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NOTE

The author wishes to express her appreciation to the Canadian National Railways for the invaluable assistance extended to her in so many directions while she was securing material for Susannah Rides Again.

Sue bumped busily.

The long road seemed to stretch forever between the tall pines. Blackberry bushes with half-ripened berries straggled along the edges and now and then a white birch gleamed through the darkness of the woods.

It was hot. High above the fragrant tossing tree tops, there were glimpses of blue sky. Sometimes a Canadian blue jay flashed from branch to branch and once a doe with its tiny, frightened fawn leapt across the road. Where the sun struck through the trees to lie in golden patches, there were wild strawberries, ripe and red, filling the air with sweetness.

Sue bumped again.

This was surely the bumpiest road in the world. Her father had warned her she would have a rough ride from the railroad station at Blue Sea to Lac de Lune, but now Sue doubted if her father had really known very much about it.

“You will have to drive over a corduroy road for about five miles,” he told her, “and a corduroy road, Sue, is what our forefathers built to cross swampy places. They cut cedar logs and laid them close together across the soft spots and in between they threw earth, moss, stones—anything they could find. It doesn’t make for a smooth road, Susie, but if it gets very rough, just remember that your grandmother used the same road and you won’t mind it as much!”

“I’m glad I’m not my grandmother,” thought Sue gloomily, as she nearly bumped out of the calèche. “I’d hate to have to go over this kind of a road very often!”

It was truly dreadful and the calèche was really nothing but a rough wooden box, set between two wheels and dragged along by an old horse with a raggedty mane and tail.

Only an hour ago she had arrived at the small Quebec village of Blue Sea on the edge of the great pine woods. When the station master showed her the cart, or calèche, as he called it, she could hardly believe her eyes.

“Do I go to Lac de Lune in that?” she had asked in astonishment.

“Oui, Mam’zelle, and old Auguste here will drive you in!”

Old Auguste had been hard to believe, too, but here she was sitting beside him, and behind him in the cart were her trunks and bags and a great many other things as well: a barrel, a sack of meal, a box of groceries, a bag of potatoes, some bananas (twelve of them, Sue counted), an enormous watermelon, and a ham.

Sue sighed. It was all so stupid, sending her off to the Quebec backwoods to spend the summer with a lot of cousins whom she didn’t know and didn’t want to know! Everything had been stupid. The slow journey up from Montreal, the wait at the little railroad junction to change trains, the arrival at Blue Sea with no one to meet her but the station master and crabbed old Auguste with his horrid cart.

Everything had been stupid except the boy called ’Poleon, whom she had found at Blue Sea. He had been an adventure in himself for he carried the royal mails of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

He had a small calèche, to which was harnessed a large black dog called Baptiste, and when the mail bags were handed off the train, ’Poleon took them with a flourish, placed them in his cart and started down the platform, with Baptiste wagging a happy tail and barking as if to call everyone’s attention to the importance of their task.

But ’Poleon wasn’t so important that he couldn’t answer questions, and while Sue’s luggage was being placed in the big calèche he told her that Auguste was known as the “Silent One,” because he never liked to talk.

Sue couldn’t believe her ears. She had never heard of anyone that didn’t like talking.

“I’ll make him talk,” she promised. “I’ll ask him questions all the way to Lac de Lune!”

’Poleon shugged his shoulders. “You will be the only woman who has ever done so,” he said.

Sue liked that. No one had ever called her a woman before and it made her feel important.

“Where do I sit, ’Poleon,” she asked. “Where is the seat in this calèche?”

’Poleon laughed and lifted a rough board lying by the roadside. He placed it across the calèche with a smile.

“Montez vous, Mademoiselle,” he cried.

“Do I just sit on that old board?” Sue exclaimed.

“Oui, Mademoiselle, but do not trouble yourself too much. The drive is not long . . . only five miles!”

The station master helped her climb up over the wheel of the calèche and laid a newspaper over the seat. It was a French-Canadian newspaper, called “La Vie Nationale.” Auguste climbed up beside her, lifted the reins, and the old horse moved off at a snail’s pace.

The station master smiled and waved his cap, ’Poleon and Baptiste raced by; the calèche creaked down the dusty road and lurched a bit as they turned the corner, away from the village and towards a dark forest of pines.

Sue moved uneasily. Her father had not told her to expect a road made of nothing but bumps, but she soon found that the bumps came when the wheels sank between each log and as each log was a different size, each bump was a different bump. She tried to figure it out, as one did in riding, and posted a bit, but that didn’t do. It was not only more tiring but she felt perfectly sure that if she missed the size of the bump and was thrown out of the calèche, old Auguste would go on without her.

She tried her best manners on him, and used her best French. She told him she liked French Canadians, pine woods and horses; particularly an old horse like his that had such sure feet for such rough roads. Auguste just looked ahead and said nothing.

He was a funny old codger, she thought, in his worn and patched trousers, faded blue and white checked shirt, and straw hat. Sue remembered those hats. They were wide-brimmed and kept the sun off your face and neck, and from one end of Canada to the other they were called “cows’ breakfasts.”

She smiled up into Auguste’s brown wrinkled face with its heavy iron gray moustache.

“Tell me a little story of the country,” she said in French.

Auguste put his hand in his pocket and brought out an old black pipe, which he filled slowly and with great care, thriftily saving each crumb that fell from the bowl. He lit the pipe and puffed.

“My goodness, how squiffy!” squealed Sue and edged as far away from him as she could without falling out of the calèche. Auguste puffed again and then Sue remembered.

Long ago, in the Yukon, one of the Mounties had told her that the best way to get rid of mosquitoes or pests of any kind was to smoke French-Canadian tobacco.

“They call it ‘tabac’ in Quebec,” he said, “and no self-respecting mosquito would remain within a mile of it!”

Sue shuddered. She thought she would rather have the mosquitoes, and then she giggled. From the way Auguste was puffing smoke out of the side of his mouth, it was all too evident that he found her as great a nuisance as a mosquito!

It grew warmer. Sue took off her gloves, tilted her hat far back on her head and opened her coat.

Miss Templar had warned the girls at school that a perfect lady always arrives at her destination in the same immaculate state of perfection in which she sets out. But Sue knew that Arundel Abbey was a long way off and that if her Head Mistress were riding in the calèche with her, that she, too, would remove her gloves and coat. She took off her coat and a few minutes later rolled up the sleeves of her white china silk blouse. She felt better, but after a particularly bad bump pulled off her hat and rumpled her hair back from her face.

“I wish I’d something to eat,” she thought, and looked longingly at the little bag shaped like a sausage. In it was a jar of peppermint humbugs, but it was too far back to reach easily.

Auguste wasn’t puffing as hard now and Sue felt she had better keep quiet for fear he’d start again. She gave herself up to a review of the past six weeks. They had been exciting.

To begin with, her father had arrived at school early one morning and swooped her off to London in a grand flurry. It seemed that Lord Strathcona had cabled a few days before, ordering him to Canada for the summer.

“He wants more pictures of the Rockies,” explained her father, “and we’re leaving for Quebec the day after tomorrow, Sue, and you’re coming with us!”

There was a lovely mix-up then. Everyone helped her pack and there were many goodbyes . . . London again and Lady Charlotte . . . Liverpool and the bands playing . . . the Caledonia steaming out into the gray ocean . . . and then Quebec, high-walled and sunny, looking down on the St. Lawrence.

Sue and her mother waited at the Château Frontenac while her father went up to Montreal to see Lord Strathcona. Together they saw all the sights and rode through the narrow, cobble-stoned streets, had luncheon at lovely Spencerwood, the Lieutenant-Governor’s residence. For hours at a time—so it seemed to Sue—she listened to guides tell about the battle of the Plains of Abraham and Wolfe and Montcalm. Sue didn’t care for history much. It was all about battles and guns and fights. She preferred people.

Her father came back from Montreal sooner than he expected and Sue thought she had never heard so many plans or so few of them to her liking. Lord Strathcona was taking her father and mother to the Rocky Mountains with him in his private car and Sue was to spend the summer on an island in the Quebec woods.

“Why can’t I go with you?” she asked her father in astonishment. “I don’t want to go to an old island in Quebec. I want to go with Lord Strathcona. I’ve never travelled in a private car . . . it’d be fun.”

“You’ll have a lot more fun in Quebec,” her father answered.

“I’d rather go with Lord Strathcona,” Sue repeated firmly.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Sue,” said her mother sharply. “You are not invited.”

“Not invited?” Sue replied. “Why not?”

“Why should you be?” her father asked. “Lord Strathcona is one of the busiest and most important men in the Empire. Why should he be interested in having a little girl along? Aren’t you getting a bit too big for your boots, Susie?”

Sue wriggled uncomfortably between bumps as she remembered the tone of her father’s voice.

Everyone had been so nice to her on the voyage to Canada that she had begun to think herself quite grown up . . . and then suddenly it seemed that everyone thought her just a “little school girl.” And if there was one thing Sue detested more than another it was to be called “little.”

“I wouldn’t be in the way,” she began, but her father interrupted.

“Susie, you’re going to an island in the Quebec woods on a lake called Lac de Lune,” he said. “You’ll find there my old Aunt Sassie, Cecelia Devereaux. Every summer she opens her house and takes all the children of the family for their summer holidays. As soon as your mother can get you some good stout camp clothes, you are leaving for the island. We’ll come up and fetch you in the autumn.”

A most uncomfortable day had followed. Her mother thought Sue was behaving unreasonably when she grew more and more disgruntled as the “stout camp clothes” were chosen—sailor suits of red and white and blue and white striped material that looked like mattress ticking, thick and strong; blue denim skirts and jumpers; sneakers; black alpaca bathing suits trimmed with rows upon rows of white braid. Nothing pretty in the whole outfit, Sue had thought mournfully; nothing exciting.

“I know that I shall hate the island and everyone on it,” she murmured to herself.

It had only taken three days to gather together her clothes. Her father had been so busy with his own affairs that she hadn’t heard much more about the island except that the children were her cousins. “Distant cousins, Susie,” he had once found time to tell her. “So distant that you needn’t worry about the relationship but try to like them anyway.”

On the last day, while her mother was packing, her father had taken her out to buy a large plum cake packed in a tin box, two tins of English cookies, some Swiss milk chocolate, a bag of rock candy, and a jar of peppermint humbugs.

“Don’t tell your mother I bought you all these,” he whispered guiltily. “She thinks you eat too many sweets as it is, but you’ll be able to digest nails up there in the backwoods. It’s a grand place for eating, Susie.” This was the only really encouraging thing Sue had heard about the island.

When they had put her on the train that morning for the village of Blue Sea, her father told her she would be met by the station master who would see that she was driven over to Lac de Lune. “The children will meet you at the lake,” he said, “and the rest is up to you. I hope you have a happy summer.”

Sue stole a look at Auguste. His pipe had gone out and the air was sweet again but the road still stretched ahead, a long brown path of cedar logs. There was a sudden, soft, whirring sound. A covey of partridges swept across the road, a little breeze stirred the branches overhead and a scarlet tanager called to them from a tree.

Sue sighed more contentedly. She was almost used to the bumps by now. She might even come to miss them when they stopped, if they ever did stop. She wished she knew more about the children on the island. Her father had been very vague, even about their ages.

She began to feel sleepy and wished there was something she could lean against. A bee circled about her red curls, droning his drowsy song of summer. She wished there was someone she could talk to. In all her life Sue never remembered being so silent for so long.

Her toes twitched. She wriggled. Perhaps they wouldn’t like her at the island and send her away. She wished she had thought of that when she had been arguing with her father.

There was a sudden big bump.

The road had turned. Through the pines there was a glimpse of blue waters, vivid shining blue, and beyond, islands floating in the lovely color.

Sue held her breath. It must be Lac de Lune. The forest closed in again and the road ran straight ahead. Sue stretched. It couldn’t be long now, for the shadows were lengthening and then, suddenly, in front of her, like the sea, lay a great, island-studded lake . . . the same deep blue, circled by shining white sand beaches, fringed by the towering pines. Nearby a heavy, wide-beamed boat was tied to an old wharf that stretched finger-wise out into the lake.

The horse stopped. Auguste wound the reins around a wooden peg and turned in his seat.

Sue eased herself over the side of the calèche. She was stiff and cramped but the moss was soft under her feet.

Across the road, waiting under a huge pine, were six children, three boys and three girls. Not one of them moved.

Sue looked at the little group. They seemed unfriendly and suspicious. She wondered what could be the matter and felt puzzled and bewildered.

Old Auguste started unloading the calèche. . . .

There was a sudden bumping noise. Sue looked back. It almost seemed as if the day was to become one long bump. Auguste was unloading the calèche by dropping everything over the side and the biggest bump was her trunk.

One of the girls moved out of the little group and came towards Sue. She was golden-haired, slender and dark-eyed, and so lovely that she reminded Sue of “The Sleeping Beauty.”

“I am Francesca McKay,” she said, and turning, beckoned the others. “And these are my cousins, Nancy and Bridget Devereaux, only we call her Biddie.

“Here are my brothers,” she went on, “Donald and Angus, who are twins. They are fourteen years old. And this is Timmie McKay. He is our fourth cousin and he is ten.”

“I’ll be eleven next month,” Timmie broke in. But Francesca continued, “There is one more of us at home, too little to bring over. She is almost four years old and her name is Desirée Devereaux, only we call her ‘Pearlie-Baby!’ ”

“Pearlie-Baby,” thought Sue. “What a name!”

“She’s got another name, too,” said Timmie darkly. “We call her the ‘Island Nuisance’!”

“Hush, Timmie,” reproved Francesca, “you know Aunt Sassie doesn’t like her called that!” She smiled at Sue. “What do we call you?” she asked. “Susannah?”

But before Sue could answer, the big boy called Donald broke in.

“Forget the social stuff,” he said hoarsely and turned to Sue. “Did you bring anything to eat?” he asked.

Sue hesitated.

“Where is it?” demanded Donald.

Sue pointed to the portmanteau, which by this time was lying on its side under the pines. It seemed to her that it was only a split second before they had it open and were fighting over the two boxes of cookies.

“Gingersnaps!” cried Francesca delightedly.

“Social teas!” crowed Nancy.

“Didn’t you bring any fly biscuits?” Don asked severely.

“Fly biscuits?” repeated Sue. “What’s a fly biscuit? I never heard of such a thing!”

Donald flung up his arms. “She doesn’t even know what a fly biscuit is!”

There was a burst of laughter from them all . . . the sort of laughter Sue didn’t like. It almost seemed as if they didn’t want her, yet Francesca had been polite enough and they had found her cookies welcome, if she wasn’t. More than ever she wondered what could be the matter. They all looked so nice; brown and freckled and strong, and not too tidy.

Auguste dropped a watermelon on the moss. There was a yell of delight from them all and they swarmed around the calèche like so many monkeys, examining the bags and parcels, counting the bananas. As far as Sue could see, their only interest was in food.

She was glad they hadn’t asked her if she had anything more to eat in her bag. It would be gone by now, she thought indignantly, and she wanted at least one piece of her own plum cake.

Donald was arguing about the bananas.

“There are twelve of them,” he said, “and I’m starved. We’re all starved! I think we’d better eat them now. There’s an awful load of luggage to row over to the island tonight,” he scowled at Sue, “and there won’t be room for these bananas. There’s six of us . . . that gives us two apiece. . . .”

But Francesca’s soft voice broke in. “There are seven of us now,” she said, and nodded towards Sue.

Donald grunted. “How can you divide twelve bananas evenly into seven people?” he asked. There was no answer.

Angus looked towards Sue. “Perhaps you don’t like bananas,” he said hopefully.

“Oh, yes, I do,” said Sue firmly. If they had her cookies, she was going to have their bananas.

But in the long run, no one had them. They couldn’t make the fractions come out sensibly and Francesca seemed to think Aunt Sassie would be very disturbed.

Sue wondered what Aunt Sassie could be like. In fact, she was doing a great deal of wondering.

To begin with, she had expected quite a different kind of welcome. She had thought they would be glad to see her. She wondered if she told them of how she had spent a year with the Mounties, and seen Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee; of her trip to the Yukon; of how she went to school at Arundel Abbey in Windsor and quite often saw the Queen drive by, whether they wouldn’t think her a little bit important.

But just at that moment Angus picked up the end of her trunk and examined her label.

“Susannah Elizabeth Fairfield Winston,” he read in a loud voice. Hastily they all crowded around Angus and one after the other read out her names and all of them laughed. They did everything together, Sue noticed, even to laughing. Somehow she thought she would be safer if she didn’t try to explain all the things she’d done.

“Miss Susannah Elizabeth Fairfield Winston,” Donald said with a bow, “would you like to meet a great friend of ours, Miss Julie Zotique?”

“Very much,” Sue answered politely, and there was another burst of laughter.

“This way, then,” Donald said, and pointed to a path through the woods, well trodden, Sue noticed, and bright with the satiny leaves of wintergreen berries. The berries were white now but later, she knew, they would be richly red.

Laughing and whispering, Timmie and Biddie led the way until suddenly behind them the old horse whinnied and there came the sound of the calèche turning.

Everyone ran back then . . . some of them down to the boat, others to a cache of pails at the roadside. Francesca grabbed a heavy waterproof bag hanging from a maple. It was marked:

Helter skelter down the road they all ran, crying out to Auguste, who never turned, never stopped and never spoke, but little by little they gained on him and flung their bags and pails and boxes in behind him.

Sue wanted to run, too, but there seemed nothing for her to carry. She stood there watching, half wishing she was back in England, half wishing she was one of them.

There were pines around her, and moss and pine needles under her feet; a rich, piney fragrance in the air. Above her, two chipmunks chattered in the branches. A woodchuck peered at her from behind a stump and then scuttled clumsily across the road. There was the sound of water lapping gently against the boat and the sound of the breathless, laughing voices returning.

“Shall we tell you more about Miss Julie Zotique?” Donald asked.

Sue nodded guardedly.

“She is the prettiest girl in the countryside,” Donald went on. “She has soft brown hair, the most beautiful brown eyes you ever saw, and the softest, sweetest voice in the whole world.”

There were strangled sounds of suppressed laughter. Biddie, Sue noticed, had stuffed her hankie into her mouth to keep from giggling out loud. Sue scowled. There was something up. There was more to Miss Julie Zotique than met the eye.

“Where does she live?” she asked cautiously.

“Down the path at the edge of the clearing,” Angus answered. “She has a little house there.”

“It’s a very little house,” Biddie added in her high, piping voice, “and not a bit grand. But she likes it.”

“Is she French Canadian?” Sue asked.

“Well, not exactly,” Donald answered. “Her parents were of English birth . . . that is to say, her grandparents were . . . but as she’s lived all her life in Quebec, I think you’d call her French Canadian.”

“What’s so funny about her?” Sue asked. “What are you all laughing at?”

“Oh, we always laugh when we visit Miss Julie Zotique,” said Timmie gravely. “You will laugh, too, when you see her.”

The little path wound on, now straight, now curving among the trees. Sometimes the breeze brought a faint sweet perfume to mingle with the scent of the pines and the crushed wintergreen under their feet.

Sue sniffed. “It’s clover,” she said to herself, “sweet wild clover!” These were smells she remembered from her prairie days: nice Canadian smells.

The path turned. Before them stretched the clearing of an old farm. Narrow fields of waving grass, studded with buttercups, stretched from a broken stone fence across to where the forest began again. There were daisies everywhere, white and shining, and purple clover tall and strong, sheltering the soft white clover that lay so close to the earth.

But there was no house . . . only a tumbledown shed. Not a sign of life. Sue looked at Donald.

“I don’t see anyone,” she said. “Where is this Miss Julie Zotique?”

The giggling broke out again.

Donald moved forward. “I’ll call her,” he said.

“Julie! Julie Zotique!” he called.

There was no answer.

“You have to call her Miss Zotique,” Biddie said reproachfully. “She never answers unless you say ‘Miss!’ ”

Sue felt more bewildered than ever.

Donald moved forward.

“Miss Julie Zotique!” he bellowed.

“Voilà!” cried Timmie.

Picking her way daintily around the corner of the shed, stepped a small and very aristocratic little Jersey cow! Her hair was brown, her eyes were brown. There was breeding in every line of her.

“Why, it’s a cow!” said Sue. “A cow!”

There was a burst of delighted laughter from the others.

“We didn’t tell you any fibs, did we?” asked Nancy.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” demanded Francesca.

“She’s got soft brown eyes, hasn’t she?” exclaimed Biddie.

“She’s got soft brown hair,” said Angus.

At that moment Miss Julie Zotique raised her voice.

“Moo . . . ooo . . . ooo . . . ooo!”

“And she’s got the softest voice in the whole world,” cried Sue. They all laughed together then, but the laughter was different, Sue noticed. It seemed to include her and for a moment they all seemed friendly until Donald called her.

“We take turns at milking,” he said. “You’ll have to take your turn, too!”

Sue nodded. “I’ll try.”

Angus had tied Miss Julie Zotique to a tree and Biddie was seated on an old upturned pail busily milking. One by one, the children took their turns but from the anxious look in Miss Julie Zotique’s eye and the way in which she turned her head and swished her tail, Sue wasn’t at all sure the little Jersey enjoyed the milking.

At last Angus called, “Susannah Elizabeth Fairfield Winston! This way if you please!”

“The old meanies.” Sue muttered to herself. “They know perfectly well that the last milker has it hardest, but I’ll show them!”

She moved the tin pail closer to Miss Zotique and ran her hand down over the flank of the little cow.

“So, Bossie,” she said softly, “so, Bossie,” and seated herself on the pail. Pressing her red curls against the soft brown coat of Miss Julie, Sue’s fingers started their busy work. “Soooooooooooh, Bossie,” she crooned, “sooooooooooh, Bossie, let down your milk now, my beauty; let down your milk!”

Miss Julie stood perfectly still, almost as if she couldn’t believe what was happening to her, and the milk started gushing foamily into the pail.

“Soooooooh, Bossie,” Sue laughed.

“Suffering cats, will you look at that!” exclaimed Donald.

They all crowded around her, surprised, admiring, and slightly envious; for the pail was filling rapidly and Julie stood so quietly that it was plain that she approved of Sue completely.

“Where did you ever learn to milk?” asked Angus.

“In the Yukon,” Sue answered, as if she went there every day.

“Who taught you?” asked Donald.

“Lady Charlotte.” Sue was enjoying herself enormously now.

“Lady Charlotte who?” Donald asked, suspiciously.

“I thought there weren’t any cows in the Yukon,” added Angus, even more suspiciously.

“There was only one,” Sue answered, “and no one knew how to milk it, except Lady Charlotte, and she taught me! It was a big bony old black cow, not at all pretty like Miss Zotique!”

“Oh,” said Donald in a high-pitched voice, “and so it was Lady Charlotte who taught you to milk so beautifully!”

“And did the cow know that Lady Charlotte was milking it?” giggled Nancy, in an affected manner.

Sue flushed. They were mimicking her English accent. She’d made a mistake, too, in using Lady Charlotte’s title. It was quite clear they didn’t believe her.

“You don’t know anything, do you, you big ninny?” she asked and aimed the stream of milk on Donald. It hit him straight in the eye and the howl of rage and surprise he gave delighted her. “I can do that to every one of you,” said Sue nastily, “and what’s more, I will . . . if you go on being silly!”

Donald wiped his face but there was an admiring gleam in his eye.

“We’re not used to titles in our milk maids,” he said meekly. “Tell us more, Miss Winston!”

“Pooh,” said Sue, milking busily. “If you knew anything at all, you’d know that a lady can do anything anywhere, whether she has a title or not!”

Sue could see that the others didn’t really mind her drenching Donald with milk and aimed at him again.

“It serves you right, Donald,” said Francesca, severely. “Stop teasing Sue!”

“I don’t care what he does,” Sue interrupted. “He looks so silly with that milk all over his face . . . like a calf!”

There was more laughter and Sue could see that, though they liked her spunk, they were still not really friendly. She finished the milking and Angus took the pail from her. Timmie led Miss Zotique into the shed.

Sue followed. It was really a very ramshackle shelter but inside there was a box stall and sweet hay. Donald filled the water pails from a spring near by, while Francesca and Nancy strained the milk into clean pails.

Sue suddenly felt cross and hungry. She couldn’t see why they should all be so standoffish or why they should think she was putting on airs in speaking of Lady Charlotte.

She followed them back along the path. Angus and Donald carried the milk and argued violently as to which one should row home. Each seemed to think he had rowed the boat every day all summer . . . yet it was only the middle of July and summer was hardly well begun. If they hadn’t been so cheerful over it, Sue would have thought they were really fighting, but when they reached the shore of the lake, everyone seemed to have his or her own particular chore to do.

Nancy and Biddie carried the small parcels and bags, the three boys the heavy things, while Francesca arranged them in the boat.

The boys made a great to-do about Sue’s trunks. “What are you bringing with you?” asked Donald, as he and Angus tugged the heavier trunk down on the wharf and lifted it into the boat. “It’s as heavy as lead.”

Sue didn’t answer. She was watching them trim the boat. It was big and clumsy and littered with life preservers.

“It’s an old lifeboat,” Francesca explained, a little apologetically. “You see, Aunt Sassie’s frightened to death of the water and she’s so sure we’ll all drown some day, that we have to wear our life preservers whenever we’re in the boat.”

“Aunt Sassie’s afraid of everything,” Nancy added, “even a mouse!”

Donald loosened the painter.

“All aboard for Four Winds Island!” he called in a sing-song voice. There were four oars and the three boys and Francesca took their places at them, while Nancy and Biddie plumped down in the stern.

“Where do I go?” asked Sue.

Donald rose. “If it pleases your ladyship, will you take the seat in the bow?”

Sue scowled. There wasn’t any seat in the bow, but she crept over the luggage and groceries piled in the middle of the boat to where her round-topped trunk was placed. She balanced herself on the trunk; the four oars dipped into the water and they were away from the wharf and the old road, away from Miss Julie Zotique, and out into the blue waters of Lac de Lune.

The air was cool against Sue’s hot cheeks and from the stern came the sound of Nancy’s and Biddie’s voices. They were singing The Canadian Boat Song.

Sue wanted to sing, too, but Donald’s last quip had enraged her. When you’re in England, she thought, they say you speak like a Canadian, and that’s wrong. When you’re in Canada they think you’re giving yourself airs if you speak with an English accent . . . and that’s wrong!

She looked gloomily out across the water. All the world seemed wrong. She wondered where Lord Strathcona’s car was. Slowly the boat came out into midstream. Before her stretched Lac de Lune, vivid blue. Behind her lay the dark forest of the mainland, and across the water, white sand beaches gleamed against little islands crowned with tall pines.

There were pines everywhere and Sue had never seen such pines. They were tall and strong, towering up towards the blue sky; and they were tidy pines, not like the ones Sue had seen in city parks or even in the Yukon. Clean and straight, like ships’ masts, the rough reddish brown trunks rose, to break suddenly into wide tossing branches of feathery green. They were proud trees, Sue felt, and each was tipped with a lighter green, as if to show that this year’s crown was new.

