; my guide's old father, old Mère Guillardeau's brother, old French voyageur and coureur de bois; it will take another evening to tell you of André.— Mother," he spoke abruptly, "it's time for porridge and Cale."

      "Yes, I will speak to Marie." She rose and left the room by a door at the farther end.

      "Remark those fourteen candles, will you?" said Jamie, between puffs.

      "I have noticed them; I call that a downright extravagance."

      "I pay for it," he said sententiously; then, with a slight flash of resentment; "you need n't think I sponge on Ewart to the extent of fourteen candles a night."

      I laughed a little under my breath. I knew a little friction would do him no harm.

      "And when those fourteen candles burn to within two inches of the socket, as at present, it is my invariable custom, being a Scotsman, to call for the porridge—and for Cale, because he is of our tongue, and needs to discourse with his own, at least once, before going to bed. I say a Scotsman without his nine o'clock porridge is a cad."

      "Any more remarks are in order," I said to tease him.

      "You really must know Cale—"

      "I thought I made his acquaintance this afternoon."

      He laughed again his hearty laugh. "I forgot; he drove you out. We did n't send Pete because we thought you might not understand his lingo. But you must n't fancy you know Cale because you 've seen him once—oh, no! You 'll have to see him daily and sometimes hourly; in fact, you will see so much of him that, sometimes, you will wish it a little less; for you are to understand that Cale is omnipresent, very nearly omnipotent here with us, and indispensable to me. You will accept him on my recommendation and afterwards make a friend of him for your own sake."

      "Who is he?"

      "Cale?—He 's just Cale too. His name is Caleb Marstin; 'hails', as he says, from northern New England. I have noticed he does n't care to name the locality, and I respect his reticence; it's none of my business. He says he has n't lived there for more than a quarter of a century and has no relations. He can tell you more about forests, lumber and forestry, in one hour than a whole Agricultural College. He has been for years lumbering in northern Minnesota and across the Canadian border. He 's here to help reforest and conserve the old forest to the estate; he 's—in a word, he 's my right hand man."

      "Is Mr. Ewart lord of Cale too?"

      At my question, Jamie's long body doubled up with mirth.

      "Have n't seen each other yet and don't know each other. Gordon Ewart is n't apt to acknowledge any one as his master, especially in the matter of forestry, and Cale never does; result, fun for us when they do know each other."

      "How did you happen to get him here?"

      "Oh, a girl I know, who visits in Richelieu-en-Bas, said her father, who is a big lumber merchant on the States' border, knew of good men for the place. Ewart had told me that this was my first business, to get a man for the place; so I wrote to him, and he replied that Cale was coming east in the spring and he had given him my name. That's how."