A little breeze ruffled the lake. Somewhere a bird cried harshly. The singing voices ceased. There was only the drip of the oars as the boat moved slowly forward. The air seemed drenched with a golden light. Nearby a fish broke water.

Sue caught her breath.

“Look!” she said. “Look!”

Before her eyes, the lake had widened out into a sea of blue with shining beaches far beyond, rims of silver against dark shores . . . and on her right . . . an island.

A white beach sloped gently down to the blue waters, and above it majestic pines towered like conquerors. Up they soared and up, straight and strong and beautiful, and through them ran a sound of music, like harp strings heard afar. It was the song the pines sing. Sue had never heard it before.

The island was coming nearer. Huge boulders of red granite jutted out of the water and broke through the earth under the great trees. There were low bushes along the shore, making a frame for the blue water.

“Can this be true?” Sue asked herself. “Can this be really true? It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen!”

She turned, hurt feelings forgotten.

“Look!” she cried to the others. “Look at the trees! Look at them! Nothing in Windsor Park can even touch them! Smell them! They’ve a lovely smell. And listen to them . . . they’re singing!”

The children stopped rowing. Sue looked back. She wondered if they heard the song as she did. They were all smiling at her and in the friendliest fashion. Even Donald was smiling as if he liked her. For a moment Sue felt puzzled.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “What’s wrong with me now?”

“Nothing,” answered Francesca promptly. “You’re all right, Sue. We’re the ones that have been wrong!”

“Sure, you’re all right,” broke in Donald. “But we heard the worst things about you before you came and we felt we couldn’t stand you.”

“And we meant to get rid of you as fast as we could,” exclaimed Angus. “You see, Aunt Sassie had a letter telling us all about you and your beautiful manners . . . how you were a perfect little lady . . . how you never did anything wrong!”

“And how you had been to school in England and were very, very grand and wouldn’t like our rough Canadian ways,” piped Biddie from the stern.

“Yes, and Aunt Sassie said we had to behave like little gentlemen all the time you were here,” said Timmie, “and that takes up too much time. . . .”

“And Aunt Sassie said you were always tidy and never raised your voice,” added Nancy. “And that you’d never be greedy or noisy!”

“You sounded so stuck up,” explained Francesca, “that we felt sure you’d never like our island.”

“Who wrote such awful things about me?” demanded Sue.

“A friend of Aunt Sassie’s, a Miss Mabel Cochrane. She said she met you at luncheon at Government House in Quebec!”

“Oh,” gasped Sue apologetically. “But I was on my best behavior that day . . . that wasn’t really me! I’m not like that at all. I’m greedy and noisy . . . you should hear me yell! I like a lot to eat and I’m always in a pickle. And I’m not English . . . I’m a rough Canadian myself!

“However could you believe such things?” Sue asked. “I don’t look like that, do I?”

“Not a bit, that’s what made us wonder,” exclaimed Francesca, “and you looked so pretty, Sue, when you were milking Miss Zotique, with your red hair against her brown coat.”

Timmie fished something out of his pocket. “Do you remember asking about the fly biscuits?” Sue nodded. “Well, here’s a piece of one,” he said. “A fly biscuit is Canadian for a thin sweet biscuit crammed with raisins. You can see what I mean.”

Sue took the biscuit from him. It was grimy and thin and the crushed raisins did look queer. She shut her eyes and took a bite.

“It’s simply delicious,” she said. “Have you got any more?”

Timmy shook his head sorrowfully. “Not a chance,” he said, “we’re kept half-starved by Aunt Sassie.”

Sue found this surprising. All six seemed rosy and fat and far from starving, but she remembered times when she, too, had felt starved.

She finished the biscuit. Her tummy felt better, in fact she noticed that all of her was feeling better.

“What made you change your minds about me so suddenly?” she asked.

“You liked our island,” Donald answered. “We knew then there couldn’t be much wrong with you.”

“Liked your island!” Sue exclaimed. “I love it. Is that beautiful island yours?”

“It’s Aunt Sassie’s, but we call it ours.”

From her perch on top of her trunk, Sue looked again at the pines and then back at the smiling, friendly faces in the boat.

“How soon will we be there?” she asked.

And then began a great hustle and bustle in the boat while everyone put on a life preserver, for in a few minutes they would round a point of the island where Aunt Sassie would be waiting for them.

“We never wear these, except when she’s looking,” explained Francesca. “They’re a nuisance, but it makes her happy and doesn’t bother us too much.”

The oars lifted again and swung to and fro. Sue’s heart was happy. She sat high up on her trunk, watching the changing colors of the sky until they swung around the curve of Four Winds Island and entered a little bay.

A long wharf stretched out into the water, and beyond, under the trees, stood an old stone house and windmill.

“It grows prettier every moment,” Sue said.

Timmie nodded gravely. “It’s a good thing you think so,” he said. “If you hadn’t liked our island, we’d have drowned you!”

“Timmie!” protested Francesca, “what a thing to say!”

“It’s all right,” answered Sue. “No one could help but like it, and anyway I can swim!”

“It’s a good thing you can,” growled Timmie, “for your troubles aren’t over yet. Wait until you see Aunt Sassie. She’s a regular she-dragon!”

Aunt Sassie was waiting for them on the wharf . . . such a tiny little elderly lady that Sue wondered how anyone could ever think of her as a “she-dragon.” She was dressed in black and over her shoulders was draped a fringed Indian shawl that reached to her feet. Her faded, mousy hair was screwed up into a little knot at the back of her head and there was a suspicion of pinkness at the tip of her nose. Her eyes were a faded blue; in fact, everything about her seemed slightly faded, except her voice, which was shrill and slightly complaining.

“Don’t bump the wharf,” she called as they drew near. “Always remember to take care of other people’s property. Easy, now, Timmie! Don’t get rough! Donald! How often have I asked you not to splash with your oars!”

The boat nosed gently in without a single splash. Beside Aunt Sassie stood a short, plump girl wearing a blue serge skirt, a pink shirtwaist and white frilled apron. There was a bow in her dark hair and high, buttoned tan boots completed the outfit.

“That’s Rose-Marie-Ange, our maid,” whispered Timmie. “She’s a French Canadian from Blue Sea, and a good sort. She protects us from Aunt Sassie and Pearlie-Baby. That’s Pearlie-Baby, on the dock. Did you ever see anything like her?”

Sue never had. Pearlie-Baby was so fat she was almost as broad as she was long. Her hair was parted in the middle and plaited in two tight braids which stuck out stiffly, as did the pink pinnie that covered her blue dress. Her eyes were like blueberries, dark and bright, and about her there was an air of defiance. Sue felt perfectly sure that Pearlie-Baby was used to getting her own way.

Beside Aunt Sassie sat three dogs in a row . . . a black, unclipped French poodle, a French bulldog with bat ears, and a cocker spaniel. A small kitten arched itself against Pearlie-Baby and a rooster crowed from beyond the shore.

Sue jumped from the boat as Aunt Sassie held out a welcoming hand.

“You are little Susannah,” she said, “and you are very welcome to Four Winds. I hope we shall make you happy and I hope you will have some influence upon these wild young barbarians of mine.

“How did you leave your dear father and dear mother,” she continued, “and did you have a trying journey?”

Aunt Sassie asked the questions rapidly and at the same time watched the unloading of the boat. Sue noticed that she kept a close eye on the bananas.

“And what news of the Queen?” asked Aunt Sassie, paying no attention whatever to Sue’s answers.

“Angus! The fishing rod is not to be opened until after supper. Rose-Marie-Ange, will you help Master Donald with Miss Susannah’s trunks? Be careful with the milk, Francesca . . . our Pearlie-Baby couldn’t get on without her precious milk!”

Pearlie-Baby gurgled noisily and slipped behind Rose-Marie-Ange and tried to hug the bulldog. There was a lovely mix-up then. The bulldog didn’t like being hugged and Sue suspected that she didn’t like Pearlie-Baby either, but it gave the other animals a chance to move about and there were growls and commands, squawks from the rooster, hisses from the kitten, and shrill orders from Aunt Sassie, who, in spite of her frail appearance, seemed able to make herself heard above anything or anybody.

“That will do!” she cried. “This is a most unseemly exhibition. I do not like disorder, and right in front of our guest all the way from London. . . . It is really most disheartening! What has come over you all, and where is Pearlie-Baby?”

“Behind you, Aunt Sassie,” Sue answered meekly.

Pearlie-Baby was behind her and she was half way through a banana!

“There you are,” said Angus. “We can’t eat the bananas but Pearlie-Baby can . . . and we’re starving!”

There was a piercing yell. Rose-Marie-Ange had tucked Pearlie-Baby under one arm and Sue’s portmanteau under the other.

Aunt Sassie seemed entirely unperturbed. She took Sue’s arm. “I don’t know what I should do without Rose-Marie-Ange,” she confided. “Pearlie-Baby is so sensitive and at her age one hardly likes to smack her!”

Privately, Sue thought it was the one thing Pearlie-Baby needed, but Aunt Sassie was leaning on her heavily and together they walked up the broad path to the house, while the others puffed and groaned past, carrying the bundles and boxes.

“I hope you will be happy here, Susannah,” Aunt Sassie continued. “Your dear father has always been my favorite nephew . . . so charming, so well-behaved. Such a gentleman,” she added tartly, as Angus stormed by, bumping Sue with a bag as he passed. “And I am hoping for a great deal from you this summer, little Susannah, hoping that you, with your beautiful manners, will straighten out these rough nephews and nieces of mine.”

“Yes,” murmured Sue politely, wondering what Aunt Sassie would do when she discovered that she was no better than her Canadian cousins, but slightly worse.

Something cold touched her hand. She looked down. It was the poodle.

“That is Babette,” explained Aunt Sassie. “She is a French poodle, just nine months old, and I refuse to have her trimmed. She is much prettier with her hair long.”

Babette had the gayest and most flirtatious pair of eyes and wriggled with delight as Sue scrabbled behind her ears.

“This is Hildred,” continued Aunt Sassie. “She is a French bulldog and very, very sensitive. She doesn’t like sudden noises and is inclined to overeat. And this is Feathers, the cocker spaniel. They have all come to say how-do-you-do!” Feathers pointed for a second and then dashed away on some happy chase. The kitten had disappeared. In the distance Sue could hear the rooster crowing. Babette ran along beside them. Hildred daintily picked her way among the stones and rough spots.

“There!” exclaimed Aunt Sassie. “That is the house!” In front of them, in a clearing in the pines, stood a low, two-story stone house, with wide verandahs stretching around three sides.

“It looks like a small cottage,” Aunt Sassie explained, “but it has a great deal of room in it. There is a wing at the back that holds the kitchens and pantries and the boys’ bedrooms. My grandfather built Four Winds when he still owned all the timber limits around Lac de Lune and we children used to spend our summers here, just as you are doing now. When he died he left it to me and I love every bit of it, Susannah.” Aunt Sassie’s eyes glistened. “Over there is the windmill,” she went on. “There are not many of them left in Quebec now, and this one never worked very well, so we’ve always used it as a playhouse for the children.”

The windmill was a round stone tower with wide wooden wings that flapped feebly in the air. Sue could also see the stone rim of a well, with an iron tripod over it holding the pulleys by which wooden buckets were raised and lowered.

There was a sudden piercing yell from the verandah.

“It’s Pearlie-Baby,” said Aunt Sassie, and went up the path with flying feet, her shawl streaming behind her.

It was Pearlie-Baby and an angry, outraged Angus. Pearlie-Baby had managed to open the case of the fishing rod and had bent the new rod playing “Horsie, Horsie.” Rose-Marie-Ange had come to the rescue of both and there was a fine hullabaloo.

Sue liked it all. This was a family, she thought, that promised plenty of excitement.

“Come on, Sue,” called Francesca, “I’ll show you your room.”

It was a shabby old house inside and quite dreadfully ugly. The windows were small and shuttered, the curtains old and plainly from city houses, as was the furniture. The long living room was filled with old-fashioned rockers, a bamboo screen painted with bullrushes, and hard-backed chairs and tables; and there were numerous little tables dotted about, decorated with what Sue found was called “burnt work.”

“Aunt Sassie did them,” confided Francesca. “We think they’re awful but she loves them!”

The dining room had heavy, dark furniture, with embroidered texts framed and hanging against the wall.

Upstairs, there were four bedrooms. Aunt Sassie’s, which was large and very grand, had an enormous double brass bed and heavy walnut furniture, white honeycomb spreads, and at the window, long dark velvet curtains.

“Aunt Sassie doesn’t like light,” Francesca explained, “and pulls these over at night, which is a good thing for us, for they also shut out sound . . . and Aunt Sassie doesn’t like to be awakened early!”

Sue’s room was next to Francesca’s. There were double beds in each room, covered with patchwork quilts and coarse linen sheets and pillow slips. Biddie and Nancy had the room next to Aunt Sassie.

“Rose-Marie-Ange has the first little room off the landing, and Pearlie-Baby’s bed is in there too. There’s only one good thing about Pearlie-Baby,” said Francesca feelingly, “and that is, when she goes to sleep, she stays asleep.” The boys, Sue learned, shared the other rooms in the wing off the landing.

“Let’s go and see the kitchen,” said Francesca. Sue thought it the nicest room in the house. There was an old-fashioned oven and stove built into the whitewashed stone wall, and in the centre of the room a wide, scrubbed table of white pine, with shining copper pots and pans hanging above it. Sprays of wild flowers and a red and white checked tablecloth covering a table at the window added a note of color. There was a larder, too, and a pantry, and the floor was scrubbed until it had a satiny finish.

“Supper’ll soon be ready,” Rose-Marie-Ange said. “I’ll make some scones tonight because Miss Susannah has come . . . but you’d better hurry up and unpack.”

The girls all helped. A curtain hung across the corner of the room formed a cupboard and it seemed no time before Sue’s dresses were hanging up and her underwear in the drawers of the shabby old chest.

There was a sudden squeal from Biddie, who was burrowing into the portmanteau.

“Plum cake!” she cried. “Rock Candy, swiss milk chocolate! Wherever did you get them, Sue?”

“Daddy,” Sue answered proudly. “He is very generous!”

“I wish mine were,” said Francesca. “But Dad’s all full of ideas about food and how to grow up strong and he says that sweets undermine our constitutions.”

“I want to be undermined right now,” said Nancy firmly.

“The only thing is, do we eat them all now, or save some for tomorrow?”

“We’d better ask the boys,” said Biddie.

“Why should we?” broke in Sue, who could see no good reason for handing over her sweets to that big hungry Donald.

Biddie looked up in surprise.

“We share everything,” she said. “No one ever has anything more than anyone else, even to hats. I had a brand new hat when I came up here, and you should see it now. Everybody’s worn it!”

Francesca was trying on Sue’s new blue cardigan. “I like this,” she said. “Do you mind if I wear it, Sue?”

“Oh, no,” Sue answered hastily, “oh, no! And take the sweets and cake, too!” She thought she might just as well be pleasant over it, for it was all too evident that these cousins of hers had definite rules about everything, particularly sharing each other’s possessions.

“Aunt Sassie’s on the verandah mooning over Pearlie-Baby,” Nancy said, “so let’s go down the back stairs and find the boys. They should be bringing in the wood.”

“And Sue, you’d better not let Aunt Sassie know you brought these sweets,” added Biddie. “If you do she’ll put them in pound and allow us only one a day. And that,” she frowned, “is an awful aggravation. You know she has them . . . but you can’t get at them . . . and yet you can’t think of anything else.”

“Are you sure we’ve got everything you brought?” Nancy asked as they left the room.

Sue turned back and burrowed busily in the little bag, shaped like a sausage, and brought out the glass jar full to the brim of the honey-colored sweets.

“Humbugs!” they cried. Promptly Francesca took the jar from Sue. “We’ll keep these,” she said, “to bribe Pearlie-Baby.

“You’ve no idea,” she continued impressively, “how she can yell. If she sees us sneaking off without her, she yells until you’d think her head’d come off. And that brings Aunt Sassie, who says we are being cruel and selfish to her little Pearl and then we have to take her along. But, with these we can bribe her into silence!”

Sue followed them down the back stairs and out across the little clearing to the old windmill. The boys were chopping kindling there and when the vote was taken, it was decided to polish off the rock candy before supper. The rest was hidden away in an old tin box “until tomorrow.”

A horn blew sharply three times.

“That’s the clean-up horn,” said Timmie, and they all raced away to their rooms.

A single horn blew and they clattered down the stairs to the dining room. Down the centre of the long table were ranged large plates of bread and butter and each individual place was marked by a small dish of stewed apples, a glass of milk, and two scones split and filled with honey.

Rose-Marie-Ange brought in an enormous brown dish from which Aunt Sassie helped them all to scalloped salmon. In all her life Sue had never been so hungry. In all her life she had never seen food disappear so rapidly, yet everyone complained. There wasn’t enough butter on the bread, the scones weren’t large enough; they were tired of salmon; they didn’t like milk. They all talked at once and when they grew too noisy, Aunt Sassie reminded them of the little heathen in far-off countries who didn’t have anything to eat, no nice stone house to live in, no nice warm clothes, no dogs to play with, and no nice little girls from London to visit them.

Everyone glowered at Sue then, as if she were to blame for the lecture.

“Yes,” continued Aunt Sassie, “and I hope, Susannah, you will forgive the manners of my wild nieces and nephews. I have tried to impress upon them the value of restraint in everything, but in spite of all I say, they are always violent and noisy and their appetites are like a pack of wolves.”

“Yes, Aunt Sassie,” murmured Sue, hardly hearing what was said. Timmie had his eye on the last piece of bread and butter on the plate and so had she. If she didn’t hurry, it meant Timmie would get it.

She gave a quick gulp and reached for the last piece. So did Timmie.

Aunt Sassie rapped on the table. “Timmie! Remember your manners! Susannah is your guest!”

“Guest or no guest,” cried Timmie, “she’s had four more pieces of bread and butter than I’ve had! She’s the fastest eater I’ve ever seen. She’s a regular she-wolf!”

The noise grew. Rose-Marie-Ange brought in more bread and butter and still more, until finally even Donald, who was the champion eater of them all, shook his head.

Timmie rose. “Carry I, but don’t bend I,” he groaned and they all stood on either side of the door while Aunt Sassie sailed out, her shawl trailing behind her.

“Isn’t it too hot to wear a shawl?” Sue asked.

Donald grinned.

“Sure, but that shawl is Aunt Sassie’s greatest treasure. It came from India when grandpapa was alive. It’s called an Indian shawl and was copied by the Paisley people in Scotland for the Queen. And I’ll give you a tip, Sue. If you want to make yourself strong with Aunt Sassie, just ask her to tell you about it some day . . . only be sure it’s a rainy day and you’ve nothing else to do, for she talks forever about it. She wore it today to show off in front of you. She always does that when visitors arrive. Tell her you like it before you go to bed tonight.”

He opened the front door and whistled. The three dogs came racing around the house, full of snuffles and waggles, and with Donald leading the children took Sue off on a walk around the island.

It was diamond-shaped, with a point running out into the lake and covered with pines beyond any Sue had ever seen in size and beauty. One great giant just tipped the point. Around Lac de Lune, Donald explained proudly, was one of the best stands of original pines left in Quebec. He told her more about the pines; how they grew, how they were once lumbered for the masts of Britain’s Men o’War.

But all of them had so many special stories to tell of the pines that Sue soon knew that the island was their most beloved spot. Every summer they had lived there, always with Aunt Sassie. They told Sue more about Pearlie-Baby; how she was their aunt’s favorite and was so dreadfully spoiled.

“We wouldn’t mind that so much,” observed Biddie, “if it weren’t that Aunt Sassie makes us take Pearlie-Baby everywhere with us, and she’s such a nuisance.” Biddie sighed. “She’s too fat to carry and she can’t walk as fast as we can, and she sits down or screams or goes to sleep in such inconvenient places! Life isn’t worth living with her around, even though she is our cousin.”

“But why do you call her Pearlie-Baby?” asked Sue.

“We don’t,” answered Angus fiercely, “but Aunt Sassie just loves to make everything tiny. . . . She’ll be calling you ‘little Susie’ before you know it.”

Timmie growled. “She’s got a canary she calls ‘Sing-Birdie-Sing’ that never lets a twirp out of it . . . and she loves pearls and so she calls the Nuisance Pearlie-Baby. It’s revolting!”

They circled the island on a well-worn path that curved among the trees, around boulders and down along the shore. At every turn there was a new view of Lac de Lune or something important to be pointed out.

When they had almost completed the full circle, and the chimneys of the house could be seen again through the trees, Donald stopped suddenly and said to Sue, “Well . . . what do you think of Four Winds now?”

“It’s perfect,” Sue exclaimed. “There aren’t any other words for it.”

But that seemed to meet with the approval of everyone and they continued along the path in Indian file.

On the way back to the house they passed a wasps’ nest, which they warned her had to be skirted in the heat of the day. “Wasps sting like all Billy-o,” said Donald. “Do you know how to cure a wasp’s sting, Sue? You spit in the mud and put it right over the sting!”

“Donald! Shame on you,” cried Francesca. “It’s much nicer to get some baking soda from Rose-Marie-Ange. And just as good!”

“Maybe,” said Donald with a grin, “but I don’t carry baking soda in my pocket and mud and spit are always handy!”

“Disgusting,” murmured Francesca primly.

“My father says . . .” began Timmie, when there was a howl from everyone. “My father says” they chorused, and Sue learned that this was Timmie’s favorite expression and that they were trying to cure him of it.

A horn blew . . . a long call.

It reminded Sue of the bugles blowing “Lights Out” in the barracks at Regina, and there was the same afterglow of sunset in the sky that she remembered on the prairies. She gave a little skip. At school they had tried to cure her of this skipping habit, but when she was excited she had to skip and this island was a most exciting place. In fact, all of Canada was exciting, she decided, as she stood looking out across the lake to the darkening pines on the mainland—the prairies and the Yukon and now Quebec. . . . There was an up and doing feeling about Canada. There was something about the cool, clear air of evening that always promised something new for tomorrow . . . as if it washed away the old day and left you feeling clean and bright and ready to start another.

Sue sat up a little higher. She wished they’d come. It seemed a long time since Aunt Sassie closed her door and the house settled down to silence. There were squeaks and far-away rattles of shutters and through the open window, night sounds. The lap of water against the shore, the faint song of the pines, a loon calling from afar, the snap of a broken twig.

The sheets and patchwork quilt held the fragrance of cedar boughs and the mattress sagged comfortably in the middle, like a hammock. Sue punched her pillows. She was far too excited to go to sleep and, besides, there was so much to think of and remember . . . so much to wonder about.

She had never really felt like this before, free and excited and without anything particular to do. As long as she could remember, she had been busy about something. First there had been the business of getting her red coat from the Mounties in the barracks at Regina . . . then she had to find her father in the Yukon . . . and then there had been England and school and examinations and all the troubles that went with deportment and Latin and arithmetic.

Sue sighed a gusty sigh, full of complete satisfaction. Here she was, for another ten whole weeks, with these delightful boys and girls and nothing to do but enjoy herself. She wondered what they did all day. In fact, she had just asked the question when Aunt Sassie ordered them all to bed.

Going to bed had been quite an affair. Aunt Sassie had stood at the foot of the stairs and said good night to each one in turn: shaking hands with the boys and kissing the girls and giving them all instructions at the same time.

Sue chuckled softly as she remembered how cross Donald looked when Aunt Sassie had told him to wash behind his ears in the morning and reminded Timmie that gentlemen never had dirty hands. Even Nancy had been told to find a hair ribbon before breakfast . . . a string was suitable for tying up parcels, said Aunt Sassie, but never the ends of plaits.

Going up the stairs, Francesca had told her not to be alarmed if she heard any banging. “It’ll only be Aunt Sassie closing up the house for the night,” she explained. “She makes an awful row and fuss about it; but if you leave your door open, just a little bit, so it won’t squeak, we’ll come in and tell you all about ourselves when the lamp goes out.”

Francesca had been right. Aunt Sassie and Rose-Marie-Ange had locked doors and shut windows and fastened bolts and fussed over whether the lamps were all blown out, whether Pearlie-Baby was all right, whether all the children were in their own rooms; but finally there had been a last, “Bonne nuit, Madame,” “Bonne nuit, Rose-Marie-Ange,” and the bang of Aunt Sassie’s door.

You had to bang the doors in this house, Sue found, because they didn’t fit very well and needed banging to close tightly. That was another pleasant thing. At Arundel Abbey it had been unladylike to bang doors but here it was the proper thing to do. There was a lovely feeling about banging a door hard and knowing no one would disapprove.

Sue sank a little deeper in the sag of the bed. It was very comfortable in the middle of the mattress, even if the edges were a bit knobbly.

A board creaked. She sat up again.

It must be her door that was opening, yet she could see no one. But there was a faint light that flickered and then faded. Sue’s heart beat faster—the light was moving towards her. . . .

“Sue! Are you awake?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“It’s us!” There were more sounds and the three girls climbed up on the bed.

“What’s that light?” asked Sue.

“Fireflies!”

“Fireflies?” whispered Sue, “How do you mean?”

“Aunt Sassie won’t let us have candles for fear we’ll burn the house down around our heads,” Biddie mimicked Aunt Sassie’s voice in a whisper, “so we put fireflies in a bottle and tie a piece of paper over the top with holes punched in it for air, and the fireflies flash and flash and flash and we can read as late as we like and nobody knows.”

Biddie shook the bottle and the little ghostly lights flickered so that Sue could see the three heads so near her own: the sheen of Francesca’s golden hair, the brown skin and eyes of Biddie, the auburn plaits of Nancy and her gray-green eyes.

“Tell me, what do you do all day?” asked Sue.

“We visit Miss Julie Zotique twice a day,” Francesca explained. “Every other day old Auguste brings our mail and supplies and we give him our letters and orders to take in to Blue Sea. And we pick berries and fish and go canoeing and mend the boats and paddles and do all our chores. . . .”

“You’ve no idea how much work we have to do,” broke in Biddie. “Aunt Sassie’s so particular. We make our own beds and sweep the verandahs and clean the boats and dry the dishes and fish and go on picnics and collect balsam tips to fill cushions and feed the hens and take porcupine needles out of the dogs and eat and lie in the sun!”

She paused for breath and Nancy took up the tale.

“Aunt Sassie may look silly and sometimes sound silly,” she said, “but Daddy said she was a tartar, and she is. She inspects us every day, just as if we were soldiers, and if only one thing goes wrong, she blows up like a firecracker!

“Two things are very important,” Nancy added. “One is swimming and the other is church. And you should be warned about both. We are only allowed to swim once a day and that is at eleven o’clock in the morning!”

“Only one swim,” said Sue in horror, “and with all that lovely lake!”

“It’s frightful,” Biddie agreed, “but what can we do? Aunt Sassie’s grown up and we’re not. We just have to obey.” She sighed but the other two laughed guiltily.

“That’s not what we really do!” said Francesca lowering her voice to just a thread of a whisper. “Rose-Marie-Ange calls us early and we all go down to the wharf and have a swim before Aunt Sassie is awake. She sleeps very late, you know, and no one but Rose-Marie-Ange ever sees her before half past ten.”

“Lovely!” Sue bounced in bed and the bounce shook up the fireflies, who set their tiny lights flickering again.

“What else do you do?”

“There’s the lumber drive,” said Nancy.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you know what a lumber drive is?”

“No.”

“Sue Winston, you’ve been to school in England . . . and you don’t know what a lumber drive is? What do they teach you over there?”

“Nothing much,” Sue answered hurriedly. “At least I never learned anything very much . . . but what is a lumber drive?”

“It’s when all the logs come down the rivers into the lakes and down the chutes into the rapids and on to the mill. . . .”

“Where do you suppose the wood comes from to build houses?” Biddie interrupted.

Sue blinked. “I don’t know . . . I never thought about it.”

“Well, you’ll find out up here,” said Francesca, “for the drives come right past our island. Sometimes the whole lake is full of logs.” She sighed happily. “It’s the loveliest time of the year and the most exciting.”

At that moment they heard a noise in the hall below . . . a dull, muffled thud . . . then silence. Huddled close together, they listened. There was a sound on the stairs. They could hear something breathing on the landing outside Sue’s door and clung tightly to each other.

Biddie shook the firefly bottle and the tiny glow brought comfort. But the door was opening slowly, as if by an unseen hand. There was a sudden push and a shadowy form appeared and crept, close to the floor, over to the bed.

There was a snuffle.

“It’s that silly Babette,” said Biddle, giggling. “She’s had nightmare again and fallen off the horse-hair sofa in the hall. It’s so slippery that she kicks herself off and she’s frightened of the dark. Your door was the only one open, Sue, that’s why she came in to you!”

Francesca slipped off the bed. “I think she came because she likes Sue,” she said. “Let’s go to bed now. We’ll tell you the rest in the morning.”

As the three girls stole away, in the darkness Sue put an arm around Babette.

What could a lumber drive be really like?

Babette couldn’t answer. Like Sue, she was asleep.

It seemed as if Sue had hardly shut an eye before Francesca was shaking her gently.

“Here’s your bathing suit,” she said. “Come down on tiptoe and bring your bathrobe. You’ll need it, coming back.”

Sue struggled out of her warm bed. Her bathing suit had a black alpaca sailor blouse attached to frilled knickers of the same, trimmed with rows of white braid and a separate skirt, very full, with wider braid at the hem. Sue fastened her skirt as she and Babette ran down the path together.

The others were already in the water; the boys doing flips and turns, the girls floating, diving, racing each other from the wharf to the little bathing house half hidden among some low cedars on the bank.

Sue stood on the diving board for a minute. The lake was so blue; there was such a clean, washed feeling in the air, such sparkle to each tiny wave. She took a header into the lake. Babette followed, splashing and puffing and looking for all the world like one of the shiny black seals in the Zoo.

They were all critical of Sue’s swimming. They said she had no style and would need a lot of training. Sue didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything so long as she could sun herself in this lovely morning and float away on the blue waters.

“All out! All out! All out!” cried Donald suddenly, and everyone scrambled for shore. In the bathhouse Sue discovered that the boys had a dressing room upstairs while the girls changed below. Down one side of their room ran a long shelf. Above it a neat sign bore the names Sec, Nan, Bid, Sue, and under each name lay a comb and brush. Under the shelf, bath towels hung from nails. Hastily the four girls dried themselves and then in their dressing gowns raced up to the kitchen where breakfast was already set out on the long centre table.

There was oatmeal porridge and bowls filled with shavings of maple sugar for sweetening, and huge blue jugs of milk and cream. There was the sound of bacon frying and the odor of toast from the wood fire and bitter marmalade all the way from Scotland. Everyone talked at once and everyone talked about Sue or to Sue.

Before long Donald took down a horn hanging by the kitchen door and blew two long blasts.

“That’s the rising horn,” he said, grinning. “Rose-Marie-Ange is supposed to blow it to get us up . . . but we changed all that. Now we blow it after our swim. When Aunt Sassie hears it, she thinks we’re just struggling out of bed! She doesn’t approve of swims before breakfast.”

They chuckled and told her more about their life at Four Winds; how each one had chores to do, about the savings bank into which five cents of their precious pocket money had to go each week, and how the lumber drive swept past the island. But though Sue asked many questions, she didn’t learn much about the lumber drive, except that it was exciting when the great rafts of logs swept past the island. They told her that men “rode the logs,” which Sue couldn’t understand at all. She knew all about riding a horse but when she asked how a man could ride a log, they only laughed at her and told her she was in for the most exciting time in her life. . . .

Rose-Marie-Ange gave them the last plate of toast and disappeared upstairs with a tray of tea for Aunt Sassie. Before she was out of the room, the boys were at the stove, hastily dropping their toast in the frying pans.

Sue followed them. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making sop-in-the-pan,” said Timmie. “Watch!”

With a long-handled fork, he turned a piece of toast until it was a deep brown. Timmie gave Sue a corner. It was simply delicious . . . crisp and full of smoky bacon fat.

Rose-Marie-Ange appeared in the doorway, carrying Pearlie-Baby.

“Away with you all, now,” she said good-naturedly, “go and dress and make your beds while I feed this small thing and wash it.”

Sue dressed and made her bed and hurried down to the windmill where the others were waiting. Donald handed her a grimy list. “These are your chores,” he said, “and Aunt Sassie inspects us about eleven, so you mustn’t let the grass grow under your feet.”

Sue glanced at her list. It seemed very long but she pinned it to her middy and started about her work.

She dried dishes for Rose-Marie-Ange with zest. There were the verandahs to sweep next. That made her arms ache a bit. The broom was so tall, the verandahs so wide. Then there was the dining room to tidy and the chairs had rows of horrid bumps, like spools, that had to be dusted separately.

She took out her list. Nine more things to do: the table to lay for dinner—that wouldn’t take long; the salt cellars to wash and fill; a bowl of wild strawberries to pick over . . .

Her mouth and fingers were rosy with the strawberry stain when she noticed Angus amble by. He had a fishing rod and carried an old tin.

“If I didn’t know he was doing chores,” Sue muttered to herself, “I’d think he was going fishing.”

Rose-Marie-Ange brought her in a stale loaf and a grater. “Make this into fine crumbs,” she said. “I want them for a pudding for Pearlie-Baby.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sue discovered Biddie stealing through the woods with a book in her hand. . . . Timmie passed with a birch bark pail . . . He told her that he was collecting pine pitch to mend his birch bark canoe.

Nancy brought out an iron and started to press handkerchiefs, singing a chantey with Rose-Marie-Ange as she did so. Francesca seemed to be training the dogs down on the wharf.

Sue gave a little grunt. She was beginning to feel suspicious. She didn’t particularly like any of her chores but she’d made up her mind that none of them was going to beat her. Busily she sifted the crumbs and wondered how it was that all the others were through with their work so quickly. She pushed back her hair from her hot forehead and consulted her list again. The last item caught her eye.

“Wash all hairbrushes in boys’ and girls’ dressing rooms in the bathhouse.”

From time to time the others looked in upon her. They seemed to be enjoying another of their private jokes. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, they’re spoofing me again,” Sue muttered to herself.

Once more she examined her list. There were twelve chores on it. If each one had as many, that would mean eighty-four chores each morning . . . and Sue was sure there couldn’t be that much work on the island.

She could hear Aunt Sassie’s voice, chatting to Pearlie-Baby. It must be nearly time for the inspection.

“Aren’t you through yet?” exclaimed Donald as he poked his head in the kitchen door. Sue glowered.

“I’ve still got to wash the hairbrushes and then I’ll be through.”

“Well, hurry up. We don’t like slow coaches at Four Winds.”

That settled Sue. A gleam came in her eye. She had noticed a small bottle of glue on Aunt Sassie’s desk in the drawing room last night. It was still there. Sue slipped it into her pocket.

Down beside the bathhouse, she washed the brushes carefully in the lake, shook them out and placed them back on the shelves where she found them . . . but into the boys’ brushes she poured a little glue.

Inspection proved to be quite a business. Aunt Sassie was cheerful and full of praise for the perfect way in which all the chores had been completed.

“You have already accomplished a great deal by your presence,” she said grandly to Sue. “My nieces and nephews have never done a better morning’s work! Donald, the verandahs are quite perfect, and for the first time this year!”

Sue looked at Donald. “I’m glad you like them, Aunt Sassie,” he murmured.

Sue remembered the brushes. “That’s one thing he won’t be glad about,” she thought.

“Inspection is over,” announced Aunt Sassie. “You may now have your morning swim!”

Aunt Sassie sat on the wharf, surrounded by life preservers, issuing warnings every other minute. Rose-Marie-Ange brought down Pearlie-Baby, and with the assistance of Francesca, the fat baby child was tied to a life preserver and lowered into the sun-warmed water with a rope.

“She looks like a baby whale,” said Timmie disgustedly; but the baby whale splashed as happily as the others and paid just as little attention to Aunt Sassie’s shrieks and squeals of terror.

When it was time to leave the water, Sue was first out. She thought there might be a different kind of shrieking later and she’d better be safe.

There was only one roar from the boys’ dressing room and that roar came from Donald, but at dinner the three boys looked at her, half angrily, half in admiration. Their hair seemed strangely smooth and thickish, and shining, too, in patches. After dinner they disappeared but Sue found them later, scrubbing vigorously, their heads over the edge of the laundry tub, while Rose-Marie-Ange stood by with a pitcher of hot water.

“What do you want?” growled Donald.

“My list of tomorrow’s chores,” said Sue, meekly.

Angus lifted his soapy head from the tub.

“You don’t swim with any style. Sue . . . you don’t know very much . . . I bet you can’t put a worm on a hook. . . . But you’re dead game and we’ll teach you all we know.”

“That won’t take me long to learn,” interrupted Sue. “What’ll we do with the rest of the summer?”

The twins looked at each other thoughtfully. “You’ll see,” drawled Donald. “We’ll begin by taking you fishing this afternoon and by the time you go back to that sissy school in England, you’ll be a different girl.”

Sue looked down at her sunburned arms. They felt as if they were on fire. She wished now she had heeded Aunt Sassie’s warnings.

Soon after luncheon the twins had taken her fishing and there had been a fuss over it. Aunt Sassie thought the sun was too hot and that Sue ought to wear a sunbonnet. “No lady,” she said firmly, “ever blisters, and if you go out on the lake in the heat of the day, you’ll be miserable afterwards. And besides, Susannah, though I do not fish myself, I know that fish do not bite at two o’clock in the afternoon!”

“But we’re going lake trout fishing, Aunt Sassie,” Angus explained, “and that’s different from any other kind of fishing!”

Pearlie-Baby had trotted around the corner of the verandah at that moment. Fishing meant boats to Pearlie-Baby and boats meant fun. Slowly she opened her mouth and slowly the shriek commenced. She said nothing. She just shrieked.

Rose-Marie-Ange rushed out of the house to quiet Aunt Sassie, who was trying to quiet Pearlie-Baby, and Donald grabbed Sue’s arm.

“Quickly,” he said. “She’ll scream for about ten minutes and then Aunt Sassie’ll give in and we’ll have to take her with us!”

The three raced down to the wharf and pushed off the cedar skiff. As soon as they rounded the point of the island, Angus took out a big spool of copper wire.

“You fish for lake trout by trolling,” he said. “You drop this hook over the stern of the boat and then let out about one hundred and fifty feet of line.”

“What do you need all the line for?” demanded Sue. “Won’t the fish come any closer?”

“It’s because they’re away down deep in the cool water,” explained Angus. “That’s what these sinkers are for—to weight the line. Do you see?”

Sue nodded.

“I think you’d better watch us first,” said Donald. “It won’t take you long to get the hang of it, Sue, but for a starter I think we’ll let you do the rowing. What do you say, Angus?”

Angus hesitated. “I guess you’re right, Don. We’ll let Sue row for a while anyway, even though it is the best part of the fishing!”

They beached the boat then and put Sue in the centre seat, as though they were conferring a great favor on her, and settling themselves comfortably in the bow and stern began to issue instructions.

“You have to row all the time for trolling,” Angus said. “But don’t row too fast, for that brings the line too near the surface where there aren’t any trout!”

“And you mustn’t row too slow,” warned Donald, “for that gives your wire a chance to sink too low and catch on the bottom of the lake and break and tangle!”

Sue felt a little puzzled but she started pulling and tried to feather her oars neatly. Donald looked at her approvingly. “You certainly know how to row,” he said, and dropped his line overboard.

Sue rowed and rowed and rowed. At first it was fun, then it was hot, then it was tiring, then it was dull. She stopped once to braid her hair back from her face and the two boys set up a howl that reminded her of Pearlie-Baby.

“We almost had a strike,” they said reproachfully.

“But when do I learn to fish?” she asked. Trolling seemed to her to be a pastime where one person did all the work and the others slept. Donald had even tied his line to his ankle and was drowsing in the sun.

“You’re learning now,” said Angus. “You’re learning just the right speed for trolling.”

“I’d like to learn to hold a copper spool in my hands instead of an oar,” Sue answered shortly. Her arms were tired and sunburned. “Let’s change places, Donald!”

“All right,” Donald answered. “But first you’ll have to row over to the shore. We never change places in a boat when we’re out on the water. That’s the first and last law at Four Winds!”

Sue made a face and turned towards the nearest island. The more she rowed, the greater fuss the twins made. There was a shoal off the nearest island, they said, where their lines would catch . . . there was no beach for landing on the next island and the one beyond seemed miles away.

Sue dropped her oars.

“Keep moving! Keep moving!” Donald shouted. “Do you want to foul the line?”

Sue looked at him. She remembered how Nancy had laughed when they had asked her to go fishing. She understood why now. “I’m just a sap,” she said. “There aren’t any fish in this old lake . . . unless it’s me . . . and I bite at anything!”

Firmly she turned the boat towards the nearest island. Hurriedly Donald started reeling in the long copper line and just managed to get it into the boat before the keel scraped on the soft white sand.

“You shouldn’t do that, Sue,” he scolded. “We might have lost the line!”

“I wouldn’t have cared,” Sue answered, scrambling past Angus to the bow, “and I don’t care which of you rows home. All I know is I’m going to take a rest!”

She didn’t want to tell them that she was so sore with sunburn that she couldn’t have rowed another stroke and she didn’t want Aunt Sassie to know either.

But as they neared Four Winds, they could see the others getting out the lifeboat and filling it with the life preservers, the pails and parcels, the mailbag and all the fussiness of their daily trip to Miss Julie Zotique. There were cries, too, for them to hurry, and lastly, Aunt Sassie with Rose-Marie-Ange and Pearlie-Baby came slowly down the path.

“Is Pearlie-Baby going?” Sue asked.

“I hope not,” groaned Donald. “I couldn’t imagine anything worse than taking the Island Nuisance along!”

Sue smiled. She had an idea.

Donald beached the skiff and scrambled over into the lifeboat.

Sue climbed up on the wharf. “What is good for sunburn, Aunt Sassie?” she asked.

“Cream,” answered Aunt Sassie impressively. “Good cow’s cream!” She looked more closely at Sue. “My dear child, you’re horribly burnt. You had better stay with me and let me look after you!”

“Come on, Sue,” Donald cried impatiently. “Come and show the others how well you row!”

Sue smiled sweetly down into his freckled face. “Thank you,” she said, “but I think I’ll stay at home today.” She turned. “May Pearlie-Baby go in my place, Aunt Sassie?” she asked. “She could sit beside Donald!”

“Dear child,” Aunt Sassie gushed. “How sweet of you! Of course, she may!”

And she and Sue tied Pearlie-Baby up in a life preserver and lowered her into the boat beside a silent Donald.

That ought to fix him, said Sue to herself.

It did.

When the children returned with the letters, the milk and all the orders, there was a tale of misadventure on every hand. Pearlie-Baby had been stung on the neck by a wasp and was plastered with mud. She had eaten a raw carrot and had a tummy ache. She had yelled until they had had to give her fresh milk to keep her quiet. She had found a small tree frog and put it in her pocket but it was a strong little frog and every time Pearlie-Baby moved, it kicked up ructions. And every time Pearlie-Baby stood up in the boat, Donald pushed her down. Every time she was pushed down, she shrieked until Francesca discovered the frog. That started a row then as to who should own it. Biddie wanted to throw it overboard. Nancy wanted to take it to the island. Angus wanted to fish with it. They had finally lost it and no one ever knew where it went.

They told Sue all about it in the windmill after supper. The girls were very cross.

“Donald’s so stupid,” Francesca said. “He never knows when to stop teasing. You’ve a dreadful sunburn, Sue! He had no right to take you out the way he did. It served him jolly well right to have the Island Nuisance wished on him. He’ll be more careful after this!”

Donald appeared in the door.

“Where is the plum cake?” he asked. “I feel a bit empty!”

“Then it’s only your head that’s empty,” said Nancy. “I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as you did tonight! You had three helpings of eggs!”

“I was upset,” said Donald. “Between Aunt Sassie’s rough remarks to me and Pearlie-Baby’s screams about the tree frog, I needed that third helping!”

He grinned cheerfully and lifted down the tin box.

“What about a piece of plum cake for everybody?”

Timmie took out his knife and cut the first piece and wrapped it in a piece of paper. “It’s for Rose-Marie-Ange,” he explained.

They told Sue then that Rose-Marie-Ange had come to Aunt Sassie when she had been a little girl; that her mother and grandmother had been laundress and cook before her in the Devereaux household.

“She is devoted to us,” Francesca explained, “and protects us from Aunt Sassie’s sissified rules; and on Sundays when we go to church, we protect Rose-Marie-Ange from Aunt Sassie.”

This was a bit difficult to follow, but Angus made it clear.

“The very minute church is over, Aunt Sassie wants to go home; and that’s the moment Rose-Marie-Ange wants to talk to her fiancé . . . so when we’re sent to remind her that Aunt Sassie’s waiting, we just never can find her. See?”

Sue did see. It sounded like an exciting game.

But there was still more to learn. They told her she was to call Donald by his “little name” of Don, and that Francesca was known as Sec.

“We don’t like our big names,” Sec said, “but we never let anyone call us by our little names until we’re sure we want to be friends forever!”

Quietly they sat and watched the sun go down and savored the delicious cake, rich with fruit and peel and spices. And Sue told them of her father, how gay he was, how generous; and of her pretty mother, until two short blasts on the hunter’s horn warned them it was bedtime.

Don touched Sue’s arm as she passed him on the landing. “I hope your burns don’t hurt too much,” he said awkwardly. “When you’re all right, we’ll show you an island where there is real fishing.”

Sue dabbed cream on her swollen face and arms. She knew she was going to blister and peel and that she would look a sight, but somehow she didn’t mind. She’d won out over these boys and girls and they had at last taken her to themselves. She slipped in between the cool sheets with a happy glow at her heart.

During the following days they told her about Bass Island. It lay just inside a little bay, about two miles away.

“Four Winds,” said Timmie, “is the most beautiful, of course, but after it comes Bass Island.”

“It’s round,” said Biddie, “and there are pines on it and cedar and spruce close to the banks, and little bays where we can bathe and shoals where the black bass come . . . and there’s a grove of silver birch and a spring with green moss around it, and ferns and wild iris and orange lilies and cardinal flowers. . . .” She paused for breath.

“And pines—great tall, straight pines,” continued Angus, “and it’s cool underneath the trees and warm in the sun on the beach . . . and on the shore we’ve built a little fireplace of rocks so that we can cook our fish as soon as we catch them.”

“And there are fish,” Donald said with a glance at Sue, “and so many of them that your line is hardly in the water before you haul out a beauty.”

“Bass Island is much littler than Four Winds,” Nancy explained, “but it’s sweet and homey and our very special island. Biddie found it for herself the first time she ever went out in a canoe alone!”

Biddie’s high piping voice broke in again. Her dark eyes were shining.

“The water’s so clear that you can see the bass lying on the bottom of the lake,” she said, “and there’s always a family of baby wild ducks on the far side in Little Duck Bay. We’ve never told anyone about it or ever taken anyone there.”

“But we’re going to take you,” Sec interrupted. “We heard Aunt Sassie say you could go in swimming tomorrow, that your burns are all healed. We’ll call you at dawn!”

That afternoon the boys cleaned out the canoes, sorted the fishing tackle, and while Aunt Sassie read her letters, took the picnic baskets with bread and bacon, butter and jam, frying pans and tin pails and hid them in the bathhouse.

“Rose-Marie-Ange never takes Aunt Sassie her morning tea until she sees us coming back,” Timmie explained. “She knows we can take care of ourselves and doesn’t worry . . . but neither does she take any chances.”

Sue wondered if the morning would ever come.

It was still dark when Sec shook her gently. She held the firefly light in her hand. Sue dressed hurriedly and crept downstairs in her stocking feet. Her hair was braided tightly back from her forehead and tied with string and she wore a jersey over her cotton dress.

She shivered. It was chilly and damp. There was no moon or stars, no dawn, but she could hear sharp whispers and the spank of a canoe as it hit the water.

Don had given them all their instructions the night before. He and Biddie would lead off, with Timmie and Sec in the second canoe, and Angus, Nancy and Sue following.

There was scarcely a ripple as they stole out into Lac de Lune. It was so quiet that the sudden call of a loon nearby was frightening.

Sue’s teeth chattered with excitement and cold. They would be paddling for three-quarters of an hour. . . . They would fish for an hour, then have their breakfast, explore the island and have a swim. . . . Then a leisurely paddle home and they would blow two long blasts on the hunting horn and Aunt Sassie would never know of all the fun they’d already had.

There was more light, and above them, like a ceiling, now dark gray, now pearl-like, floated the morning mists.

There was no sound but the drip from the paddles. The mists rose and drifted. There was a faint, pale light in the sky . . . a tender green . . . above the black trunks of the pines, a turquoise hue. A whip-poor-will called. . . . In the east the stars grew dim.

There was a coolness on Sue’s cheeks. Her hair was damp, her paddle dew covered. She felt she could go on forever in this strange, beautiful dawn. The light grew and spread. The island shores were touched with rose, then gold. The canoes ahead seemed golden, too, and Sec’s sunny hair a part of the beauty of the morning.

And suddenly there was light . . . the tender first light of day . . . the sun had risen.

There was a little cry from them all and for a moment Donald let them drift, then set the pace again.

Biddie’s high piping voice floated back.

“Let’s slow up, Don,” she said, “and watch Sue’s face when she sees Bass Island first!” She called across the water to Sue. “Just around the bend,” she said, “you’ll see Little Duck Bay!”

Angus drove his paddle strongly through the water. The canoe surged forward.

Sue couldn’t believe her eyes!

They had been fooling her again!

What lay before her was no island of beauty. It was horrible! An island of jagged stumps, partially burned logs, broken and heaped piles of brown and ugly brush, beaches piled with bark and chips, pine crowns bleached into a dirty yellow!

There was a little cry . . . like a bird. Sue thought, half whimper, half pain. It was Biddie and she was calling Timmie.

“Oh, Timmie, Timmie,” she cried. “Our island, our lovely island! Oh, Timmie, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

The three canoes moved forward, as if the paddlers couldn’t stop, and come to rest on the bark-strewn beach.

Biddie was out first, her pixie face white under the tan.

“There are no little ducks,” she cried queerly. “The little ducks are gone. . . . Oh, Timmie, I loved the little ducks!”

Sue did not quite understand, but her chest hurt and her throat ached. She couldn’t bear to see Biddie’s face or hear her cry.

“The lumbermen have been here,” Angus said in a flat voice. “They’ve cut over the island and spoiled it forever. They’ve scared away Biddie’s little ducks . . . they’ve spoiled our fireplace . . . they’ve cut trees and then not taken them away . . . they’ve left dirt where it was tidy and clean. . . .”

“The fish are gone too,” said Donald, “and there are no flowers around the spring, just wet bark.”

He turned to Sue.

“Look at the stumps! You can see how big the pines were! These were bad lumbermen, wasteful and selfish as all of them are. They wanted the tall pines for lumber, and took them and left all this slash and dirt behind. A good lumberman can tell whether a tree is any good before he cuts it.”

Sue watched Timmie. He was leading Biddie back through the piles of slash. She was stumbling and crying softly.

“Let’s go,” said Donald. He took off his sweater and placed it in the bow of the canoe. “Sit here, Biddie,” he said gruffly. “Timmie’ll take you home.”

The three canoes started back to Four Winds. Now and then Sue could hear Timmie’s voice.

“Keep your chin up, Biddie,” he said once, “and let’s start planning how to prevent this ever happening again.” And yet another time, “Don’t cry, Biddie. We’ll find some other baby ducks.”

Timmie was sweet and gentle, as they all were when anyone was unhappy.

Before they reached Four Winds, Angus explained about lumbering.

“A good lumberman,” he said, “only cuts the timber that he can use. He examines a tree to find out if it is what he wants and cuts so that it will fall with the least possible damage to others. He piles his branches and trash neatly, and burns as he goes, always setting out a guard to prevent fires, and he leaves the forest tidy!”

“At least,” he said, “that’s what a good lumberman is supposed to do . . . but I’ve never seen one. Back on the mainland you’ll find miles and miles of land looking just like Bass Island does now!”

Four Winds lay just ahead.

Sue looked at the pines on the point. Their crowns were tipped with the gold of a new day.

She knew they could find more baby ducks but they couldn’t give little Biddie back the island she had discovered for herself, the island with Little Duck Bay. . . .

Sue’s heart was sore and angry.

The day really began the night before. After Saturday evening supper their Sunday clothes had to be laid out on chairs in their rooms. Dresses, hats, hankies, hair ribbons, stockings and shoes, and for the boys there was close examination of their boots. Timmie had blacked all but the heels and there was quite a fuss over that. Aunt Sassie checked every item and then called them all to the drawing room.

“We will now have choir practice,” she said.

“Can you sing alto?” Nancy whispered.

Sue shook her head.

“That’s good! None of us can sing second parts, which means we won’t have an anthem. You can’t think,” she added, “how awful it is when Aunt Sassie wants an anthem.”

Timmie handed round the hymn books.

“There are three hymns tomorrow morning,” he said, “and we’re to begin with Fight the Good Fight.”

Aunt Sassie seated herself at the small organ and played a few notes of the hymn.

Sue thought she would burst. It was the squeakiest old organ in the world and Aunt Sassie worked so hard at the pedals that you never knew whether she was sitting on the organ bench or in mid-air. Now and then she stopped playing altogether and beat time, glaring at them as she did so.

None of them sang very well. Donald’s voice was deep at one moment and the next high like a girl’s, but his rhythm was good and he led them just a little ahead of the organ. That annoyed Aunt Sassie, too, for she couldn’t play as fast as Donald could sing.

This was a Saturday night custom, they explained—the practicing of the hymns so that they could help the singing in the little church at Blue Sea. It didn’t seem as if Aunt Sassie would ever be satisfied and she wasn’t until they all learned to sing the amen in four parts. Donald was bass and sounded as if he were growling, and Angus’s tenor was really frightful; but somehow or other the practice came to an end, with Aunt Sassie breathless but beaming.

“Remember, boys, special attention to your ears and neck in the morning; and girls, your hair is to be worn loose and well brushed.”

“Yes, Aunt Sassie,” murmured Nancy, who hated brushing or combing her hair at any time.

“And you will all rise an hour earlier so that we may get a good start.”

“Such a moither,” thought Sue.

The first voice she heard in the morning was Aunt Sassie’s, the second Pearlie-Baby’s, and then everyone joined in. It seemed that Pearlie-Baby didn’t want to go to church; she didn’t want to eat her breakfast either; she just wanted to sleep and didn’t mind telling all the world about it.

“She sounds as if she were being murdered,” said Sue. “Does she do this always?”

Sec was brushing Nancy’s hair. “Always,” she said, “and she’ll keep it up until Aunt Sassie gives her a humbug.”

“Let’s all have one,” said Sue. “I feel as if I could scream myself.” She had on a stiffly starched blue and white dotted swiss with Valenciennes at the neck and wrists and she longed for the easy comfort of her sailor blouse.

Timmie disappeared into the windmill and brought back eight humbugs, and in the middle of one of Pearlie-Baby’s worst roars, popped one into her mouth. A blessed silence followed and the business of dressing was resumed.

They waited on themselves at breakfast that morning, for Rose-Marie-Ange needed time for her grande toilette. Aunt Sassie wore a thin black dress with white ruching at the neck and wrists, and on her head a little bonnet made of a bunch of violets, a black aigrette, very thin and worn, a lace butterfly and a velvet bow. This was held in place by a tightly drawn half-veil. A cameo brooch, jet earrings and a gold watch fastened to her bodice with a maple leaf pin completed her costume and it was evident that Aunt Sassie was pleased with her appearance.

With their hair brushed and shining, their fresh frocks and wide brimmed hats, the girls looked like wild flowers. Sec had run a blue ribbon through her hair. It made her look like Alice in Wonderland, only much, much prettier.

The boys wore their Norfolk jackets, their school ties and white shirts and Sue wouldn’t have known freckled Don at all. He was so smart.

Pearlie-Baby looked rather like a fat white chrysanthemum in her starched dotted swiss dress and petticoats. Her sunbonnet, made of rows and rows of Valenciennes lace, in little swirls and ruches, almost hid her face, which was a good thing, Aunt Sassie said fondly, for “my little darling burns easily!”

But it was Rose-Marie-Ange that was the real belle of the party. They were on the wharf when they saw her coming down the path, wreathed in smiles from ear to ear. She wore a royal blue coat and skirt with rose satin blouse buttoned high up under her chin, black patent leather boots with white buttons, and black stockings, black kid gloves, and on her head a large white straw hat with a pink rose in front. Over this was draped a white veil, tied in a bow under her left ear. Her shining dark hair had been twisted into frizzy curls and waves and her cheeks were flaming with happy pride and, as Sue learned later, with beet juice.

“All French Canadians use beet juice,” whispered Sec. “It’s cheaper than rouge and just as red!”

“There you are,” said Aunt Sassie briskly. “Now line up!”

They lined up in order of height and Aunt Sassie gave them each in turn a five-cent piece, with instructions to tie it firmly in the corner of their handkerchiefs. “It is your collection money,” she said to Sue. Next she presented them with twenty cents apiece and followed it with the grim offering of a savings box. Reluctantly each put in five cents.

The confusion of getting them all in the boats followed. No one put on a life preserver. “When Aunt Sassie’s in the boat,” Angus explained, “she thinks no one could be upset or drowned. She can’t swim a stroke herself but she thinks that just her being with us will protect us!”

Such a fussiness! So much argument! So much giggling, before the lifeboat finally edged away from the wharf, leaving Timmie and Nancy to follow in a skiff. Aunt Sassie had hoisted a black striped silk parasol. Everyone sat up very straight so that their dotted swiss dresses shouldn’t be crushed. Out of the corner of her eye Sue saw Timmie say something to Nancy and a moment later there was a splash.

Nancy had fallen in and Timmie had gone after her! They swam out to the lifeboat to explain, but Aunt Sassie just looked at them in a disagreeable way.

“Yes, yes, Timothy,” she said. “I remember your father had the same generous habit of rescuing people who fell into the lake just before church on Sundays. You can both change into your everyday clothes and follow in the skiff as we had planned. We will wait for you on the mainland.”

“Yes, Aunt Sassie,” spluttered Timmie, and as the lifeboat started towards the mainland, he gave his famous imitation of a whale! At least that is what he said it was when Aunt Sassie called back reprovingly.

Before they reached the mainland, they could see Timmie and Nancy following in the skiff.

Old Auguste was waiting for them by an elegant calèche, with a black body and white wheels and shafts. There was a double buckboard, too, with a canopy top edged with faded red fringe and drawn by two rather skittish young horses.

Aunt Sassie and Rose-Marie-Ange took their places in the calèche, with Pearlie-Baby between them. Old Auguste, shaved and very clean in his Sunday clothes, sat up in front and waited while the rest of them piled into the buckboard.

The calèche moved off. Sue could see that it had springs and that it moved easily over the corduroy road. Timmie and Nancy arrived, panting and full of indignation.

“My father says,” began Timmie and all their shouting wouldn’t alter his determination to be heard.

“My father says that everyone should have a bath a day. . . . Aunt Sassie says there isn’t time on Sunday and that it’s wicked to enjoy yourself on Sunday. Why is it wicked to enjoy your bath? How am I to obey my father and my aunt?”

“You can’t,” said Don, “and you can’t fool us either. You and Nancy fell in on purpose.” He reached down and gave Timmie a hand up. The buckboard moved forward.

“Mercy, mercy me!” exclaimed Sue. “This is just a bone shaker!” She had thought the calèche without springs that had brought her into Four Winds was bad enough, but with springs the buckboard flung them up in the air at each log and the drive into Blue Sea was just one long bump!

Their driver, Pierre Nault, was Auguste’s nephew and he was as talkative as Auguste was silent. While they bumped their way along, he told them who had baked fresh bread that morning and where they could find a strawberry patch off the road. They wanted to get out at once and pick the strawberries but Pierre wouldn’t stop.

“If Madame Devereaux should find a stain on your white gloves,” he said, “I should no longer drive you. But coming home . . .” he laid a finger on the side of his nose and twinkled at them, “that is another matter!”

The branches touched each other over head and made the drive a long, leafy tunnel. The blackberries had ripened on their thorny stems and harebells lifted their starry faces from the ferns.

Pierre told them there was a rumor that a big lumber drive would be coming down soon, but he was vague about the time. “Next week, next month, perhaps . . . I don’t know.” French Canadians never knew anything positively, Sue noticed. They always ended every statement with a shrug and, “I don’t know, maybe? Perhaps!”

They were hot and crumpled by the time they reached Blue Sea. The little road was white with dust as they drove along to St. Anne’s Roman Catholic Church. Here they left Rose-Marie-Ange, and five minutes later stopped at the little Anglican Mission Church, called St. Martin-in-the-Fields. St. Anne’s bells were ringing for Mass, and St. Martin’s were ringing for Morning Prayer. The streets were full of French Canadians in their Sunday clothes, the children stopping to stare at the buckboard as it drove by, and there were gay cries and formal bows and murmurs of “Bon jour, Madame” to Aunt Sassie, who sat very stiff and straight in the calèche.

Sec adjusted her hat and straightened her skirts. “We must make ourselves tidy,” she said, settling Biddie’s hair ribbon.

“Don, you help Aunt Sassie!”

The curate, the Rev. Cyril Wilberforce-Atkins a mild little man in a rusty cassock, came out to greet them.

“Dear Miss Devereaux,” he said, in a weak voice. “We are always so glad to have you and your delightful family with us!”

“Delightful!” repeated Sue. “Little he knows us!”

“Hush,” said Timmie, “and mind you put your five cents in the collection plate. Donald cheated once and kept his five cents for gum . . . and ever since, Aunt Sassie counts the number of coins!”

With Aunt Sassie leading, they passed single file into the church and filled the first two pews. Pearlie-Baby went to sleep immediately, which was a blessing. She never even wakened for the hymns, though Donald sang like thunder. There were only seven people in the choir and the organist almost blew up trying to keep the organ pumped and played at the same time. Finally, everyone settled down for the sermon.

You never can tell about these little men, Sue thought. They sound like pip squeaks when you talk to them but when they preach, mercy me!

For three-quarters of a hot and sleepy hour the curate thundered at them from the pulpit. Even Aunt Sassie was beginning to drowse when the sermon came to an end and all their hankies were fished out, the corner knots untied and the shining silver coins held ready.

The collection plate was passed. Aunt Sassie sat forward in her pew, her bright eyes watching each coin as it dropped on the green baize.

The organist wheezed out the opening notes of Onward Christian Soldiers and the service was over. Quietly they filed outside onto the porch, where Aunt Sassie held a little court of older people.

Angus took Sue’s arm. “This is where we go and hunt for Rose-Marie-Ange,” he said. “Aunt Sassie’ll be here for ages.” Down the village street they hurried. Blue Sea was so pretty, with its vine-covered, whitewashed houses and fences, neatly stacked piles of wood, great shady elms and narrow wooden sidewalks. At a bridge crossing a little creek, they turned off the main road and hurried up a winding hill.

“Where are we going?” asked Sue.

“There are hot habitant bread and buns in an old French bake oven at the top of the hill,” Angus said.

Sue doubled her speed.

True enough, an outdoor oven stood at the top of the hill. It was made of stone, clay and logs, and over it was a thatched roof. Monsieur and Madame Etiet were standing by and greeted the children as old friends. The baker and his wife were a strong, fat couple, and full of fun.

When the oven door was opened they took out great loaves of homemade bread, brown crusted and sweet smelling. There were plump rolls, too, and from the shadow of the nearby wood pile they brought a pat of sweet butter, “churned this very morning, ma p’tite!”

Quickly the children split the rolls and poked in the golden butter and sat themselves down in the meadow grass. The country swept in a gentle rise and fall beneath them, divided by dirt roads and fences into squares and pie-shaped pieces.

Monsieur and Madame told them that they baked every Sunday for the summer visitors and that it was a profitable business. Sue felt she would like to lie there forever in the sweet smelling grass and listen to the song of the grasshoppers and stories of old Quebec. But there was another sound beating in her ears . . . the sound of hoof beats. She sat up. The road below was empty.

Don collected five cents from each one of them for their rolls and they said “merci et au revoir” to Monsieur and Madame, promising to come back each Sunday after church.

“We’ll have to hurry,” Don said. “Aunt Sassie’ll be hopping mad if we keep her waiting too long!”

At the foot of the hill they separated, each one going a different way in search of Rose-Marie-Ange.

Sue stood by the priest’s house next to St. Anne’s. Rose-Marie-Ange might be in the crowd that hung around the carriage shed. ’Poleon drove by and waved to her. He was very grand in his Sunday clothes, and Baptiste wore a red collar. Everyone was gay and smiling and some spoke to her as they passed.

“Bon jour, Mademoiselle.”

“Bon jour, ma p’tite.”

But there was no Rose-Marie-Ange . . . only the sound of hoof beats and they were coming nearer. The crowd around the church stepped back as a youth riding a beautiful little chestnut galloped by. Sue watched him as he turned up the hill. Surely she had seen him somewhere before. He rode superbly; a bit like an Englishman and a bit like a Mountie and a bit like someone else . . . she couldn’t remember whom.

Again the hoof beats sounded. This time the rider passed at a swift trot. He was riding bareback and so perfectly that he and his horse seemed one.

The crowd around the church melted away but still there was no sign of Rose-Marie-Ange. Sue pulled off her hat and rumpled her hair. The rider was coming towards her. He was the handsomest lad Sue ever remembered . . . almost as tall as a man, with dark hair falling lightly over his forehead. He wore a crimson sweater and gray flannels and he smiled down at her.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked.

Sue shook her head. She was puzzled . . . the way he sat his horse, the way he spoke, reminded her of someone and yet was strangely different.

“Little Golden Hawk!” he said.

Then she remembered. It was her Indian playmate of prairie days. “Little Chief!” Sue cried. “Little Chief! of course! Wherever do you come from?”

He slipped off his horse and tied the bridle to the fence and sat down beside her on the church steps.

“I wasn’t sure it was you,” he said, “until you took your hat off. That’s why I rode to and fro so often. Once I saw your hair I was positive. Do you remember the day my father called you ‘Little Golden Hawk’?”

Sue laughed excitedly. “Yes, yes,” she said, “but tell me, what are you doing in Quebec, so far from the prairies?”

Little Chief smiled. He had the nicest smile, Sue noticed, and the whitest teeth.

“The year you left for the Queen’s Jubilee, I was sent back to the Mission School at Qu’Appelle. I didn’t like it. They put me in a class that I had already been in. I knew all the answers, so I ran away. Each time they brought me back, and then Father Hugenard asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I didn’t care so long as it was out-of-doors. A week later he brought me down to the school of the Jesuit Fathers at Rivière de Loup. I have been there ever since. I am happy and at the top of my class. Next year I shall matriculate into McGill or West Point. I am going to be an engineer.

“How’s your temper, Little Golden Hawk?” he asked. “Do you remember what a spitfire you used to be?”

“I’m still the same,” Sue answered. “I fly off the handle every little while and get into rages and then everybody lectures me.” They both laughed and while Little Chief told her more about his school Sue sat and wondered. She couldn’t believe her eyes or ears. Here sitting beside her was a young gentleman with all the air and assurance of the English school boys she had known; all the ease of manner that marked the aristocrat. Yet four years ago she had seen him greasy and slouchy in an Indian tepee. His skin was brown but not browner than Timmie’s, his hands slim and strong.

“What’s your name now?” she asked, for Don and Angus were coming towards her.

“John Child,” he answered. “I was given this name by the good Fathers when I arrived. They couldn’t stick my tribe name of ‘Buffalo Child Running Horse.’ They said it was too long!”

Don and Angus looked curiously at the handsome boy Sue presented. She explained that he was an old friend of prairie days and Don promptly asked him to pay them a visit at Four Winds. He thanked them but said it was not possible.

“Do come,” Sue pleaded.

Smilingly he shook his head, but when Timmie and Sec joined them, he began to weaken. It was Sec who settled the matter.

“Aunt Sassie will write to you and ask you properly,” she said. “Will you come then?”

Little Chief bowed. “It would make me very happy.”

On the journey home Sue told them all about Little Chief but Aunt Sassie flatly refused to have him as a guest. “I do not want to be tomahawked in my very own bed,” she said, “and all Indians tomahawk. My grandfather told me so!”

Aunt Sassie was very stupid and obstinate over it all. She wouldn’t listen to reason. She wouldn’t believe that Little Chief was at the famous Jesuit School at Rivière de Loup. She knew the Roman Catholic Bishop wouldn’t hear of having wild savages mixed up with nice little Canadian boys.

“This morning,” Timmie interrupted, “you said there were no nice Canadian boys, only nice english boys.”

“That was when you deliberately fell into the lake,” Aunt Sassie answered crossly, “and besides, that was this morning. And I’m not going to encourage wild Indians. If you all do your duty by the Mission box at church, we may in time civilize the poor heathen . . . but not on Four Winds!”

“But he’s not a heathen,” insisted Sue.

“That will do, Susannah! I regret to say that my nephews and nieces are having a bad effect on you, instead of your having a good effect on them!”

Aunt Sassie went into her room and banged the door harder than it was necessary to close it.

“She’s always like that on Sundays,” said Angus gloomily, “that’s what church does to her!”

“Not at all, Master Angus,” snapped Rose-Marie-Ange. “Madame Devereaux has a great fatigue after the labors of the morning. But it is not church that tires her—it is the effort to bring you up as good Christians. It is too much for her, obviously. I should be glad if you would all leave my kitchen. I, too, am tired of you all!”

It was the first time Sue had seen Rose-Marie-Ange in a tantrum.

“She always comes home like this,” Don explained. “You see, her fiancé promises her each week to set the wedding date and then he puts her off and it makes the poor girl anxious.”

“She should get rid of him,” said Sue, “and try another. Couldn’t we find her a better fiancé than the one she has?”

“We might,” said Don. “We can try when the rivermen come down!”

Sue hesitated. “I don’t know about that. From what Aunt Sassie says, good rivermen are few and far between.”

The mailbag was full, so full that it made a comfortable, if slightly knobbly, cushion in the boat. Sue punched it. The big roll would probably be the Graphic and there was a tin, small and round. It might be toffee.

Timmie felt it. “It’s either toffee or magnesia,” he said, “and I hope it’s toffee. But who in the wide world would send us toffee?”

“Daddy,” Sue answered, “and he promised to send the Graphic, too, when he was through with it.” She poked the knobs again.

“There are newspapers,” she said, “and letters, heaps of letters and something soft, like a parcel . . . and a small box.”

“If there’s any hope of toffee,” Timmie said, “supposing you take an oar, Sue, and we’ll get home sooner.”

It was toffee . . . butterscotch, in a tin with a Highlander on the outside. Each piece was wrapped in paper and though Aunt Sassie hesitated at first about letting them have it, she gave in immediately when she saw it came from the old country.

“English toffee,” she said, “is so pure that I have no misgivings in allowing you to have it!”

“Don’t let her know it’s Scotch,” said Don, “until we’ve finished it!”

But the mailbag was full of treasures. There were many copies of the Graphic, showing pictures of the South African War, many newspapers which Aunt Sassie seized with delight, and bundles and bundles of letters from fathers and mothers . . . and all of them ending the same way.

Angus laughed as they compared their letters.

“What do they think we do all day?” he asked. “We can’t give anyone any trouble up here.”

But Sue interrupted him with a squeal of delight.

“Listen, Aunt Sassie! Listen everybody!” she cried. “Listen to Daddy’s letter!

There was more but Sue didn’t stop to read it.

“This,” she said, “is the most exciting thing that has happened this summer. You must have him, Aunt Sassie. He is the nicest boy you ever knew. His father is a very important man. . . .”

Donald dropped his oar with a bang and under the noise of the interruption whispered,

“Tell her he has beautiful manners . . .”

“And I’ve never seen such perfect manners, Aunt Sassie,” added Sue hastily.

“That will do, Sue”; smiled Aunt Sassie. “I am glad to learn that your little friend has good manners, but it is not more than I should have expected from the son of a high ranking officer in the North West Mounted Police. I shall, of course, telegraph your dear father in the morning, bidding him send . . .” She paused. “What did you say his name was?”

Sue gulped. “Alexander Cochrane Wyndham Consell, but we call him Consy for short.”

Aunt Sassie repeated the name softly.

“Alexander Cochrane Wyndham Consell.” She paused, as if savoring the names. “I have no doubt but that we shall find him a great addition to our little party.”

Aunt Sassie looked very important as she said this. But Sue was remembering another friend, an even older friend. She spoke to the twins about him.

“It’s Little Chief,” she said. “Do you think Aunt Sassie would let him come now, when Consy’s coming?”

“We’ll try,” Don answered. “We’ll tackle her after supper. She’s in rare form tonight and we might just get her to write to Little Chief.”

They opened the rest of the parcels then. The soft one held new hair ribbons for the girls, a lace-trimmed hankie for Rose-Marie-Ange, foulard ties for the boys and a filmy black lace shoulder shawl for Aunt Sassie.

“They’re from your mother, Sue,” said Aunt Sassie, looking very pleased.

Sue nodded. “Mummy’s wonderful,” she said. “She never gives you anything useful . . . only pretty things, like herself.”

Supper that night was unbelievable. Everyone had clean hands and perfect manners. Don and Sec asked Aunt Sassie to tell her favorite stories and whenever the high point of the story was reached, they all broke into hand clapping.

Afterwards Don brought up the question of Little Chief and to the surprise of everyone, Aunt Sassie gave in without any fuss at all. She said she knew there would be no danger of Indian troubles with the son of a Mountie in the house to guard them. And she went over to her desk, took out her scratchy quill pen and wrote John Child a charming note.

“There’s no doubt about it,” said Don, “when Aunt Sassie agrees to do anything, she does it perfectly.”

It was a busy week. The girls helped Rose-Marie-Ange prepare the guest room for their two visitors. In the windmill the boys found a tin of bilious green paint which they used on two old chests of drawers. A rag rug was washed in the lake and hung out to dry on the line, mattresses for two camp beds put out to sun, windows cleaned and two washcloths embroidered with cross-stitch in red, bearing the two names, Little Chief, and Consy.

Then there was the question of Sunday luncheon. Aunt Sassie had had a charming note of thanks, in fine copper plate handwriting, from John Child; and a telegram from the Superintendent had stated that Consy would arrive on Sunday morning. That meant they could both be picked up after church.

“All this is very satisfactory,” Aunt Sassie announced in a business-like tone. “Everything is moving forward in the way it should and Sunday luncheon shall be as usual.”

“That’s what we were worried about,” said Sec. “We thought it would be nice to have a party luncheon this Sunday, for we’ve never had visitors before!”

Aunt Sassie shook her head. “We will make no changes,” she said loftily. “What is good enough for us, is good enough for our guests!”

They discussed the matter between themselves. Sunday luncheon was always the same. A cold chicken pie, bread and butter, and stewed fruit.

“It’s not too bad,” said Angus, “if there were enough chicken, but Aunt Sassie won’t have more than one chicken in a pie and by the time all the bones are out of a chicken, there isn’t much left to make the pie.”

“What happens to the bones?” asked Sue.

“They make a nice rich broth,” mimicked Nancy in Aunt Sassie’s primsiest voice, “which is very nourishing for the young!”

“Where could we get a second chicken?” asked Sue.

“From Auguste,” Don answered, “that is, if we had the money to buy it, which we haven’t!”

“What about the savings bank?” Sue continued.

“It’s an idea,” said Angus, “if we could open it, which we can’t. It’s made of iron and shaped like a rabbit. I’ve tried to get into it several times. It can’t be done!”

“Let me see it,” said Sue.

It was on Aunt Sassie’s desk and they took it out to the windmill.

“If you turn the rabbit upside down, said Sue, and shake hard, you’ll find you can shake out some of the money.”

They knelt in a little ring, the girls spreading out their skirts so that nothing could be lost.

“Shake!” cried Sue.

Donald shook. Nothing happened, just a rattling of the little silver coins against the bunny’s iron tummy.

Angus shook, Timmie shook, Sec shook.

“Give it to me,” said Sue. She tilted the bunny’s nose downward and shook lightly. Out popped a five-cent piece. She shook again. She kept on shaking.

One dollar ten.

One dollar fifteen.

One dollar twenty!

“That would buy a good-sized chicken,” said Don.

“Yes,” said Sec, “but listen, the bunny sounds thin inside.”

Sue shook it again. It did sound thin and they all knew Aunt Sassie might notice it, too.

“Let’s put some thin buttons in,” said Timmie. “They’ll rattle like money. We can use the tin buttons on my overalls.”

“Snip ’em off fast then,” said Don, “and let’s get them inside the bunny.”

But Sec looked worried.

“This bank is opened when the family come up in the autumn to collect us,” she said. “Aunt Sassie’ll be awfully upset if we haven’t the right amount for the heathen, even if it is our money.”

“Let’s write her a letter, saying what we used the money for,” said Biddie, “and poke it inside the bunny, so that she won’t think we’re stealing from the heathen.”

Hastily Sec scribbled a note on a tiny piece of thin paper and with the help of a hairpin and the buttons, it disappeared down into the bunny’s tummy.

They told Rose-Marie-Ange about it and she was most sympathetic. “It’s not that Madame Devereaux is close,” she said; “it is that she wants to be frugal, which is a good thing with so many of you and all so hungry. But I understand you would like to be en fête for your visitors. Good, I shall help.” Together they planned the meal.

“Chicken pie with some hard-boiled eggs in it, a dish of wild crab apple jelly to serve with it . . . and a salad,” said Rose-Marie-Ange. “A beet and celery salad, only there is no celery . . . but I know where I can get baby beets, succulent . . .” Rose-Marie-Ange smacked her lips. “Some young beans, too . . . Oh, yes, I shall make you a salad . . . and for dessert?”

“Couldn’t we have something besides stewed fruit?” asked Nancy. “I’m so sick of apricots.”

“I shall bake you a cake the night before,” said Rose-Marie-Ange, “and I have a jar of cherries that I put down last year. . . . If you children will help me all the day before, I shall turn you out a luncheon fit for Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen herself!”

“Mercy,” thought Sue on Saturday night, “I don’t really know what we should do if we had visitors often. We’ve worked like beavers all week.”

The kitchen table was already laid for breakfast and the dining-room table for luncheon. There were orange lilies in the centre and a linen mat at every place, and all the old tinny silver had been polished. In a crock in the well-head, to keep them cool, were little prints of butter stamped with beavers, mooseheads and roses. And the pie, sitting covered with a linen cloth in the larder, made you hungry just to remember. It had been baked in a mixing dish because it was so enormous, and tiny bits of brown savory jelly oozed through the pale golden crust.

Sunday morning was perfect. There was the usual howl from Pearlie-Baby but they had provided for this by having two humbugs handy. Aunt Sassie found no fault with anyone, and they started off to church, hardly breathing for fear of some unexpected mishap.

They were to meet Consy and Little Chief at the Blue Sea station after church. Their train pulled in about half an hour before the service was over so the boys wouldn’t have long to wait.

Everything went well. Even the curate seemed to sense their anxiety to be through the service early, or perhaps it was because the little Mission Church was so warm, but the sermon was short and when the recessional hymn was announced, Sue found it was the lovely, shouty one called Ten Thousand Times, Ten Thousand.

Sue liked the line “In sparkling raiment bright.” It gave you a lovely feeling about the world . . . everything so green, flowers so bright, friends old and new, a house and dogs and new hair ribbons.

It was a lovely world.

At the station two boys stood in the shadow of a pine. Sue looked at them.

Little Chief had on a blue blazer and gray flannels and white shirt. At his feet lay three smart leather bags. The other boy was taller than Little Chief and wore baggy tweeds. His shock of dark hair was untidy, his tie trailed out of his pocket and his luggage was like himself, travel-worn and dusty. He looked at Sue and grinned.

“Hello, Spitfire,” he said.

There was no mistaking him. It was Consy and he was just as he had always been, only bigger.

Little Chief came forward and bowed with quiet grace over Aunt Sassie’s outstretched hand.

“How do you do, Consell,” she said. “You are very welcome to Four Winds! Susannah, please present your other guest.”

But before Sue could say a word, Consy came forward and put out a grimy hand.

“How-do-you-do,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“You are very welcome to Four Winds,” said Aunt Sassie primly. “And now, Susannah, you and your friends may take the buckboard home!”

They all crowded into the buckboard into which Pierre had placed another seat. The bags were tied onto the top of the canopy and it was, as Nancy said, a good thing they were all friendly, for they were dreadfully jumbled up.

Both boys were liked at once and both liked each other. Consy was just the same as he had been in the Yukon, arguing and fighting with them all. It was plainly going to be a grand summer! Little Chief was perfect. He was fun, quick-witted, a bit shy, but very likeable. By the time they reached the lifeboat they were all fast friends and had sympathized with each other on the subject of Sunday bathing. But when Little Chief saw the pines, he completely won their hearts.

“What trees!” he said, his dark eyes shining. “They stand like guardians of your island!”

They all liked that.

Consy said nothing at all, yet somehow they knew he found them beautiful, too.

All their plans went off perfectly.

Don took the two guests to their room and helped them unpack. Biddie brought the butter from the well. Sue carried in the pie. Nancy cut the bread and butter. Sec put out the cake and cherries. Angus filled the jugs with milk. Rose-Marie-Ange mixed the salad and changed from her “Toilette de l’église” to what she called her uniform, and then announced grandly, “Madame est servie!”

What a meal! Sue almost burst with pride and hunger, and the way everyone polished off the pie was a tribute. Everyone had two helpings, even Aunt Sassie, who explained to Little Chief, that Rose-Marie-Ange had surpassed herself today.

And then she said grandly, “Rose-Marie-Ange, you may bring on the confection!”

And before they could even wonder, Rose-Marie-Ange appearing, carrying in an enormous charlotte-russe.

“It is my little surprise, to honor our guests,” said Aunt Sassie. “We made it yesterday, when you were all over with Miss Julie Zotique!”

They finished it, and the cake and cherries as well, and then, full of happy content, lay out under the pines with the dogs and Pearlie-Baby, while Aunt Sassie wrote her Sunday letters. Later, she called Sue into the living room.

“I am writing to your dear father,” she said, “and telling him what a great success your two friends are. Consell has the most beautiful manners I’ve ever seen; so deferential to older people, so gentle with you children. I am also putting in a good word for Little Chief. He is not very well appointed and his manners, I regret to say, are far from what one would wish, but one must forgive him, I suppose, because he is a savage!”

“Oh, Aunt Sassie,” Sue gasped. “You’re all wrong. You’ve been wrong from the beginning. You wouldn’t let us explain at the station and since then we’ve been so happy we couldn’t bear to explain. Consy is Little Chief and Little Chief is Consy!”

“I do not understand,” Aunt Sassie answered. “Speak more slowly, Susannah, and more quietly!”

“Well,” said Sue patiently, “the boy with the beautiful manners is the Red Indian and we call him Little Chief, though his real name is John Child. And the dusty boy with the tweed suit is Consy, the son of Superintendent Consell of the Mounties . . . and he’s just as nice as he can be!”

Aunt Sassie nibbled the end of her quill pen. “Then it would appear, Susannah, that I have made a mistake and that we must look to a Red Indian for an example of good manners!”

Sue nodded.

Aunt Sassie stuck her pen in the ink well with a flourish. “I hope I am not too old to learn,” she said, “but I don’t know what my grandfather would have said to my entertaining savages at Four Winds . . . but let us hope,” she added, “that Little Chief may have a good influence on Consy!”

Rose-Marie-Ange told them about it first while the girls were drying the dishes on Monday morning.

“Yesterday was of such a moment,” she said, “that I had no thought of anything but our luncheon . . . our déjeuner d’honneur. But in the moment I had with my fiancé, I learned that the rivermen are coming down; that they are on the floodwaters and that any day now we may expect the logs! My fiancé says that this will be a big drive; that there is a new company agent and that he makes the logs fly!”

Sue blinked and listened attentively. Any man who could make logs fly must be something to watch! But Don told her to pay no attention to any stories about the logs or rivermen.

“Rose-Marie-Ange loves to talk,” he said loftily; “forget about it until the rivermen arrive!”

But it was hard to dismiss such exciting news and harder still when the five boys went out on a fishing trip and left the four girls in charge of the hens, the dogs, the cat, the canary, Pearlie-Baby, Rose-Marie-Ange, and Aunt Sassie!

The girls had wanted to fish, too, but Don was firm. “We don’t want you today,” he said. “We want to talk man talk!”

“That’s just rubbish,” Sec answered snappily. “You boys want to fish all day in your bathing suits and swim every other moment . . . that’s the sort of man talk you’re going to do . . . and anyway you haven’t anything important to talk about!”

The boys laughed guiltily and as they slid away from the wharf, Timmie’s piping voice rose.

“We won’t be back ’til you’ve milked Miss Julie Zotique,” he called. “We’re all packed up for two picnic meals!”

He was right. All the bacon in the house was gone; all the eggs and five bananas and a lovely big bannock they had seen Rose-Marie-Ange baking at breakfast time.

“Did you know they were going?” Sue asked.

Rose-Marie-Ange laughed. “Surely, and it is a good thing. Too many women are bad for men. . . . It makes them soft. Give them a rest and they will be glad to play with you again.”

“Well, to begin with, they’re not men,” said Sue, “and my mother thinks women are just as good any day as men. She thinks women ought to vote.”

“But this is terrible,” cried the plump little maid. “No lady would want to vote! What are husbands for, if not to think for their wives?”

“That’s all out,” said Sue stoutly. “Women are going to have the vote.”

“Not in Quebec!” answered Rose-Marie-Ange firmly. “We French Canadian women know our place, which is to obey our husbands!” She placed her hands on her hips and faced the girls with sparkling eyes.

“You should mind yourselves,” she said, “lest some unknown suitor should hear you! No man would marry a woman who would wish to vote!”

“Oh pooh!” sniffed Nancy. “If I were a man I’d like something different for a change. Our cousin, Denise Devereaux, flirts her fan at every man she sees, just the way every other girl does, and she’s not married and she’s twenty-five! Think of that! Daddy says she’s over-anxious. But our cousin Jane got married, right after her debut, and I heard Daddy say that it was because she was so full of ideas that she kept everybody humming!”

She turned to Sue. “What kind of a man are you going to marry?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Sue answered.

“It is not too early to begin,” warned Rose-Marie-Ange.

“Well, now that I think about it,” said Sue, pushing back her curls, “he must be a Mountie; very, very tall and very, very good-looking; and he must be dashing and gay. He must have a lot of money, too, for I think I’m going to be expensive when I grow up!”

“What makes you think that?” asked Sec.

“I don’t know,” Sue answered, “except that I know it takes a lot of money to dress Mummy and I want much grander clothes than she wears all the time. I want shiny satin dresses with trains for evening, and velvet cloaks and large hats with feathers; and fur capes right to my heels and shoes with buckles on them and two or three riding habits and dresses with black lace sleeves, so that my arms shall gleam through like snow!”

“Whom do you want to marry, Sec?”

“He must be tall,” said Sec dreamily. “And I should like him to look like one of the pictures in the Viking book. His eyes must be blue and he must be grave and have beautiful manners and treat me as if I were a queen. I shall wear long floating dresses, like the Lady of Shallot, and lilies in my hair.”

“It’s my turn now,” said Nancy. “I don’t care what he looks like, so long as he’s a sailor. I mean I want to marry someone that wants to go places all the time. I’d like him to have a yacht so that we could go round the world. I want to go to China and India and see a Maharajah and I want an emerald ring.”

“What about you, Biddie?” Sec asked.

Biddie carefully wiped the cup she was holding.

“It’s all settled with me,” she said. “I am going to marry Timmie.”

“Good,” said Rose-Marie-Ange, picking up Aunt Sassie’s tray. “You are the only one that will not have anxiety!”

The effort of church and guests, as well as too much charlotte-russe, had left Aunt Sassie tired and peevish. Also she didn’t like the boys leaving the island entirely to the women. Anything might happen, she said, where they would need a man. It was extraordinary the way in which Aunt Sassie treated the boys, one moment as if they were children, and then in their absence referred to them as men.

Sue felt a bit cranky herself. She wished the boys would come back or the rivermen come down.

Aunt Sassie sent the girls over early to Miss Julie Zotique.

“In the meadow above the shed,” she said, “you will find lamb’s-quarters. Rose-Marie-Ange tells me they are just right for picking. I should like a laundry basket heaped high with them. Spinach costs money and these delicious greens are there just for the picking!”

“What are lamb’s-quarters?” asked Sue.

“Weeds,” said Sec in tones of despair. “Nasty, mangy old weeds. You pick and pick and pick and the basket never seems to fill . . . and they’re cooked like spinach and they’re horrible!”

Mournfully they got out the lifeboat, put in the pails, the mailbag and the laundry basket, and then to cap everything, Rose-Marie-Ange appeared with Pearlie-Baby.

“Madame Devereaux says her little Pearl must go! Madame Devereaux is resting this afternoon. I told her that the rivermen were near and she wishes to take some extra rest to be ready for whatever may come. And, besides, I have my washing to do.”

They pushed the lifeboat off from the wharf. “This is what’s called ‘getting rid of the children for the afternoon,’ ” said Sec, and they rowed slowly over to the landing. How to handle Pearlie-Baby, as well as pick lamb’s-quarters, was their chief problem.

“You can’t leave her alone for a moment,” said Nancy, “without her eating something she shouldn’t.”

“Let’s tie her up to a tree,” suggested Sue.

“She’ll scream and Aunt Sassie’ll hear her and think we’re drowning her,” said Sec. “You’ve no idea how sound carries over the water!”

But by the time they reached Miss Julie Zotique, Sue had found a way. A nice shady maple stood in a small patch of grass and Pearlie-Baby was tethered there, with the promise of two humbugs if she kept quiet, while they picked the lamb’s-quarters.

Pearlie-Baby nodded and sat herself down to untie the knots that fastened her to the tree, while the four girls labored over lamb’s-quarters. They were a gray-green weed and easy to pick.

“But you have to pick them clean,” said Nancy, as Sue flung a few Scotch thistles into the basket. “If you don’t, we have to go over every single plant in this basket . . . or, what’s worse, eat the thistles!”

Hastily Sue fished out the offenders. Her mind was really on the lumber drive. She wished it would start. Now that Consy and Little Chief were with them, they ought to be able to have that much more fun and no one could call picking weeds for great hungry boys to gobble any fun. The basket never seemed to fill. They milked Miss Julie Zotique and strained the milk and stood the pails in the spring to cool and then went back to the lamb’s-quarters. Pearlie-Baby fretted. They went out and met Auguste and took the mailbag and parcels and went back to the lamb’s-quarters.

They all had a drink of milk and lay in the shade for a time and went back to the lamb’s-quarters.

“Do we really have to fill the whole basket?” Sue asked.

“You heard what Aunt Sassie said,” Sec answered.

“But it’s only two-thirds full,” moaned Biddie. “We’ll be here all night.”

Sue remembered a cushion lying in the lifeboat.

It took only a few minutes to run down and bring it up. Scooping the lamb’s-quarters to one side, they poked the cushion in and pulled the greens over. It was delightful the way the basket suddenly seemed full. They were so pleased with the result that they picked a few more of the hated weeds, just for good measure, and then carried the basket out to the road.

“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Sue,” sighed Sec. “You have so many ideas. We might have been here for hours longer!”

There was a cry, the cry of a hoot owl, repeated three times.

“That’s Timmie,” said Biddie, “and there are the rest of them.”

The two canoes, laden with baskets, tackle and boys rounded the little bay.

“The rivermen are here,” they cried together. “The logs are coming down Burnt River already. There are men in canoes looking for islands to which they can snub their booms . . . the whole lake will be full of logs by tomorrow night. It’s the biggest lumber drive in ten years. . . .”

“Who told you?” shouted Sec, for once as noisy and excited as the rest.

“ ’Poleon’s father. He and another man were up Burnt River last night. He told us to tell Aunt Sassie.”

It was all a very exciting and confusing story, mixed up with the number of bass they’d caught and how they’d eaten their dinner and supper at one meal and were hungry again and had come home for a second supper.

But when they returned to Four Winds and gave Aunt Sassie the message about the big lumber drive, she grew very haughty.

“They are looking for islands, are they,” she said, “to which to snub their booms? No boom was ever snubbed to Four Winds in my grandfather’s time, and none shall be snubbed now!”

Aunt Sassie was so excited that she never even noticed the basket of lamb’s-quarters or the black bass the boys had brought in. She rattled her newspapers busily, tried to put her glasses on upside down and had nothing to say when Timmie asked for a third helping of fish. But she would allow no discussion of the rivermen.

“After supper,” she said, “I shall tell you my plans. Until then, not one word from any of you!”

Later, she gathered them all into the living room and pulled the curtains over the windows. Seating herself in a rocker near the door, she paused impressively.

“I must warn you all,” she began, “about the dangers we are likely to encounter during the next few unhappy weeks. My grandfather was a lumber baron and from childhood I have watched the logs swing past the island; but my grandfather was very particular and allowed no riverman ever to set foot on Four Winds.

“Rivermen are scoundrels! They smoke and drink and swear and are not fit company for anyone but themselves. They are enormous men . . . all over six feet in height with big shoulders.” Aunt Sassie paused and lowered her voice. “Once I saw one six foot seven in height. He was a giant!”

He would have been dandy in a circus, thought Sue.

“Rivermen are so strong,” continued Aunt Sassie, “that they can crush a man to death with one twist of their hand!”

“Oh, la, la, Madame,” broke in Rose-Marie-Ange, “not with one hand! Surely with two!”

“With one hand, I said,” answered Aunt Sassie, glaring at Rose-Marie-Ange. “And I have heard it said that when they shave they shave with axes!”

“How do you know?” asked Timmie.

“My grandfather told me,” Aunt Sassie replied with dignity.

“They wear red flannel underwear and eat enormously and they steal everything they can put their hands on!”

“Oh, but Aunt Sassie,” Don protested, “we’ve seen rivermen going by every summer. All they did was keep their logs running straight and wave to us.”

“Those were small runs. You have never seen a big lumber drive. You have never seen this lake full of logs. It is a different type of man that comes down with a big run.

“Donald, tonight I want the hen house locked!

“Angus, I want the bathing house locked, padlocked indeed, and hide the oars! We must take every measure to safeguard our possessions.

“Consell, will you lock all the windows?

“Little Chief, will you see to all the bolts on the doors?

“Timmie, lock the windmill!”

The boys disappeared and while the girls laid the table for breakfast, Rose-Marie-Ange and Aunt Sassie inspected the locks on the windows.

“I feel a bit shivery,” said Sec. “Do you think the rivermen can be as bad as Aunt Sassie says they are? Or do you think she’s just being important?”

But before Sue could answer, Don and Angus came in. Their eyes were shining.

“Don’t tell Aunt Sassie,” they said, “but two men in a canoe are paddling around the island. We called out to them and when they heard us they paddled away.”

“Mercy,” said Sue, “do you think they’ll come back?”

Timmie came in the kitchen door, which Little Chief bolted behind him.

“Come, children,” said Aunt Sassie, “to bed! If anyone knocks at the door, don’t answer. We do not wish any conversation with these wild men and, besides, what could we do against such giants!”

“You’ve got us,” Consy said, “and together we’d give any giant a bad time!”

“That is kind of you, Consell,” Aunt Sassie answered, “and well meant, I am sure. But silence is best. We do not want to be murdered in our beds, as well we might be, if we as much as crossed the will of any of these villains!”

“Can I come in and sleep with you, Sue,” Biddie whispered. “I’d feel awfully alone in that big bed tonight.”

“So would I,” said Sue, “and let’s have Babette, too, for extra company.”

Hildred slipped into Timmie’s room and Feathers followed Sec and Nancy.

Little by little, the house quieted down. Aunt Sassie’s door closed with a final bang. Babette found a comfortable corner on the foot of Sue’s bed, and save for the usual squeaks and noises of an old house settling down for the night, there was silence.

“Sue!” It was Biddie. “Are you scared?”

“Not exactly,” said Sue, “but I’ll be glad when morning comes!”

Sue felt perfectly dreadful. She couldn’t think what was wrong. There was a weight on her chest; her head ached; her skin was hot and dry. She was thirsty and she didn’t even want to open her eyes. Only once before had she felt like this and that was when she had the measles.

Opening one eye, she took a sleepy look at her arm. There was no rash. She shut her eye but the weight on her chest continued and she moved cautiously, for fear of waking Biddie. The weight was Babette’s paw! She was lying stretched out on the bed with a black paw thrown across Sue, as if in protection. Fretfully, Sue lifted the paw and scrabbled the poodle’s ears. A deep sigh of sleepy contentment was her reward.

But the movement fully wakened Sue and she soon realized what was wrong. It was the heat of the room, the closed windows and lack of air. She felt she couldn’t stand it another minute and carefully wriggled herself out of bed, without disturbing Biddie or Babette. Tiptoeing over to the window, she tried to release the lock quietly. It was too stiff to loosen without a noise.

But the door opened easily and she crept softly down the stairs. There was more air in the hall but not enough. She pulled back a corner of the living room curtain. Through the window, the lake was vivid blue in the early light . . . not a sign of a log anywhere . . . no rafts or boats or anything different from any other morning.

Quickly Sue stole back into the hall, and opened the door.

“Mercy me!” exclaimed Sue.

There was a man standing at the foot of the verandah steps, looking up at her. She stared at him, so scared she could hardly move. She didn’t know whether to scream and rouse the household, which would bring Aunt Sassie down, or tackle him herself. She took a second look. He was a little man, with big gray eyes and an unruly mop of black hair.

“Bon jour, petite,” he said in a thin, squeaky voice.

Sue took a quick, frightened breath. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name,” he replied, “she is Aristide Napoleon Hercule Charbonierre, but on the river they call me Blabbering Bill.” He smiled and saluted Sue with a gay wave of his hand. “I am a boss riverman,” he concluded proudly.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Sue retorted firmly. “You can’t be! All rivermen are giants and villains. You’re fooling me! Who are you and what are you doing on our island?”

“Just making a little cruise around the lake before the drive comes down,” the man answered. “I stop off here to have a look at things, that’s all. I mean no harm . . .”

“Don’t tell fibs,” said Sue. “Of course you mean harm.”

The little man picked up a blade of grass and began to chew it. He was a very little man, Sue thought, and yet not so little either. He wore a bright plaid shirt and his corduroy pants were tucked into red socks that matched the long knitted sash wound round his middle. But he had enormous shoulders and the hand that held the blade of grass was strong, with powerful fingers and a thick wrist. Sue quaked a little as she looked at that wrist and remembered how Aunt Sassie had said that a riverman could crush you with one hand.

Sue partially closed the door and then, before it was quite shut, took another peak. His dark hair and moustache were thick and tousled and there were sun wrinkles around his eyes. He hadn’t shaved for several days. Sue felt he must be fiercer and stronger than he looked . . . yet in all her life she had never heard such a silly voice.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked again.

“On the river they call me Blabbering Bill.”

“How’d you get here?”

“In my little bateau,” he answered. “I am just looking for some place to snub the booms when the drive comes down.”

“Go away,” Sue ordered. “Go away at once! Aunt Sassie won’t let you snub your old boom to her island. She’ll be very, very angry.” The little man took his foot off the step and stood there, hesitating. “If you don’t go, I’ll call the men of the house,” Sue warned.

“If that’s what you say, all right, but when can I come back?”

Sue shook her red curls violently. “Never,” she cried.

Blabbering Bill’s eyes widened. “Never?” he repeated. “That is one very, very long time! And what will I do about my booms?”

Just at that moment Sue heard a whispering call behind her.

“Sue!”

It was Biddie, standing on the stairs. She was clutching her dressing gown around her with one hand, while she held Babette with the other.

“Is it the rivermen?” she asked, her brown eyes wide with fright. Sue nodded and Biddie disappeared into the boys’ wing. Sue’s teeth were chattering. It hadn’t been so bad while she’d been alone but now, waiting for the boys and staring at the little man, all the dreadful things Aunt Sassie had told her about the rivermen came back to her.

There was a muffled commotion behind her. The boys were coming down the stairs, eyes bright with excitement, while after them the girls followed in a huddled group.

Consy grabbed Sue by the shoulder and pushed her aside. Don swung the door wide open and he and Little Chief marched out on the verandah.

“What are you doing here?” Don asked sharply.

“Just cruising around, my friend. That’s all.”

“Cruising for what?”

“A good place to snub the booms. That’s all.”

“Well, you can’t snub any booms to our trees,” said Don. “Four Winds Island belongs to Miss Devereaux and she doesn’t want any rivermen on it.”

The little man nodded. “That’s what I been told already.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” broke in Consy.

“I thought maybe you change your mind,” replied Bill, hopefully. “My young friend there,” he nodded towards Sue, “thinks we are a bad lot. We rivermen are tough, but not bad. Oh, no!”

“What’s your name?” demanded Consy.

“On the river they call me Blabbering Bill.”

“Blabbering Bill!” repeated Consy. “Suffering cats, what a name!” He looked down at the little man with the squeaky voice and started to chuckle.

“Where did you ever get such a name?” asked Timmie.

The riverman shrugged. “I don’t know. They just always call me that!”

“What . . . what makes your voice squeak?” asked Biddie.

He shrugged again and smiled. “I don’t know that either,” he said. “I just always speak like that.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” asked Biddie.

The little man shook his head rapidly. “A little thing like that hurt Aristide Charbonierre, the boss man on the river? Nothing ever hurt me. Why, I can take a big fellow and throw him over my shoulder like this . . . so!”

He made a motion as if tossing a bag away and then squared his shoulders and hardened the muscles in his arms. They could all see the plaid shirt bulge.

“Feel!” he demanded.

Consy and Little Chief felt. “Like iron,” said Little Chief.

“You’re right, my friend,” exclaimed Blabbering Bill. “I am strong like the ox but I am one good fellow who would hurt nobody. Perhaps you change your mind, eh? Perhaps you let me snub the boom to your island, eh? We got the biggest drive in ten year this time.”

He was a pleasant little fellow, Sue began to see, and anxious to be friendly, but Don shook his head.

“It’s no use,” he said. “My aunt’s death on all rivermen and she wouldn’t allow it for a minute. I’d advise you to forget about it and look for another place.”

“But there is no other place,” explained Aristide, patiently.

“I’m sorry,” said Don, “but you can’t use this island.”

“Maybe I could talk to your aunt, Madame Devereaux.”

Don shook his head again. “She’s not awake yet and anyway, it wouldn’t do you any good. If you want my advice, you won’t even try to see her.”

Blabbering Bill looked down at his calked rivermen’s boots. He seemed unhappy and disappointed. Sue began to feel sorry for him and wished there was some way they could be friends without bringing up the question of the booms. It might be a good thing to have a friend among the rivermen when the drive reached Lac de Lune. She wondered how she could make him stay a little longer. There were so many things she wanted to ask about.

Just then Timmie moved forward. “Show me your muscle again?” he asked. Blabbering Bill smiled with pleasure, drew in a great breath, swelled out his chest and flexed his arms. One by one they felt his muscle. There were so many of them and they took so long about it that the little man was almost exhausted from holding his breath when the last one was through.

“You’d better sit down and rest,” said Little Chief quietly. Blabbering Bill nodded gratefully and Biddie sat down on the step beside him.

“When will the logs come down?” she asked.

The riverman shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe this week, maybe next. They’re still away up the river, twenty-five mile from Lac de Lune.”

“Is it true you all eat sawdust?” asked Nancy.

“Why aren’t you a giant?” asked Sec.

“Are rivermen really murderers?” asked Biddie.

Blabbering Bill looked surprised, confused, bewildered and astonished all in turn and then, to the horror of them all, put his horny hands over his eyes and began to weep. At least it seemed like weeping, for the biggest tears any of them had ever seen, giants’ tears, trickled through his fingers.

“Don’t cry, Blabbering Bill,” said Biddie quickly. “Please don’t cry. We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. We were just asking you . . . we’ve never met a riverman before but we’d been told such frightful things about you. We didn’t know. . . .”

They all crowded around the little man, everyone embarrassed by his apparent grief. His two hands covered his face and his shoulders were bowed and shaking. But Sue looked at him suspiciously. When anyone shook like that, they sobbed out loud. And Blabbering Bill wasn’t making a sound; he was just shaking. She looked at Little Chief. He, too, seemed suspicious of what was happening. Sue stepped nearer to the figure on the steps. There was one sure way to scatter a crowd quickly. Leaning over beside the riverman, she cried suddenly, “Look out! There’s a skunk.”

Bill’s hands came down like a flash. “Skonk?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t have heard aright. But in that moment they saw that his tears had come from laughter . . . that he had been laughing at them all the time his face was covered.

“You’ve been spoofing us,” said Sue severely.

“You make a joke on me, too,” he answered quickly. “Show me that skonk, I fix him.” He tugged at his moustache and rolled his eyes and pretended to look very fierce. But it was no good and they all laughed together.

“What for you try to make big fun of poor riverman?” he asked. “For why should you believe I eat sawdust? For why you think I want to murder people? For why should you believe such things?”

Sec leaned forward. “What I want to know is, do you really shave with an axe?”

“He doesn’t shave at all,” said Sue nastily. “He hasn’t shaved for days.”

A door closed somewhere in the house. The girls hurried inside. It was Rose-Marie-Ange, they knew, and if she saw Blabbering Bill before they could warn her, her screams would rouse Aunt Sassie, and by now they were not at all sure but that Blabbering Bill wasn’t going to bring them more fun than danger.

Rose-Marie-Ange was all the way downstairs when they grabbed her and half smothered her with a hammock cushion while they told her the story.

“Oh, la, la!” she gasped. “What dreadful thing is this? A riverman in the house and all of you little ones exposed to danger while I sleep? Show me the monster!”

Still holding her, they let her look through the crack in the door at Blabbering Bill. “That a riverman?” demanded Rose-Marie-Ange. “You are joking. He’s nothing but a shrimp.”

“Hush!” warned Sue. “He might hear you!”

“What of it?” retorted Rose-Marie-Ange. “Do you think I am one to be afraid of a shrimp?” Her eyes flashed.

“Wait!” said Sue. “Wait till you see what kind of a shrimp he is!” She went back to the verandah. “Won’t you please show us your muscles again?” she asked. Blabbering Bill seemed the least bit surprised but obligingly swelled up again like a brave pouter pigeon.

“Voilà!” he cried, this time more careful of his breath. There was a little squeal from the hall . . . the sound of feet hurrying away . . . but Sue stayed on, for the little man began to tell them of other rivermen.

“Some are big,” he said, “sure enough. But bigness is not the thing. It is quickness that counts most. When you ride logs in white water you must be swift like the wind; jump like the jack rabbit, and be afraid of nothing. These things are most necessaire and they are for the little one, as well as the big one.

“You should see me with my cant hook roll those logs.” He made a clucking noise, full of pride. “You should see when I take a bully and throw him over my shoulder, just like that.” He went through the motions.

“Poof,” he said, dusting off his fingers. “That is how Blabbering Bill takes care of anyone that gives him the bad eye. On all the river,” he added modestly, “I am the quickest, strongest man. . . .”

It was the strangest story. Here was this little man with the squeaky voice and the silly name, so strong and yet so shy, entertaining them with stories of the logging camps, of river driving, and riding the logs through white water and even down the chutes. There were many words Sue had never heard before and she wondered what they could mean.

“There’s bigger men than me, sure thing,” Bill was saying. “The most big man I ever see is our boss cook, Paul Guerin. He is of a size! And what a man!” Bill lowered his voice almost to a whisper and looked around the circle of attentive faces. “And what a cook! Nom de nom de nom!”

“You mean he’s good?” asked Don.

“Good?” Blabbering Bill rose and, one after the other, laid his hand on his heart, patted his tummy and rolled his eyes expressively. “Good?” he repeated. “My young friend, Paul Guerin is magnifique. Wait till the drive comes down and you taste his pies and cookies.”

“Bon jour, m’sieu,” a quiet, prissy sort of voice spoke behind them. It was Rose-Marie-Ange, standing in the doorway. She had on a fresh, frilled apron and a red bow in her hair that had not been there. Sue recalled, when she first came downstairs.

Blabbering Bill jumped to his feet and turned around. “Bon jour, mam’zelle,” he replied, with a sweeping bow.

“Come children,” Rose-Marie-Ange continued. “Your breakfast is ready!” She fluttered her eyelashes at Blabbering Bill and spoke directly to him. “And you, m’sieu, can I offer you a cup of coffee? I fear it will not be as fine as Paul Guerin’s . . .”

The little riverman was already trotting up the steps and rolling his eyes at Rose-Marie-Ange. “Merci! Merci!” he cried.

“Sh! You must all come quietly,” she warned. “Madame Devereaux is still sleeping.”

“Are you sure she isn’t dead?” asked Timmie. “She hasn’t smothered from lack of air, has she?”

“Not at all,” Rose-Marie-Ange answered primly. “I have permitted myself to look in upon Madame and she is snoring beautifully!”

They were all impressed by Rose-Marie-Ange when they reached the kitchen. Usually she was full of fun and ate her breakfast with them—great bowls of porridge and heaps of buttered toast—but this morning she refused everything but a small cup of coffee, which she sipped with eyes cast down demurely.

“She makes me tired,” whispered Don. “Look at the sheep’s eyes she’s making at Blabbering Bill. He’s as good as lost already.”

“Never mind,” said Sue. “We can use him to make her fiancé jealous. When he hears about Blabbering Bill being here, he’ll set their wedding day and I simply love weddings. Cake and ice cream and sweets! And anyway, Don,” she continued, “I want to find out a lot of things about this lumber drive. Let’s keep him as long as we can!”

It was an exciting breakfast party. Blabbering Bill kept on talking. Rose-Marie-Ange forgot all about Aunt Sassie’s morning tea. And Pearlie-Baby crawled downstairs and kicked open the kitchen door by herself and was so full of chuckles at her own cleverness that she never yelled once.

The drive of logs, Blabbering Bill explained, was the largest there had been in ten years. “And when she hits here,” he promised, “you’ll see so many logs in Lac de Lune that there won’t be open water anywhere you look. That is, inside the booms,” he added.

Bill told them about the company he worked for, the Bains, who were amongst the oldest lumber firms on the Ottawa River. They had bought the timber rights from the government and had “cut over” a great tract of forest during the preceding winter. This was a bit confusing to Sue but Blabbering Bill explained that to “cut over” a pine forest was to cut down all the trees of value and saw them into logs, twelve or sixteen feet long.

When the logs were cut the proper lengths, they were hauled down to the frozen rivers and “skidded” in huge piles on the ice. And then when spring came and the lakes and rivers thawed, the logs all tumbled into the water and the drive began, with hundreds of thousands of sticks of timber racing down the river and through the lakes to the mighty Ottawa, two hundred and fifty miles from the headwaters where the cut was made.

“But what do you do, Blabbering Bill?” asked Sue.

“Yes, where do you come in?” said Angus. “You’re not the river boss, are you?”

“He said he was, didn’t he?” piped up Biddie.

The little man shook his head. “Oh, no! I said I was a boss riverman. That’s not the same thing as river boss. River boss, he’s the head man. Me . . . !” He swelled out his chest and beamed at Rose-Marie-Ange. “No one can beat me in white water or on the drive. Just now,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I am sent on ahead to fix the booms in Lac de Lune before the logs come down!”

Sue could contain herself no longer. “What are booms,” she exclaimed, “and why do you have to put them in Lac de Lune?”

“A boom?” he said. “Let me tell you. First we cut down the biggest trees we can find and square them with the broad axe. These are what we call boom sticks. In the ends we bore holes about three inches round and run a heavy chain through each hole to the next boom stick, until we have a long chain of logs. That’s what we call the boom. These booms we tie across the mouth of each bay, to keep the logs from escaping from the main drive and getting lost.”

“I see,” said Consy. “Then what you really mean is that the booms are used as a sort of fence. They fence off all the water you don’t want logs to float into and make a straight channel down the centre of the lake. Is that it?”

Blabbering Bill smiled approvingly. “You have a good head,” he said. “You would make a fine riverman. Without the booms, we should lose half our drive. We should be hunting for logs for weeks perhaps, behind islands, in the bays . . . but with the booms, the drive moves right down the lake!”

He leaned forward. “And that is why I came here. We must string booms from this island to the mainland.” He looked around hopefully, but they all shook their heads.

“Our aunt will never allow it,” said Don firmly.

“No, no,” murmured Rose-Marie-Ange. “Madame Devereaux would never permit such a thing!” She sighed so mournfully everyone realized that had it not been for Madame Devereaux’s dislike of rivermen, Rose-Marie-Ange would have given them the full freedom of Four Winds.

“Rose-Marie-Ange is a sissy,” Sue said to herself, but out loud she asked Blabbering Bill another question. “Tell us truly,” she said, “when will the log drive reach Lac de Lune?”

The little man smiled. “Only le bon Dieu knows for sure,” he said. “Maybe four, five days, maybe not till next week. If the wind she is right, the logs will move fast. If she blows the other way, they don’t move at all.”

He rose and looked sadly at Rose-Marie-Ange. “I hope the wind blow big quick, for then I shall be back soon.”

“But you will come back?” asked Sue. There were so many more things she wanted to know about, so many strange new exciting words to be explained: white water and log chutes, skidways and squared timbers, rafting and branding irons . . .

They all followed Blabbering Bill down to the wharf where his bateau was tied . . . a small, flat-bottomed boat, with a square stern and short oars. He stepped into it lightly.

“Au revoir, till the wind blows fair,” he cried and with a smile and wave of his hand pushed the bateau off into the lake.

“Au revoir,” they all cried together. “Come back soon!”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he called. “You are most kind and I hope you will bring your good aunt to change her mind. It will save trouble, so much trouble for all of us.”

“Trouble?” repeated Sue, as the small boat disappeared around the point. “What kind of trouble?”

“All kinds of it,” exclaimed Consy. “They’re going to snub their booms to this island, no matter what Aunt Sassie says.”

“I’m sure Blabbering Bill wouldn’t do anything so mean,” said Nancy indignantly.

“It’s not Blabbering Bill we need worry over,” said Little Chief slowly. “He’s just one of the hands. The river boss is the fellow to look out for!”

“But what could happen?” Sue asked.

“All kinds of things,” said Don. “Aunt Sassie hates the rivermen and everything to do with lumbering. And when she hears that they want to snub their booms to the island, she’ll go on the rampage and just won’t there be ructions. Aunt Sassie can be a tartar when she wants to be!”

“But why does she hate rivermen so much?” persisted Sue.

“It’s a long story,” Don answered, “but Grandpapa Devereaux was rooked pretty badly in a lumbering deal. Aunt Sassie remembers all the trouble he had and hates the lumbermen because of it.”

“It is hard to forget an injury to the old,” said Little Chief, “but I have a feeling that we are in for trouble and I think Blabbering Bill fears it, too!”

“Can’t we do anything to stop it?” asked Sue.

Little Chief shook his head. “Not a thing, Little Golden Hawk, except wait and see what happens!”

The alarm clock went off with a fuzzy bang. Sue staggered sleepily out of bed. It was her week to rouse the sleepers. It had been rather fun at first, especially the day Consy went back to sleep again and she and Sec poured water on his head, but Rose-Marie-Ange made such a fuss about the wet linen that she hadn’t dared try that trick again. And the morning she tickled Timmie’s nose with a feather had ended in his chasing her down the stairs. Sue forgot the rule of silence then and shrieked at the top of her voice. That was a bad moment, for Aunt Sassie opened her door and stuck her head out, all covered with curl papers, and sent them back to bed. That was the morning they had to go without the early swim . . . and the day that Aunt Sassie had been so cranky.

Rose-Marie-Ange told them not to worry, that Madame Devereaux was more annoyed at being caught in curl papers than at finding them up so early.

“Madame Devereaux likes to think that her hair is naturally curly like Miss Sue’s,” she explained. “That is why no one ever enters her room, except myself, until she has made her toilet . . . and it does not please her to be discovered en déshabillé.”

All the same, Aunt Sassie had been very trying throughout the day. She produced a box of darning cotton and made the girls sew on all their buttons and mend their own and the boys’ stockings . . . and all the time lectured them on how lucky they were to have parents who gave them such beautiful stockings which they plainly didn’t appreciate or they wouldn’t tear them so outrageously.

Supper had been trying, too. They had nothing but bread and butter and stewed fruit and a boiled egg . . . and a boiled egg went nowhere at all when you were hungry. It just got lost in your tummy. But Aunt Sassie said it was enough and lectured them on the many sacrifices their dear fathers and mothers were making to keep them there at all.

The twins were quite grouchy over it. “Our dear parents aren’t making any great sacrifices,” Angus growled. “They’re seeing Paris and having a good time and I’ll bet they’re not eating stewed apricots for supper.”

“That’s the way all parents talk,” said Nancy hotly. “You’d think they did nothing but worry over us and I know positively that Mummy spends a lot of time having her hair done and fussing with her clothes.”

“Yes,” Sec added gloomily, “and you’d think by the way Aunt Sassie talks that it’s our fault that Miss Julie Zotique isn’t giving as much milk. As if we’re to blame because she only gave four quarts of milk tonight, instead of eight. She just wouldn’t let down any more milk, even when Sue milked her.”

“Let’s go away for a day,” said Angus. “Let’s go and pick berries and stay away until Aunt Sassie misses us.”

But when they spoke to Aunt Sassie about it, she raised every possible objection. There were the chores to do, the cow to milk, the mail to get, the boats to clean, the hens to feed. “Sing-Birdie-Sing” had to have her cage cleaned early, the dogs would bark if they were away all day. No, they could not go!

But Angus had a way with him. Long and patiently he argued. “If we go away all day,” he said, “we could manage two things at once. First, Sue and Little Chief have never seen the log chutes and we could take them down there and let them see them before the drive comes. Second, if we go down to the chutes we could catch enough fish for our two meals and bring you back enough for the two meals for the next day. All this would help out the housekeeping expenses, besides being good to eat.”

Aunt Sassie had merely set her thin lips together and refused to consider it. “A quiet day on the island,” she said, “will do you all good.”

“Don’t fret yourselves,” cautioned Rose-Marie-Ange, “but try and get all your chores done before supper tonight and then we’ll see what we will see.”

Aunt Sassie had been just like a snapping turtle at supper, but Angus came to the rescue again. “Let’s have a sing-song,” he whispered. “She always melts a bit with a sing-song.”

They began with the Canadian Boat Song and followed with My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean. There wasn’t a sign of Aunt Sassie melting. They tried The Maple Leaf Forever. Nothing happened. Sec went into the living room then and a few moments later the notes of Where, Oh Where, Is My Little Dog Gone? wheezed out of the organ. Sue couldn’t believe her ears. It was out of time and halting and surely in the wrong key. Aunt Sassie stood it for a few bars and then stalked into the living room.

“If you must play, Francesca,” she said, “I wish you would play correctly.” And almost before Sec could slide off the organ bench, Aunt Sassie was on it. They sang lustily then for half an hour, until, as Don said, she began to “soften up” and finally suggested that if Rose-Marie-Ange wouldn’t mind them in the kitchen, they could pack a “cook-out” picnic basket, so that they could get away early the next morning.

“She’s so grand about it,” whispered Angus, “you’d think she planned it all herself. And what’s more, she didn’t say one word about taking Pearlie-Baby.”

Rose-Marie-Ange helped, the alarm clock was set for five o’clock, and after many good nights and “Thank you, dear Aunt Sassie’s,” the house settled down to a victorious rest.

Sue put the alarm clock under her pillow so that it should waken her. It always made her feel as if her head was being blown to bits when it went off, but it did waken her!

Sleepily she called them all, one after the other, and then poked her way down the path to the wharf. It was always so easy to plan getting up early the night before and so trying in the morning.

And then suddenly she saw it, bumping idly against the wharf: a big brown log, flat on both sides and riding like a cork on the water.

“It’s come,” said Sue. “It’s come at last!” and rushed back up the path to call Don. He was just leaving his room, his eyes only half open.

“There’s a log,” she cried. “A big log at the wharf. The rivermen must be coming!” Everyone tumbled quickly out of bed then and followed her down to the lake.

“That’s not a log,” said Don. “That’s a boom stick! Look at the holes in either end.” He showed them where the branding iron had been used on the butt of the log, to stamp into it the letters B-B. “That stands for Bain Brothers,” he explained. “It’s the Bains who are bringing down the drive. All logs are branded with the owners’ initials. There is no trouble, then, in proving ownership, if two drives should get mixed up.”

He dived into the lake as he spoke and came up to straddle the log. One after another they followed until all of them sat there, too, and by paddling with their feet moved the big stick of timber out into the lake. One after the other they stood up on its broad surface. To Sue’s wonderment, it still didn’t sink.

“It’s like a boat,” she said, “a very strong boat.” But the boys had more to show her. They could run along its broad, smooth surface for about twenty-four feet, and then dive off. They could even chase each other along it, but Sue wanted to know where it came from and why it was floating there.

“It’s a sure sign that they are making the booms towards the head of the lake,” said Angus. “This log got away from them, probably at night, and they haven’t bothered picking it up. It means the drive is getting nearer.”

Sue looked up the lake, still misty in the morning light. “Must we go to the chutes?” she asked. “Couldn’t we find bass on the way up the lake? We might see the booms!”

It seemed a good idea and they took a vote on it. There was no doubt but that they were all in favor of going up the lake.

Don and Little Chief slipped a rope through the hole in the end of the boom stick and towed it in towards the wharf.

“We’ll tie it up,” said Don, “so it won’t get away. Sue has got to learn to run a boom.”

In the shortest possible time they made their beds, and in their oldest and strongest clothes were in the canoes, three to a canoe. There was a little breeze, even at that early hour, and they fairly skimmed over the water.

There were shoals off island points where they fished, and for breakfast they had black bass, caught by Sue and Timmie. Sue’s was a beauty, three and a half pounds. They cooked their fish in bacon fat, and toasted bread on the end of long green forked sticks. They made coffee, too, which at first none of them liked. It was a bit weak and the presence of a few chips and bits of birch bark gave it a bitter taste, but condensed cream made it sweet and syrupy. They finished off with blackberries which Biddie and Sec had picked in birch bark cups while the boys were building the fire.

Afterwards the girls scrubbed the dishes and pans with moss and sand and rinsed them in the lake, while the boys doused the fire with pails of water and raked the stones apart so that no live coals should be left.

They lay back then on the white sand and listened to the lap of the water and the wind in the trees, waiting for the hour to pass before they could go swimming again.

Sue’s heart sang. This was the perfect life. This was the perfect country. Only in Canada could one find such strong, keen air, such blue waters, such gentle winds, such pines. Only in Canada could there always be fresh adventures. Today she would see a boom. Tomorrow she would see a lumber drive; the next day there would be something else, she knew. She dug her heels in the soft white sand. Above her a warbler spilled its silver song.

Timmie sat up suddenly. “Did you hear anything?” he asked. They all listened. “I hear men’s voices,” he said, “and I think I hear a launch.”

He was right. There were men’s voices, very faint and coming from behind the nearby island. Hastily they repacked the canoes and set off. They really hadn’t very far to go before they saw the launch coming around the point towards them. It was full of men and behind it trailed a long string of boom sticks. In the bow of the launch sat Blabbering Bill.

“Bon jour, bon jour,” he cried. “Comment ça va?”

“Bon jour, bon jour,” the men echoed, their deep habitant voices full of friendly warmth.

“What brings you here so early?” shouted Blabbering Bill across the water.

“Booms,” Sue shouted back. “I want to see a boom!” This seemed to amuse the men in the boat very much, but Blabbering Bill slowed the engine of the launch and pointed to the long string of boom timbers they were towing behind them. The timbers were hitched to each other with heavy iron chains.

“Is that all a boom is?” Sue asked in disappointed tones. She didn’t know what she had really expected, but certainly nothing as simple as a string of logs. Blabbering Bill smiled as if he understood. “It’s not what a boom looks like that counts,” he said, “but what she does. Look you, we are going to run this boom across the mouth of the next bay. Come with me and we shall show you!”

Slowly the launch picked up speed and pushed on through the water. Slowly the three canoes paddled alongside.

There were nine men in the launch with Blabbering Bill. Sue liked their shirts of strong red, blue and yellow plaids, their tousled heads and bright eyes. She liked their brown, strong arms, the red sashes tied around their waists, and most of all she liked their deep voices and easy laughter. She couldn’t understand their French, except for a few words now and then; and they couldn’t understand her French, even though she had been considered “excellent in languages” at school. Don told her later that you had to live in Quebec a long time to understand the habitant tongue. But they all spoke the language of friendship and good will and they all loved the smiling morning.

But that was before they reached the bay. Then the smiles disappeared and the men stood up in the boat. Aunt Sassie had been right in one thing about the rivermen. Some of them were giants. Lean and strong and tall they stood, waiting for the launch to drift into the point of land and then, at a shout from Blabbering Bill, they sprang from the bow to the shore.

Three of them ran back through the shallow beach water and jumped on the boom to slow its speed; a fourth loosened the boom chain from the launch and passed it to those on the shore who “snubbed” it round a tall pine. They worked like lightning and shouted and tugged and grunted and rattled the chains and made a fine din and were back in the launch and away again before Sue was quite sure what had happened. But the three canoes followed quickly and watched the launch pick up the other end of the boom. It was a heavy thing to start moving; “like a mule and just as obstinate,” Blabbering Bill said. The men had to “gentle it along” and coax it before the long string of timbers could be towed to the opposite side of the bay where it, too, was tied to another huge pine.

Blabbering Bill explained that a boom must not be tied too tight nor yet too loose. “It must swing a little with the wind, it must take the waves easy, it must float like a leaf in calm weather and never strain at the snubbing post. If it does, it means a break in the boom. When that happens, we lose our logs, we lose our tempers, we lose our jobs.”

It was quite a speech, Sue thought, and Consy had been right. A boom was really a water fence, running from one side of the bay to the other.

“See you,” cried Blabbering Bill, “it is strong, it does not sink.” He jumped from the launch to a boom log and then ran swiftly along the boom never stopping until he reached the opposite side of the bay.

Not a log sank or swung out of line as he passed and, when he turned, he beckoned the other men and they, too, ran along the logs, their gay shirts a drift of color between the blue of the sky and the blue of the water; deep voices roaring their laughter to each other as they made merry for those in the canoes. And suddenly Sue knew it was a good thing to be very young, and to have men wishing you happiness and creating fun for you. She knew, too, that she was as safe with these rivermen as she would be with her own parents and she wished she might join in the race along the logs.

“Next time I shall birl for you,” Blabbering Bill promised, “but not today! I and my men must work and there is much to do. Every bay must be boomed,” he added. “Every bay . . . I hope Madame Devereaux will be kind and allow us to snub our booms to her island!”

Without waiting for an answer he was in the launch and away.

Timmie’s voice broke the silence.

“My father says,” he began . . .

“My father says,” the rest mimicked, but Timmie paid no attention.

“My father says that if you tie a chain too tightly around a tree, the bark is hurt. The bark is the skin of the tree and if you hurt the skin, you hurt the tree and if you hurt the tree it dies.”

“Who cares?” said Sue. “There are lots more.”

Timmie flew into a fine rage. “My father says that there won’t be lots more if stupid people go on ruining the forest and he says that all lumber men are stupid.”

“You sound like Aunt Sassie,” said Sec.

“That’s all right,” stormed Timmie. “I know what my father says!”

He reminded Sue of a little bantam cock she had seen once: bright-eyed, upright, and ready to fight anyone or anything at any time.

“And what’s more,” Timmie continued, “Aunt Sassie won’t give in to those rivermen, trouble or no trouble. She’s as stubborn as a moose!”

“How do you know a moose is stubborn?” asked Don, and an argument followed. Little Chief thought Timmie was right. Sec said nobody knew. Biddie had never seen a moose. Consy said all big things were stubborn. Angus agreed. “If you’re big enough to push things out of the way,” he said, “you can be as stubborn as you like. I’d like to be as big as an ox. I wouldn’t have to think then, I could just push!”

That started another argument. Which was strongest—an ox or a moose?

“I don’t know,” Nancy said impatiently, “and I don’t care either. Let’s go fish again. If we don’t bring plenty of bass home tonight, we won’t get a day like this again in a hurry.”

They paddled on up the lake, following the main channel between the islands, Don’s canoe in the lead. The shores grew rockier as they went on, and the trees scrubbier, but here and there a tall, weather-beaten pine stood like a sentinel beckoning them to the north.

They fished off a rocky shoal and the shining small mouth black bass were hauled in at an astonishing rate. Sue enjoyed every minute until they compared their catch on the beach and she found she had to clean her own fish.

“My goodness,” she said, “what a squiffy job! I don’t like it at all!”

“Don’t talk,” said Don. “Just hurry and get it over with.” He showed her how to wash and pack her fish between damp leaves and the slim rushes of wild flags. They had two large baskets of fish but none too many, for, as Angus pointed out, “We’ve two more meals to eat today and we promised Aunt Sassie enough fish for two meals tomorrow.”

By late noon they moved on in search of an island where there would be berries and a sandy beach. Every little while they could hear the clang of metal across the water. They wondered vaguely what it was and were just beginning to talk of dinner when the sound reached them again, sharp and very near. So near, in fact, that, rounding a point, they found a smithy set up on the shore of a rock-bound bay. At least it looked like a smithy, for there was a portable forge and a blacksmith, big, dark and smiling.

“Bon jour, bon jour,” he cried. “You come pay me a little visit?”

They drew up their canoes and got out. The blacksmith’s name was Joe Baptiste. “There is always one Joe Baptiste on every drive,” he said with a twinkle, “and I am that one!”

He showed them his smithy, which was roughly sheltered with a roof of light poles. Under this he kept the long iron rods he used in the business of making tools and mending them. Iron spikes were hammered into the poles that held up the roof and from them hung all manners of axes, saws, pike poles, and horseshoes. A board laid between two stumps served as a workbench and everything was in delightful confusion. Each of the children in turn worked the foot-bellows of the smithy and watched him heat the iron end of a pike pole until it was red hot and beat it into a sharp point before he plunged it into a tank of water. It seemed to be a dirty but exciting business. He showed them the tool called a peavey or cant hook. As Timmie said, it was a “spiked stick with a hook hanging on it.”

Joe Baptiste told them it was the riverman’s tool for rolling logs. “When the drive comes,” he promised, “you’ll see them used, plenty much.”

Sec smiled. “You have a lovely fireplace for cooking. May we stay here and cook our dinner?” Sec had such a pretty way of asking for things and was so gracious that she won people to her at once.

Joe Baptiste made a grand bow and tugged at his short beard with one hand and waved them towards the fireplace with the other.

It was perfect, sheltered from the wind by a high bank and built of four flat rocks with an iron grate over it. In no time they had fish cooking and were toasting bread, while Biddie picked berries into the crown of an old straw hat.

Just as the fish was ready, Joe Baptiste came across to them, holding in one hand an enormous heavy iron skillet. It was full of chopped potatoes. Smiling but silent, he placed it over the grill and waited. There was a delicious sizzling and soon, without warning, he picked up the skillet and tossed the potatoes like a pancake in the air, caught them and placed the pan back on the fire.

“Voilà!” he said, and with a wave went back to his forge.

Biddie heaped a plate with fish, two slices of buttered toast and a large helping of potatoes. Over her arm she hung a little basket of berries.

“Where are you going?” Timmie asked. She didn’t answer. She walked carefully towards Joe Baptiste. “For your dinner,” she said.

“Merci, ma p’tite,” he said in his deep voice. “Merci, merci!” as Biddie scampered back, they could hear him making deep sounds of approval in his throat.

No one knew which tasted the best. The potatoes were so crisp and brown and savory,—the fish so crisp and brown and sweet!

But afterwards, when they were lying out under the trees in drowsy silence, Sue brought up the perplexing question of Aunt Sassie and the rivermen.

“What are we going to do about them?” she asked. “They are all so nice, so polite and kind. They give us good things to eat and make fun for us, and if they do come to Four Winds, we shall look very rude if we turn them away. Besides, Aunt Sassie will have a fit when she discovers Blabbering Bill has been on the island. I think we’re in a pickle!”

They all agreed and Sue realized that the rest had been wondering about the very same thing.

Consy settled the matter. “Blabbering Bill will turn up on the island anyway,” he said. “Why not have him come as a friend of Rose-Marie-Ange? Aunt Sassie might like him and if she does, we could let her know later he was a riverman. We might change her whole way of thinking!”

Timmie shook his head like a wise old owl.

“She’ll never change,” he croaked. “I know her, but we can try it.”

They said goodbye to Joe Baptiste and started back up the lake. They wanted to find Blabbering Bill and tell him their plans to win over Aunt Sassie. Joe had made Biddie a little horseshoe which he gave her for good luck and told her to hang it with the prongs up so that her luck would never run out.

It took them some time to find Blabbering Bill but when they did he entered into the plot with delight.

“Why don’t you come tonight?” asked Sue, who always liked to get things under way.

He shook his head. “But, no! I shall need a certain preparation!” He fluffed up his moustache, laid his finger on one side of his nose and said, “I have a new shirt . . . all the way from Quebec City! And such a color! Blue, like the sky, with yellow bars, like gold, and a belt to hold up my pants, like an Englishman!”

Sue thought his own red sash was much prettier but she could see that a belt gave him a feeling of importance because it was different.

The sun was beginning to set when they beached their canoes for the last time on a tiny, fairy-like island near Four Winds. They didn’t want to go home until dark, for if they did, they would have to milk Miss Julie Zotique or play with Pearlie-Baby . . . so they swam and cooked their last meal and planned what they would do when the rivermen came.

The sun went down. A tiny crescent moon showed over the pine tops and the stars came out one after the other. The air was cool and somewhere a whip-poor-will sang its evening song. They floated out on the water for the last time. Behind them lay a perfect day. And then, as if to set a seal upon its perfection, a doe stole out upon the shore, beside her a baby fawn. Even in the half light they could see the anxious dark eyes of the mother, the shy curiosity of the fawn. The two drank hesitantly at first, then deeply, and disappeared into the woods.

It was the new moon, Rose-Marie-Ange said. It always brought the east wind and rain. It would rain for three days, she continued, and spoil her washing and make it difficult to get the milk. Not that that mattered any longer, for Miss Julie Zotique was rapidly giving less and less.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Sue.

“It is the flies,” Rose-Marie-Ange answered. “She is not a tough French Canadian cow. She is an English cow, a grand lady from Jersey, and she is not used to our woods or flies. When she first came she was homesick and used to cry at night. It made one’s heart ache to hear her . . . but just now it is the flies.”

“What can you do about it?” Consy asked.

“Only one thing!” said Rose-Marie-Ange. “You boil French Canadian Twist and take off the liquid and bathe her with it. It is not sweet to the nostrils, but neither is it sweet to the flies!”

French Canadian Twist, Sue found, was a kind of tobacco grown in Quebec. How to buy tobacco when all their pocket money for the week had already been spent was more than they could see. In fact, it was difficult to see anything, for the rain poured steadily, bending the boughs of the pines, flooding the paths and beating through the old roofs and chimneys until every pan in the house was set out to catch the leaks. There were dark clouds scudding overhead and white caps on the lake.

But when the boys came back from getting the mail, they brought two surprises. One was a full pail of milk and the other was a crisp dollar bill in Sue’s letter from her father.

Wrote Mr. Winston:

“That’s a good letter,” said Don. “Now, how’ll we spend that dollar?”

“On French Canadian Twist for Miss Julie Zotique,” said Rose-Marie-Ange promptly. “You see, today the rain has kept away the flies and she gives milk again for my Pearlie-Baby. It is worry and nothing else that keeps her from giving her milk. French Twist will stop all that!”

It rained the next day and the next. There was no sign of Blabbering Bill but then they knew he couldn’t wear his new shirt in such wretched weather, so they waited, sure that he would come.

Old Auguste had taken their dollar and brought back three pounds of French Canadian Twist. It was dark brown in color and twisted like a skein of wool. The boys boiled it over on the mainland in a big ten-quart pail and set it aside to cool. “We’ll not use it while the rain is here,” Don said. “We’ll wait until the flies come back.”

The fourth day broke clear and cool, the roofs stopped leaking and the strain of being well-behaved in close quarters ceased. It had been difficult staying in all day. The girls had played charades and “Old Maid”; made toffee in the kitchen; kneaded bread for Rose-Marie-Ange; told stories; tidied their rooms and top drawers, and mended, while the boys made queer boxes and stools out of old boards they found in the windmill. Yet the days had been long and Sue had never been so glad to see the sun.

They paddled up the lake in the morning. There was no sign of Blabbering Bill or his crew but they saw booms stretched everywhere. Behind the curtain of the rain, the rivermen had evidently been at work.

“Something will happen soon now,” said Little Chief. “The wind is blowing fair.”

Angus nodded. “And Rose-Marie-Ange didn’t take the kid curlers out of her hair this morning,” he said, “so it’s plain she’s expecting Blabbering Bill and wants to look her best tonight.”

The girls giggled. They thought Rose-Marie-Ange was so pretty with her hair smooth and shining, but when she twisted it up into corkscrew curls, she just looked queer.

They all left for the mainland early that afternoon, for there was a lot to be done over there. The cow shed had to be bedded freshly and they might pick some berries. They made no complaint at all when Aunt Sassie told them they must take Pearlie-Baby. They were too happy to see the sun again to find fault with anyone.

Miss Julie Zotique was waiting for them, mooing gently. The boys cleaned out the shed, put in a bed of fresh clover and hay and lit a smudge, just in case there were any flies inside. Meanwhile the girls strained the milk into fresh cans, stood them in the spring to cool, and rolled up their sleeves and started sponging the face and neck of Miss Julie Zotique with the liquid French Canadian Twist.

“Leaping lizards,” said Sue, “but this is awful! It is the squiffiest thing I ever touched and look at my hands!”

“Look at Miss Julie!” said Sec.

The Little Jersey’s pretty face was a spotted chocolate brown, out of which her dark eyes shone anxiously. Sue’s hands were just as brown. The tip of Sec’s nose and her chin were stained and the odor was frightful! But it almost seemed as if Miss Julie Zotique had met the brew before, she stood so quietly. The boys turned in to help and by the time they were through and had emptied the last of the liquid over her back no one would have recognized the pretty Jersey. She was a deep blackish brown, with patches of lighter color where the brew hadn’t been so thick, but not a fly was to be seen anywhere.

“She looks a bit moth-eaten,” said Consy, “but I think she’ll do. And is she ripe?” He sniffed and then rolled on the grass with laughter.

“She’s so high with that brew,” he said, “that we won’t be able to touch her milk for days and Aunt Sassie’ll be furious!”

“You don’t know a thing about milking,” flashed Sue, “and anyway Aunt Sassie’ll be furious about us long before she finds out about the milk.”

She was right. They all looked as if they, too, had been dipped in the French Canadian Twist. They had covered the Jersey so thoroughly and enthusiastically that they had also pretty well covered themselves.

They were deep in argument as how to remove the stains when they heard the rumble of a wagon.

“Auguste,” they cried, and all raced along the path to the corduroy road, Little Chief carrying Pearlie-Baby pickaback.

But it was not old Auguste. It was a team of big strong horses, pulling a wagon piled high with tools and tents, bales of straw and rolls of blankets. Men walked alongside of it, big, rough-looking men, some bearded, some unshaven. Far down the road, two other teams and more men followed. They pulled up at just about the same place Auguste did and all the men, save the drivers struck off through the woods.

Don talked to one of them and learned that these men belonged to a camp that was to be built on the point just opposite Four Winds.

“Won’t Aunt Sassie be in a wax?” Don said, for already there was the ring of axes in the woods. “They are clearing out the old tote road,” he added, “so that their supplies can go in by wagon.”

Another team came down the road. The wagon bore a forge and smithy tools and boxes of food. It, too, vanished into the thick pine woods. Save for the creaking of the wagons and the occasional whinny of a horse, there was no further sign of them.

Sue felt uneasy. The men were rough and somehow unlikeable; not at all like Blabbering Bill and his crew, or Joe Baptiste. They hadn’t a smile or a gay “Bon jour” among them. She felt that they would walk right over anything or anyone that got in their way.

Finally old Auguste arrived with the mailbags and parcels, and the children pushed off from the boat landing. The only cheerful person on the return trip was Pearlie-Baby, but, as Timmie said, she didn’t know the difference between a riverman and any other kind of a man and they did.

Aunt Sassie began her excited questioning before they actually reached the wharf. “What has happened? Where have you been? What have you done to yourselves?”

“Oh, mercy!” groaned Sec, “I’d forgotten how dirty we are.” Before they climbed out of the boat they told how they had applied the fly mixture and how much more comfortable Miss Zotique now felt. Aunt Sassie smiled her approval, but there was a formality about her that made them all wonder what else was coming. Before they left the wharf they knew.

“Which one of you has been smoking?” she asked.

“Smoking?” repeated Don. “None of us.”

“I should like to believe you,” Aunt Sassie answered, “but I have in my hand indisputable evidence that someone on this island has been purchasing tobacco!” She paused. “And it has not been Rose-Marie-Ange or myself!”

Out of her pocket she took a slip of paper and handed it to Don. It was the statement for the purchase of three pounds of tobacco. “I found this among the grocery bills!” she said.

Sec slipped an arm around Aunt Sassie’s thin shoulders. “It wasn’t us,” she said. “It’s Miss Julie Zotique that’s been using tobacco.”

Aunt Sassie wrinkled her nose like a bunny. “I think I see,” she said. “And if I don’t see, I can, at least, sniff!” She pinched her nose delicately.

They started to tell her about making the brew but half way through she held her nose again and ordered them all in for a swim. “I could not stand you sitting at the table for supper without your bathing first. It would not be healthy. I only hope Miss Zotique will not be ill!”

“Well, well,” said Angus, when they had changed into bathing suits. “Aunt Sassie beats all out-of-doors. She says that more than one swim a day is enervating . . . but when we’re squiffy, it is healthful to swim it off!”

“Let us buy a lot of tobacco,” suggested Biddie, “and cover ourselves every day, for this is really gor-je-goshus!” She turned a somersault in the water as she spoke and came up spouting happily.

In fresh clothes, they sat down to supper. Their hands were tobacco stained and Sec’s nose still wore a tip of brown, but they were, according to Aunt Sassie, “neat and sweet and clean,” and for once fairly silent. They were really wondering what would happen when the presence of the lumber camp across the bay was discovered.

There was a footstep on the verandah, followed by a polite cough.

“See who is outside, Donald,” Aunt Sassie asked, but before he could move, Rose-Marie-Ange interrupted.

“Pardon, Madame,” she said, “but that is my beau, my new friend. He has come to see me and walks along the verandah to the side door.”

“Run along,” Aunt Sassie said smiling. “The children and I will see to the dishes tonight!”

Rose-Marie-Ange settled the ribbon in her hair, gave a tug to her apron, and vanished.

“I had not heard of this beau before,” remarked Aunt Sassie, “but I am very glad he has appeared on the scene. Rose-Marie-Ange has been engaged to that wretched creature in Blue Sea too long. I am always afraid he may jilt her and that, of course, would spoil her chances of a good marriage. This new beau may bring him to time!”

“What’s jilt mean?” asked Biddie.

“When the man you’re engaged to throws you over,” said Aunt Sassie primly.

“I wouldn’t let Timmie jilt me,” exclaimed Biddie.

“Wait till you get the chance,” growled Timmie, “and pass the butter, please.”

“Gentlemen never jilt ladies,” said Aunt Sassie severely.

“Doesn’t jilting work both ways?” asked Consy, “Couldn’t a girl jilt a man?”

“A girl might,” replied Aunt Sassie, “but never a lady!”

“My mother says all that will change,” Sue interrupted, “that men and women will have equal rights when women have the vote.”

“There are some people who talk such nonsense,” sighed Aunt Sassie, “and your mother is so pretty, Sue, that anyone will listen to her . . . but votes won’t alter the fact that it will remain a social blemish for a lady to be jilted!”

“I can’t see that,” Consy argued. “If you get jilted, it’s because somebody’s made a mistake. I’d certainly jilt a girl I got tired of!”

“And what would you say to her?” Aunt Sassie asked tartly.

“I’d say to her, ‘Look here Miss Brown, I don’t think I like you any longer. I like Miss Jones better.’ ”

Even Aunt Sassie laughed at that, though she plainly disapproved of the turn the conversation had taken, and started them clearing away the dishes to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Rose-Marie-Ange, no sign of Blabbering Bill, but his little bateau was at the wharf. The children joined Aunt Sassie on the verandah and watched the sunset light fade and the stars come out. Don lit the hanging lamp in the hall and when he came back his eyes were shining.

“Rose-Marie-Ange is in the hall,” he said, “and wants to know if she may bring out her beau. She has something to tell you. May she come?”

Aunt Sassie nodded.

Rose-Marie-Ange made her appearance accompanied by Blabbering Bill. His shirt was all he had promised it would be. His socks were alternate red and white stripes, his hair had been trimmed and his moustache, the fluffy big moustache, was gone. In its place was a military moustache, with fierce waxed ends. He looked smaller than ever.

“Bon soir, Madame,” he said, and bowed grandly to them all in turn. Then Rose-Marie-Ange began.

Rapidly she told Aunt Sassie that Aristide Napoleon Hercule Charbonierre, called by some Blabbering Bill, was her good friend. Aunt Sassie’s good friend, the children’s good friend, everybody’s good friend . . . that he was a riverman, the best on the river in white water or running the logs; that the camp was being pitched on the mainland opposite Four Winds, that some of the men were already there.

Rose-Marie-Ange paused for breath and continued her tale. There was to be a cook house on a raft moored off the mainland, opposite Four Winds, but that no one need worry, for her cousin, one Paul Guerin, was cook and also six foot four and strong like an ox. He would protect them all. There was just one favor that her good friend, Blabbering Bill, had to ask. Might he present his case for himself?

Blabbering Bill bowed.

“Madame, if you please,” he began. “I should like to tie my boom from your island to the mainland on either side. It is necessary that our logs do not come into this big bay. If I may tie our booms for just a little while to your so beautiful island, it will save much time and trouble.”

He could wheedle the birds off the trees, thought Sue, but he couldn’t wheedle Aunt Sassie. She was polite, but firm, very firm.

“I will not allow any booms tied to my island,” she said, “and I will not allow any rivermen on it either.”

“But, Madame,” he protested, “I am a riverman!”

Aunt Sassie looked at him. “All rivermen are giants,” she said, “and though I do not wish to question your word, I do not find you a giant!”

“But, Madame, he is so strong,” broke in Rose-Marie-Ange.

“That will do,” said Aunt Sassie. “No booms may be tied to the island and no rivermen allowed on it. That is final!”

Blabbering Bill shrugged sorrowfully.

“As you wish, Madame!”

There was more talk, of course, and they learned that the logs were pouring down Burnt River into the lake and that it would be about a fortnight before the chutes below were opened to let them out.

“I see,” said Aunt Sassie slowly. “While the drive is going through, then, we shall have to remain on the island. I cannot possibly expose the children to the dangers of a lumber camp. And what am I to do with Miss Julie Zotique?” she asked. “Pearlie-Baby must have her milk . . . there is the mail to get, and orders . . . church . . .”

“Let us go,” broke in Don impatiently. “We’re not sugar. We won’t melt if we see a riverman!”

But the squeaky voice of Blabbering Bill interrupted. “If you will allow me, Madame,” he said, “I shall give myself the pleasure of transporting the milk and the mail to you each evening.” He cast a languishing glance at Rose-Marie-Ange. “In the morning, my good friend, Paul Guerin will do the same!”

“Paul Guerin is my cousin,” pleaded Rose-Marie-Ange. “He is very big, Madame, as I have told you, and he would be a protector for us and the children.”

Aunt Sassie rose. “Thank you and good night. I shall be happy to accept your offer and your protection as well. From what I know of rivermen, it may be needed.”

Blabbering Bill and Rose-Marie-Ange disappeared down the path to the wharf and Aunt Sassie issued instructions. But this time the children pleaded to leave their bedroom windows open at night. The dogs would rouse them if anyone came near the house, they said, and Rose-Marie-Ange’s cousin would be a further protection. Reluctantly, Aunt Sassie agreed.

Sue was glad to see the downstairs doors and windows locked. She didn’t think the lumbermen were the villains Aunt Sassie described, but she hadn’t liked the looks of those tall, hurrying men with the wagons. They hadn’t frightened her exactly but they made her uneasy. She felt they would never stop to help you, if you cut your foot or were carrying a heavy bag. They just wouldn’t even see you. Somehow Sue had thought all rivermen would be like Joe Baptiste or Blabbering Bill. It was a funny thing how Aunt Sassie always sounded fussy and silly and then turned out to be right almost all the time.

“Miss Sue, are you in bed, and is Babette with you?”

Rose-Marie-Ange was only a voice in the dark but the sound was comforting, reassuring. There was one thing more Sue wanted to know.

“When did Paul Guerin become your cousin?” she asked.

In the dark Sue could hear the little maid giggle. “In Quebec,” she said, “our families are so very large . . . sometimes nineteen, twenty, twenty-one children. And the children marry and they have children and before long everyone is all mixed up.” Rose-Marie-Ange paused. “This Paul Guerin now . . . he must be about my twentieth cousin, I think . . .”

Sue chuckled. “It must come in very handy to be able to find a cousin in every village.”

“Well,” exclaimed Rose-Marie-Ange, “you can judge for yourself, Miss Sue.”

The door closed softly, Babette heaved her final good-night sigh and Sue drifted off to sleep, wondering.

It was Timmie’s week to sweep the bathhouse but he had hardly gone down the path when he came running back again. Blabbering Bill was at the wharf and with him was the most enormous man Timmie had ever seen. He said he was the river boss and had come to see Aunt Sassie.

“What does he want with Aunt Sassie?” inquired Don.

“I didn’t ask him,” said Timmie. “He’s so big you wouldn’t ask him anything!”

That was enough. They all started off to the wharf to see what a river boss really looked like. He was enormous. Tall, broad-shouldered, with huge hands and feet, vivid blue eyes and flaming red hair. He spoke English with a strong accent and when he grew excited lapsed into his native habitant tongue. His name was Red Antoine and next to the agent he was the most important man on the drive. He repeated that he had come to see Madame Devereaux, that he had much business with her.

But back at the house Rose-Marie-Ange refused to rouse Aunt Sassie. “Tell those bold rivermen they can wait,” she said, “for I am not going to call Madame Devereaux until the usual time. She needs her rest. Who do those men think they are, coming at such an hour?”

But neither Blabbering Bill nor his friend minded waiting. They lit their pipes and stretched out on the wharf in the sun. Red Antoine had very little to say at first but when he found they were really curious about the drive, he answered questions readily and told them of how the logs came down the river before they spilled into the lake.

“Each log is like a person,” he said, “different from the other log. . . . Some are young and slim, but not many . . . some are crotched. . . . We don’t like those. . . . Some are easy logs and run down the river fast . . . some are stubborn logs and pile up and make a jam. . . . You can’t tell about logs. They are like people.” He filled his pipe and was silent.

Sec would be a young log, Sue thought, and Aunt Sassie a crotched one . . . Consy a stubborn log . . . but Little Chief’s voice broke in upon her thoughts.

“What does white water men mean?” he asked.

Red Antoine sat up. “What a droll fellow,” he said. “He does not know what white water means!”

“Neither do I!” exclaimed Sue. “Little Chief and Consy and I all come from the prairies and know nothing of lumbering and we want to learn!”

“We don’t know much either,” said Sec. “We’ve only seen small cuts come down the lake; cuts which pass in an afternoon. They’re exciting enough,” she continued, “but this will be the first real drive we’ve ever seen!”

Red Antoine nodded. “It is the first real drive that has been on Lac de Lune for ten years,” he said. “The first drive that is now coming out of Burnt River is not much of a drive. It will only fill half the lake, but the second, which comes down White River, will fill all the lake. You will see nothing but logs, everywhere.”

Sue looked up the lake, shimmering in the sunlight. It was difficult to think that there were that many logs in the world.

“And white water men,” Red Antoine continued, “are boss loggers, like my friend here.” He pointed to Blabbering Bill. “To be a white water man means you can ride the logs down a rapids and never miss your footing. It means you can jump like a cat from one log to the other. It means you can ride a soap bubble if you have to.”

“Do you think I could ride logs?” broke in Sue. It sounded like a thrilling occupation “. . . and what does white water mean?”

“White water means rapids; water that is running so fast that it is crested with white foam . . . and you can ride the logs if you wish—that is, if you can swim.”

“Like a fish,” said Sue.

“Then you can ride logs.”

Calked boots were used by all loggers, he told them, so that they would not slip when they sprang from one log to the next. And a calked boot was just an ordinary riverman’s boot with spikes in the soles.

“I’d like to know about a river jam,” said Consy. Red Antoine looked at him and then over to Little Chief. “You would both be good in a jam,” he said. “You are strong and quick, I can see. A jam is where all the logs pile up in a river and cannot move. There is always one log that becomes stuck first. This is called the king log. Against it the other logs pile until they stand up like jackstraws. The first thing we do in a jam is find the king log . . . that is some business. Oh, yes, my friends, some business, for when that log is moved, everything else tumbles quick like the wind! My friend here is the best king log man I know.”

Blabbering Bill smiled proudly and sharpened the waxed end of his moustache.

“Will we see a king log when you pass our island?” asked Biddie shyly.

“No, king logs are found only on rivers, or just where the lake pours into the chutes.”

“Chutes?” he answered Nancy next. “They are long wooden troughs through which the logs pour from the lake into the river and down and down and down until they reach the mill.”

“Tending out” was another expression they learned. It occurred at the bend of a river where the logs might pile up on the off shore. Men were stationed there with long poles to push off such logs, and so prevent a jam.

“But what does a river boss do?” asked Sue.

“Ah!” Red Antoine growled deeply in his throat. “The river boss is the head lad, the bull of the drive. He hires and fires the lumberjacks. He is top man. He is always the biggest, strongest man on the drive. I am river boss,” he added modestly.

“And who hires you?” asked Don.

“The company agent. He is boss over all and has to be a very smart man. This new one we have,” Red Antoine chuckled appreciatively, “even the logs are scared of him. Nom de chien, but he is a wild cat! For ten years we have not had a real drive on Lac de Lune. This year we have two!”

Red Antoine shook a big brown finger at them and lay back on the wharf. “I do not know when I have talked so much! I shall now sleep a little until Madame Devereaux will see me!” He took an old blue toque out of his pocket pulled it over his eyes and slept.

“Who will teach me to ride the logs?” whispered Sue.

“I will,” Blabbering Bill answered softly. “It is nothing to learn, nothing!”

Restlessly they waited, wondering what Aunt Sassie would say to Red Antoine, how soon they would learn to ride the logs, what would happen about the booms.

At last Rose-Marie-Ange waved to them from the verandah and Don went up. A few minutes later he came down with Aunt Sassie. Blabbering Bill shook his dozing friend and both stood up, re-arranged their red sashes and waited, looking very polite and very important.

“Bon jour,” said Aunt Sassie formally.

“Bon jour, bon jour, Madame,” the deep voice of the river boss answered.

“You wish to see me?” Aunt Sassie asked.

“Oui, Madame, it is about the booms! The logs are at the head of the lake now and we have boomed every bay but this one and we ask your kind permission to tie our booms to your island.”

Aunt Sassie shook her head. “Impossible!” she said.

Red Antoine took a long breath. It was plain to see that he was not used to pleading and even plainer that he wished to be friendly.

“May I explain, Madame, why it is so necessary that we tie booms to your island?”

“If you wish,” Aunt Sassie answered coldly, “but I warn you, it will not alter my decision. No booms were tied to this island in my grandfather’s time and they are not going to be tied now!”

“But, Madame, I implore you.”

Aunt Sassie shook her head. “I have a large family of children here on Four Winds and on that account I do not consider it safe to allow any rivermen on the island. They drink and swear and fight. If I allow them to tie their booms to my island, they will keep on coming back . . . and I shall not know one minute’s peace.”

“But, Madame, our logs!”

“I have no interest in your logs.”

Red Antoine made a gesture of despair and, turning to his companion, argued excitedly in his native habitant French.

Blabbering Bill coughed politely.

“See you, Madame Devereaux,” he said softly. “My friend here, Red Antoine, thinks he has not explained to you rightly what he means. He asks that I may explain again.”

“I know perfectly well what he means,” snapped Aunt Sassie, “and he knows what my answer is; but if it makes you feel any better to go over the ground again, I suppose I’ll have to let you go ahead.”

“Madame, you are so kind.” He took out of his pocket a stump of an old pencil and on the back of a bit of birch bark drew the island of Four Winds lying just inside the bay. From the island to the mainland on both sides he drew a thick black line. “This line,” he said, “represents the booms we would like to string across the entrance to the bay. It would only be for a short time, Madame.”

Aunt Sassie shook her head.

“There is no necessity of tying up to Four Winds,” she said. “You can string your booms from mainland to mainland.”

“True,” the little man replied. “But the boom would be so long, Madame, that it would break in a storm, and if it broke the bay would be filled with logs . . . a hundred thousand of them. It would cost much time and money to get them out, and the bay would be filled with rivermen, very noisy,” he added craftily, “very troublesome.”

Aunt Sassie shook her head. She was, as Timmie had said, as stubborn as a moose.

“It is a matter of complete indifference to me,” she said, “what happens to your logs. I will not have your booms tied to my island or your rivermen on it. That is final.”

Red Antoine spoke again. “But, Madame,” he protested. “You are not reasonable and our logs . . .”

“There is no need for further argument,” interrupted Aunt Sassie. “I have already made up my mind!”

She bade them good morning then and turned up the path to the house.

Red Antoine lowered his enormous height into the bateau. He was angry, they could see, but more worried than angry.

“What can I do?” he protested. “If a big wind comes the boom will break, and there will be much trouble! Well, we shall see what we shall see!” He and Blabbering Bill paddled away.

You never know what’s going to happen, thought Sue. They had hardly changed into their bathing suits before a launch appeared behind the mainland point. In it were Red Antoine and Blabbering Bill and three other rivermen. Behind them they towed a long boom which they strung across the mouth of the bay from one mainland point to the other. It almost touched Four Winds where it passed the island point.

The boys waded out to it and practiced running along from one boom stick to the other. All of them missed their footing now and then and took a header into the lake but they soon found that the only way to run them safely was to keep a steady pace. The girls followed and Don brought out a boat and rowed alongside for fear that Biddie would grow too tired, but as Nancy said, he “needn’t have bothered for she was the most surefooted of them all.”

The boys ran the full distance to the mainland and back but Sue fell off the boom sticks so often that they wouldn’t let her out of reach of the island.

“You can’t get the trick of this first go off,” Don warned. “It takes more than speed, it takes balance.”

“Pretend you’re riding a horse bareback,” said Little Chief. “If the boom sways, sway with it, the way you do with a pony!” It worked. Before the clean-up horn blew for mid-day dinner, Sue had managed to run ten boom sticks without falling off.

The afternoon brought the first real signs of the drive. A few logs came drifting down the lake. Aunt Sassie brought out her grandfather’s binoculars. Through them could be seen the mouth of Burnt River and a red brown mass of logs.

Before supper two launches pulled a raft into the bay. On the raft was a cabin with a tin stovepipe sticking through the roof. There was cord wood piled on the little deck and from within came much shouting and banging and the clatter of pots and pans. It was the cook house, Rose-Marie-Ange told the children, and the big man who was bellowing at the rivermen was her cousin, Paul Guerin.

“He is a very particular man,” she explained to Aunt Sassie. “Everything must be just right in his cook house.” After a time the launches left and peace and quiet lay upon the land and lake.

But not for long. Soon there was a mighty commotion on the mainland, more shouting and banging. It was Joe Baptiste, and even at that distance they could tell by his voice that he didn’t like the place where his forge had been set up. He moved it down to a little cove on the beach, so that when he used the foot-bellows a bright flame could be seen from Four Winds.

The creak of carts along the corduroy road was heard, too; the whinnying of horses and the arrival of the rivermen, shouting, fighting and wrestling along the shore. It was all very thrilling and exciting and a wee bit terrifying.

At supper time Aunt Sassie warned the children afresh about the rivermen. “Remember,” she said, “you are not to set foot on the mainland once while they are here. You will not even go to church on Sunday. Fortunately for us, the friends of Rose-Marie-Ange will bring us the milk for our darling Pearlie-Baby, as well as the mail and food orders. Without such help, we should be in a state of siege!”

“Yes, Aunt Sassie,” they chorused and went down to the wharf to watch for Blabbering Bill. At last he came, and in his bateau, along with the milk, the mail orders from Blue Sea and the mail, was an enormous man. Over his red checked shirt was a fresh white chef’s apron and on his dark thatch of hair sat a chef’s stiffly starched cap. “I am Paul Guerin,” he said proudly, “the best cook in the Quebec lumber camps. I have come to pay my respects to Madame Devereaux, so that she shall see for herself what manner of man milks Mam’zelle Julie Zotique.”

They all trooped up the path together and Aunt Sassie was as gracious as possible. She thanked both men for their help and assured them that she felt it would be perfectly safe to allow each or either of them on the island . . . but that she did not want anyone else. Everyone bowed to each other and Rose-Marie-Ange led the way down to the wharf again.

Paul Guerin gave a little sigh as he dropped into his bateau. “Ah,” he said, “my bones creak! I am getting old. I am twenty-seven. . . . You like cakes and pies, eh? Then come and visit me at my cook house and I will show you such pies as you have never seen before!”

Sue groaned. “Aunt Sassie says we can’t set foot on the mainland once while the camp is there!”

“So?” exclaimed Paul. “That is too bad! It is clear to see, then, that we must get around the old lady!”

“You can’t get around my aunt,” said Timmie. “She’s as smart as she can be!”

Paul shrugged. “Then one must be smarter. See you, you are forbidden the mainland. Good! But no one forbids you to come to my cook house? Am I right? Good! Then I shall arrange matters so that you come to my cook house and I shall have there the largest pie you have ever seen!”

“When?” they chorused.

“Tomorrow,” he answered, as he and Blabbering Bill rowed away. Soon all they could see of the camp was the firelight in the forge and the bobbing lanterns along the shore. The voices grew quieter and died away into silence. A loon called.

“Come, children,” cried Aunt Sassie.

“Why do the rivermen go to bed so early?” asked Biddie, as the boys locked the doors.

“Because they’re at work from dawn to dusk,” said Rose-Marie-Ange. “By the time you get up for your swim they will have been on the lake for hours.”

“I wonder how we shall get our pie?” Biddie continued, “and how Paul will get around Aunt Sassie?”

Sue wondered, too.

In the morning they took their early swim out by the boom, and by the time Don called “All out, all out,” even the girls could run the boom safely. It was only a question of balance, as Little Chief had said.

While they were changing their bathing suits they heard a voice calling across the water—a deep voice. . . .

“It’s Paul,” said Nancy. Hastily pulling on their bathrobes, they ran out on the wharf and there, coming across the bay in his bateau, was Paul Guerin, a jovial, smiling Paul. The white apron and chef’s cap were gone, but a blue checked apron over his red and white shirt still made a gay note of color. In the bow sat the two pails of milk and beside them a tin pie plate of cookies. And such cookies as were never seen before. Each one was the size of an ordinary plate, with pieces of raisins and dates sticking out of it.

“Cookies are good for breakfast,” said Paul. “I gave Mam’zelle Zotique one and she liked it, too!”

“How’s our pie?” asked Biddie.

“It is now cooking,” Paul answered cheerfully, “and such a pie!”

“How do we get it?” asked Sue.

“That is what I have to arrange,” said Paul. He put his head on one side. “See you, Madame your aunt forbids you to set foot on the mainland. We must all respect your aunt . . . but she has not said one word about forbidding you to set foot in my cook house.

“This morning I watched you on the boom. You can all run it now and you all swim. Tonight I shall run a small boom from the big boom to my cook house. Voilà! A road to my pie!

“Tomorrow I give you breakfast in my cook house.” He looked down at the empty pie plate. “You are hungry,” he said with a twinkle. “My cookies, they are gone.”

“Sure they’re gone,” said Don. “You know we’re just half starved here. . . .”

“That will do, Master Donald,” a sharp voice said. They turned and there was Rose-Marie-Ange in a pink checked gingham dress, her hair all smooth and shining and a flush on her cheeks that was not beet juice.

She turned to Paul. “These children,” she said, “they are no good, not one of them! They howl like hungry wolves all day. They eat as if they were starving. You can never fill them up. Pay no attention to them, Paul, for they are worthless!” She held out her hands. “Look at them,” she said, “worn out with cooking for them and then they cry they are starved! Believe them not. . . . They are greedy only . . . Monsters that they are!”

Rose-Marie-Ange was in a fine rage, but Paul soon calmed her down with a cookie-man with raisin eyes for Pearlie-Baby. He had a package of small cookies for her and for Madame, and he reported Mam’zelle Zotique in fine form.

Craftily, then, he suggested the new road to his cook house. Did Rose-Marie-Ange think it would do?

“Don’t ask me,” she answered with a toss of her head. “What I don’t know, I can’t tell about.”

“Who is looking after our pie?” asked Biddie anxiously. “You said it was cooking. It won’t burn, will it?”

Paul shrugged and laughed his deep, booming laugh.

“Oh, no,” he said, “my cookee is looking after it, and he knows I would kill him if it was burned!”

“Truly?” asked Biddie.

“Not quite truly,” Paul answered. “I do not kill, I just say I kill!” He looked at Biddie for a moment. “I talk too much, little one,” he said. “I blow my trumpet too much. But when I make a promise, I keep it. You shall have your pie!”

“What does your cookee do?” said Sue, “and what’s his name?”

“He is my chore boy. He cleans the vegetables, fires the stove, washes up and does anything I tell him, and his name is Dynamite Dave!”

“What a lovely name,” said Sue, and she and all the others repeated it several times. Dynamite Dave, Dynamite Dave, Dynamite Dave!

“I wish I had a nice name like that,” said Timmie wistfully, “instead of Timothy Andras Peebles McKay! Where did Dynamite Dave get his name?”

“In Ontario,” Paul answered scornfully. “He used to handle dynamite there in one of the railroad camps and he never could remember where he left the dynamite sticks, so they fired him. They were afraid he might blow up the men instead of the stumps!” Paul laughed long and loudly. “In Ontario,” he said, “they are droll people. They do not speak French and they cannot cook!”

A thin whistle sounded from the cook house. “That is Dynamite Dave,” said Paul. “I must go. It is his signal that the dough is rising.”

Rapidly he paddled away and with many waves and backward looks, Rose-Marie-Ange led them up to the house. There Don blew the rising horn and they all sat down to breakfast together.

“Which would you rather marry,” asked Biddie. “Blabbering Bill or Paul Guerin?”

“One does not marry one’s cousin,” Rose-Marie-Ange answered primly.

“I’m going to,” Biddie answered. “Timmie’s my cousin, fifth, sixth or seventh, I think, and I shall marry him whether he likes it or not!”

“You stop this marrying business,” said Timmie sharply. “I’m sick of it!”

“So am I,” snapped Rose-Marie-Ange.

“Still I shall marry you,” persisted Biddie.

Timmie boiled over. “Make her stop it, Sec,” he cried. “She just keeps on saying it over and over. I don’t want to marry her, I don’t want to marry anyone.” He threw his toast at Biddie and breakfast ended in a rough-and-tumble fight that spread from the kitchen to the windmill and back again to the house, where the girls made apple pie beds for the boys and discussed at length the subject of the drive.

It was a quiet day. So far as they could see, the only difference between it and any other day was the sight of the cook house, and beyond on the mainland point, the gleam of canvas under the trees. Now and then there was the sound of the anvil . . . that was all.

While they were at dinner there was a rich “Ho! Ho!” called from the wharf. Don went down to see what it was about and returned with an enormous apple and currant pie. It was very rich and very sticky, very sweet. The pastry was light and flaky, but the filling, Aunt Sassie said, was horrible. Rose-Marie-Ange said it was a lumberjack’s pie and made a face at it and refused to eat more than a mouthful, but to the rest of them it was as Paul had promised—magnifique!

All afternoon Aunt Sassie sat rocking on the verandah and towards mail time she came down to the wharf and watched the arrival of Blabbering Bill with the milk and the mail. Blabbering Bill carried the milk up to the house for Rose-Marie-Ange and Aunt Sassie gave a little sigh of relief.

“We are fortunate,” she said, “that Rose-Marie-Ange has such nice relatives near her . . . and that they are being so obliging. I have watched the camp all day and I have seen no signs of violence or, indeed, anyone about. I suppose it will be rowdy at night, but I have a feeling that we shall not be troubled.”

The rivermen returned towards sunset and there was the same shouting and wrestling and fighting, the same occasional song, the clang of metal, the clatter of dishes. About a dozen men arrived in bateaux which they tied up just off the cook house. And once again the camp went off to sleep before the Four Winds’ lights were out.

Little Chief wakened them early the next morning. They had been promised breakfast at the cook house, but the boys said they couldn’t go unless all the men had cleared away. There wasn’t a sound when the girls came downstairs, and as they started out along the boom they found it hard to keep their breath and their balance. All went well until they came to the junction of the two booms, when Angus fell in with such a splash that the big boom rocked and for a moment it looked as if they were all going in.

One by one, Paul welcomed them and congratulated them on their “safe voyage,” and then with a gesture of pride welcomed them into his kitchen.

The sheet-iron stove stood in the middle of the shack and was blazing hot. At one end two bunks, filled with hay and blankets, were built against the wall and down the sides were rough shelves laden with supplies. On the floor stood barrels and sacks, all of them bulging. The other end of the shack held a kitchen work table and shelves for the tin utensils, the cutlery and tools of cooking. Over the stove, hanging from the ceiling, were pots and pans. In front of the stove now was a trestle table with two benches drawn up beside it. Each place held a knife and fork and spoon, a tin plate and mug.

Paul’s deep voice boomed with delight. “For breakfast,” he said, “we have flapjacks, ham and beans, hot bread, jam and pickles, two kinds of pie and fried potatoes and tea. There is also a little pork if one should wish it . . . sow belly we call it, but most ladies do not relish it.”

He tucked a towel around his neck.

“What will you have, Mam’zelle?” He bowed to Sec. She smiled. Sec looked like a water lily, Sue thought, with her pale gold hair, white skin and dark green bathing suit as frail and lovely as the Lady of Shalott . . . but she answered in the greediest way, “I think I’d like a little of everything and I particularly like flapjacks.”

Paul’s deep voice roared with laughter. “You shall have them, Mam’zelle, and while I cook, you shall inspect my house.” There was a great bustling then around the stove, a banging of pots and frying pans, a scattering of salt and pepper, a sizzling when the ham struck the hot pan, a delicious odor of bannock browning in the oven. There was ketchup on the table and a great slab of strong salt butter. In the barrels there were pickles, and molasses, or black strap as Paul called it, and green tea and black and brown sugar, and flour, and pork in brine, and enormous tins of baking powder, and rice and sago, and tubs and tubs of dried fruit and raisins and currants.

Paul took a pail and threw into it a handful of green tea and a handful of black, filled it with cold water and placed it on the back of the stove. “That is the way,” he said, “to make good strong tea. You boil it up slowly. . . . You know what you’re drinking when you drink my tea!”

“Now, Mesdames, Messieurs!”

They sat down and the feast began. It was too wonderful . . . they could have ketchup on everything, pickles with everything . . . all the black strap they wanted, cookies with their ham, pie with their flapjacks; and Paul could throw a flapjack right from the stove onto your plate without spilling anything. Sue said no to the sow belly . . . and she didn’t like brown sugar in the tea, if it were tea! Whatever it was, she didn’t like it, but took it for fear of missing something she might never have again.

“More?” Paul would ask every few minutes and then again, “More?” But finally even Don and Consy said weakly, “Thank you, no more.”

“Ah ha!” Paul boomed. “I told my cousin, Rose-Marie-Ange,”—He closed one eye as he said the word cousin—“that I could fill you up and I have!” He thumped his chest. “I can fill up a lumberjack,” he said, “and a child is easy work after that!”

There was a creak of oars outside.

“It’s Dynamite Dave,” Paul said, “with the milk. What news of Mam’zelle Zotique?” he called.

Dynamite Dave was a big man, too, pale-faced, thin and mournful. Paul told them that he never smiled. “But then no one does in Ontario,” he said, “a province, I tell you, peopled by the Scotch and very sad!”

“We McKays are Scotch Canadians,” Don protested, “and we smile all the time and laugh a great deal, too!”

Paul waved his towel. “Yes, yes,” he said, “but that is only because you live in Montreal, in the Province of Quebec!”

He placed the milk in the bow of a bateau, gave Sec a cookie-man for Pearlie-Baby, and told the girls he would row them home. “You must be tired after eating so much,” he said, “and if you fell off the boom you might not be able to climb back again!” Each one of them groaned a little as they scrambled into the bateau. Bending was so difficult.

“As there is no one at the camp,” he said, “I shall row you over there, so that you may see what it looks like.”

It didn’t look very different from any other camp. Just a burnt scar on the beach where the fire was lit each night; and under the trees, weather-stained canvas tents with blankets flung carelessly over the loose hay and straw that served as mattresses. The men were up the lake, Paul explained, trying to move the logs.

“But what can they do?” he asked. “There is no wind, just hot sun! I don’t like it. It’s what Dynamite Dave calls a ‘weather breeder’. It’s the calm before the storm.”

He looked at Sec. “You don’t think you could persuade Madame, your aunt, to let us tie our booms to her island? If the wind comes, that long boom may break and the logs pile up here in this bay. It would be too bad!”

Sec shook her pretty head. “Aunt Sassie’s very firm,” she said, “but if we can do anything to help you, we will!”

The boys had walked home slowly along the boom and met the girls on the wharf as they arrived with Paul. All of them giggled weakly going up the path and passed the pails of milk from one to the other. As Sue told Rose Marie-Ange, they were F.R.U.T.B. or “Full Right Up To Busting.”

Rose-Marie-Ange pretended to be shocked at the use of such a vulgar expression, but they heard her repeating the letters every little while, F.R.U.T.B., as if she intended to use them herself. The chores were skimmed over as lightly as possible and the morning swim, under Aunt Sassie’s watchful eye, consisted largely of floating.

When dinner was served, Consy refused the meat loaf and vegetables with a polite, “No, thank you.”

“What!” Aunt Sassie cried. “Nothing to eat, Consy? Don’t you feel well?”

“Perfectly,” he answered hastily, “but I just don’t feel like any dinner today!”

Aunt Sassie put on her glasses. “You look rather pasty,” she exclaimed. “I wonder if I should give you a dose!”

She looked at the others. “You all seem heavy-eyed. Perhaps every one of you would be better with a dose, but I don’t believe I’ve enough in the house for all . . .” She paused. “On second thought, I shan’t give you a dose, but we’ll have milk toast for supper tonight. I know what is the matter, of course. It is that rich pie you had yesterday! A light meal tonight and early to bed and you’ll be as fit as fiddles in the morning!”

For once they were all in agreement with Aunt Sassie.

At first it seemed as if someone was moaning—a dull, full sound—and the room seemed filled with dancing figures and a faint gray light. Sue shut her eyes and opened them slowly again. Over in the corner where she had hung her clothes someone seemed to be waving at her. It was all very puzzling, yet somehow not frightening, and sleep seemed more important than shadowy figures and moans.

But the sound grew. And now it was a booming sound, like muffled thunder, and yet again not like thunder. This sound was steady; thunder only followed lightning. The pale light had faded until it was hard to see across the room, but in the corner someone still seemed to be beckoning to her. And now the sound was like a drum, steady, rolling, booming.

Sue listened anxiously. Something was happening that she had never known before. She wished she could reach Consy or Little Chief or the twins . . . even Timmie. A tiny light flickered across the ceiling, dappling it with pattern for a moment.

There was a whistling sound then and the wind came up suddenly. All light faded. There was nothing in the world save the shrieking of the wind, the thrashing of branches, the rattling of windows and doors, the banging of shutters. Wind, Sue understood. In her prairie days she had heard the wind howl and shriek its way across the plains the whole round of the year; but never had she heard a wind like this.

“I can’t stand it another minute,” she said and reached for the door. She could hardly open it and the way it banged after her frightened her still more. But no one else opened their doors. The house was dark and undisturbed. She crept across the landing to Consy’s room and called to him.

“Wake up,” she said. “Something dreadful’s happening! I think the house is going to blow down and there’s a queer sound back of the wind. . . . I’m scared!”

“It’s all right, Sue,” Consy’s voice was comforting. It made her feel safe. She heard Little Chief jump out of bed in the dark.

“What’s wrong, Little Golden Hawk?”

“It’s the noise back of the wind. I’m scared!”

Consy and Little Chief came out into the hall and Little Chief lit the lantern there. “Tell us what happened,” he said, and he and Consy listened while she told of her awakening and the pale light in her room, the figures that seemed to be beckoning to her.

“It’s the logs,” said Little Chief, “that’s what it is—and the wind has come up and they’ve called the men. The light, Sue, must have been the moon, and the figures, your curtains dancing in the wind. It’s nothing to be scared of.”

They crept downstairs together. The sound was growing. They pulled aside the curtains in the dining room and from there could see lights bobbing along the shore of the mainland.

“The men are up,” Consy said. “It’s a terrific wind-storm and it’s blowing this way!”

“Look!” Little Chief cried. “They’re down at the boom!” He was right. There were lights running along the boom, tiny flickers of light in a darkness deeper than Sue ever remembered. The old house shook with the fury of the wind. There was no rain, just wind. The sound grew nearer. Sue clutched the boys’ arms.

“It’s a terrible sound,” she said. “I feel as if it were going to roll over on me!”

“I know,” Little Chief answered, “but the sound is out-of-doors. Nothing will come in here to harm you, Sue.”

They stood waiting, not quite certain what they were waiting for, but waiting. The drumming sound was coming nearer. But the noise had awakened the others and one by one they came downstairs. Only Aunt Sassie and Pearlie-Baby remained undisturbed.

Suddenly a long finger of lightning flashed across the sky. In that moment they saw tossing, up-ended timbers out in the lake and then the boom broke and a great mass of logs burst into the bay. Some rode like jackstraws high above the mass of dark, rolling logs. The crashing and drumming seemed almost in the room now. Sue felt as if her heart would burst.

“The boom has gone,” said Consy, “and the gale is blowing the logs into our bay. Red Antoine was right. The big boom has brought trouble!”

There was another flash of lightning. Like a dark wall, the logs were moving into the bay. Sue shut her eyes. “Will it ever be light?” she asked, “and will the noise ever stop?”

No one answered her. The noise of the swift-moving logs was too great and now added to the thunderous booming was the creaking and grinding of timbers pounding hard against the shore. A couple of men, lanterns in hand, ran past the house. The tiny lights gave the children comfort for a moment and then left a darkness even darker and more frightening.

There was more lightning. They caught a glimpse of the wharf with logs and white water foaming up around it. Now and then they thought they heard men’s voices calling to each other. The limb of a giant pine crashed beside their window and once a bird, seeing their light, beat frantically against the pane. Little Chief flung his bathrobe over the lantern and the poor frightened thing flew on. But light came at last, pale and without the glory of sunrise; a misty half light that made familiar things seem strange, and the wind still blew.

“Let’s go out and see what’s happened!” said Consy.

The whole world seemed gray when the small group opened the back door and, in the lee of the house, battled their way around to the front verandah. The light was still so misty that they decided to make a trip down to the wharf. By putting a girl between each two boys, they made a human chain and started out. The wind blew so strongly that they gasped for breath and several times huddled together to rest. The path seemed strange, too, until they realized it was strewn with branches and pine cones. One young tree had been uprooted and a birch lay like a ghost on the dark, pine-needled ground.

There was no wharf. What had been a wharf was now a mass of groaning, creaking logs, some sticking out like straws in a bundle and showing their company markings on the butts, some moving up and down, as if in a gigantic churn.

The light grew. They could see across the bay now and the blue water was gone. In its place were thousands and thousands of logs, lying every-which-way, some floating straight up the bay, others pushing for the shore. The beaches were gone, too—no shining white sand—just logs, brown and glistening, strewn like matches along the shores.

The cook house was turned about and had moved a little from its anchorage; some of the tents were down and more and more logs kept sweeping into the bay.

As the light grew they could see the damage done on their own island: young trees uprooted, a couple of paddles broken off the windmill, shutters hanging loose, chairs overturned on the verandah.

Running along the shore of Four Winds and towards them, came some rivermen, pike poles in hand. At the wharf they set to work to move the sticks. Pushing, wrenching, heaving, twisting, they worked feverishly, and suddenly the mass gave way with a rush of tossing logs.

The wharf was gone, all but the timbers. The floor of wooden planking had been smashed as if it had been matchwood . . . nothing was left but the stout cedar piers.

The rivermen poled next at the logs against the bathhouse and boathouse and then disappeared down towards the point. Consy and Don followed them. One man had cut his arm and from him Don learned that they had all been sleeping when the wind rose. The logs had started to move then but all went well until the wind suddenly changed. This time it blew northeast and turned the drive towards the bay. The big boom held for a time. The men did everything they could to strengthen it, but it was no good. The log boom gave way and the drive broke through into the bay.

“Gales like this might blow a week,” said Don. “The rivermen are wild. They say that the profit of this first small drive will be lost if they are kept here for a week and they blame Aunt Sassie. Two small booms would have held, but the big one was just impossible. They say, too, that Red Antoine was stupid; that he should have tied his booms to the island and let Aunt Sassie go hang. Everybody’s upset!”

Sue giggled for the first time in hours. “Think how upset Aunt Sassie’s going to be,” she said, “when she sees rivermen on the island and there’s no milk for Pearlie-Baby!”

The cloudy sky cleared, the sun came out and they could see the smoke pouring from the cook-house stovepipe. The rivermen came back from the point and went down to the water’s edge. The logs ran solidly from shore to shore until it almost seemed as if the bay were made of logs. There was a clean fresh smell from the wet bark.

Pike poles in hand, the rivermen stood watching for a moment and then with a rich “Ho! Ho” the first man started forward, running across the logs. He was a big man. But he ran as lightly as a bird, landing on the centre of each log and hopping quickly to the next.

“He’ll drown!” shrieked Biddie, jumping to her feet. “Get him a boat! Get him a boat!” But one by one the men ran across the logs to the cook-house raft, landed on it and disappeared. Little Biddie’s eyes were full of frightened tears which turned to laughter as the last man landed safely.

“Do you think I could learn to do that, too?” she asked. “I’m much littler and much lighter?”

“We’ll ask Blabbering Bill,” said Don. “You’re not to try it until we find out how it’s done.”

They walked around the island then. There were logs on both sides. The wind had tempered from a gale but still blew strongly into the bay. Don lit the kitchen fire and Sue and Sec made cocoa and the boys great piles of toast. Afterwards they went back to the wharf, hoping to see more men running the logs.

Blabbering Bill came over first. The men on the opposite shore cheered and called as he set out across the logs, carrying a small covered milk pail in either hand. He ran as lightly and easily as a rabbit, balancing himself with the pails. Only once did he threaten to lose his balance and that was when he waved the pail in answer to Rose-Marie-Ange when she foolishly called out:

“Sauvez-vous, mon beau garçon!” which, meant “Save yourself, my beautiful man!”

But when Blabbering Bill landed safely on the shore, everyone cheered and was happy until he told them the news. Red Antoine had gone to Blue Sea Station to send a telegram to the agent, asking him to come up at once.

“Red Antoine is in such a fury,” Blabbering Bill said. “Never before has he listened to anyone! This time he has listened to Madame Devereaux and the wind has come in the night! Half the drive has gone down to the chutes and the other half in here in the bay! And as if that were not enough, le bon Dieu sees fit to send a wind that no riverman, not even Red Antoine himself, can handle!”

The little man groaned. “Every log left in this lake is now in this bay . . . and I know these winds. When they blow northeast in the middle of the night, they blow for seven days and nights. No one can pole logs out of this bay in such a wind. This is a bad business!” He shook his head.

“It is always bad business when a man listens to an old woman. Old men are different. They grow old with wisdom, but women—” He spread out his hands with a despairing gesture. “As they lose their youth, they grow frightened, and when they are frightened they grow stubborn. And against a stubborn woman, what can a man do? Even a man the size of Red Antoine!”

Rose-Marie-Ange fluttered her eyelashes at Blabbering Bill. “I hope I shall never grow stubborn, M’sieu,” she said.

“Well,” said Biddie cheerfully, “if you’re going to be in the bay for a week, it’s a chance for Sue and me to learn to ride the logs, like you do!”

“Then I had better teach you today,” he said, “for after the agent comes, I don’t think we shall be very friendly. The agent will be a very mad man . . . and when he is mad, he says terrible things. Things I do not think Madame Devereaux will like!”

Sue thought it time to change the conversation and asked what the men were doing out on the logs.

“They are ‘carding,’ ” he said, “or hunting for some very special logs. In fact, they are searching for the lost boom logs and when they find them they are going to string them to the pier of your wharf so that there will be a boom to the cook house. It will be convenient to bring the milk,” he said, and twirled his moustache at Rose-Marie-Ange.

Blabbering Bill stayed on the island all morning. Now and then a riverman would pole over a boom stick and, using his cant hook, snag it up on the shore. Towards mid-morning Rose-Marie-Ange called Sec and Sue.

“Madame Devereaux is up and almost dressed,” she said. “She has seen the logs in the bay from her window and is not as much upset as one would expect. I have not told her about the rivermen being on the island. They are gone now and did no damage, so why tell her and give her worry?”

But when Aunt Sassie came downstairs she sent for Don. “Were any of the big trees damaged by the storm?” she asked. Sue thought she looked very white.

“None, Aunt Sassie,” he answered, “just young trees whose roots weren’t deep in the ground.”

“I am so thankful,” she said. “My grandfather was so proud of those big trees. I couldn’t bear to have anything happen to them!”

She took Don’s arm and walked with him all over the island, examining the damage, looking at the log-filled bay and finally talking to Blabbering Bill. She was gracious to him, expressed her regret that the boom had gone out, and gave permission for the morning dip, provided that Blabbering Bill watched over them.

“Aunt Sassie doesn’t seem to know that the boom went out because she wouldn’t let them tie up to Four Winds,” said Don later.

“You never know what she’s thinking,” Angus answered, “and before she changes her mind, let’s get into the lake.”

It was one of the best mornings of the summer. First they watched Blabbering Bill choose a nice smooth log about two feet thick. Stepping on it in the middle, he began to roll the log with his feet, slowly at first and then more rapidly, until his calked boots seemed to twinkle, they moved so fast.

“This,” he explained, “is called ‘birling’ and is the riverman’s only sport. When two men get on a log together, each one tries to upset the other and the one who stays on longest wins. We use many tricks to fool each other. Pine, hemlock, spruce, each kind of log rolls differently. You have to know your trees as well as how to birl and balance!”

Timmie slipped into the water and tried out a small log. He had almost perfect balance and covered himself with glory as he slowly turned or birled the log. Blabbering Bill was very proud of him. “I birl with my calked boots,” he said, “but Timmie uses his bare feet. He is very smart.”

They all waded in then, for the logs were lying loosely around the broken wharf, and tried to birl. Sue and Angus fell off the logs almost as fast as they climbed up on them but when it came to running or riding the tightly packed logs beyond, Sue won cheers from everyone.

“How do you do it?” asked Angus enviously.

“I don’t know,” Sue answered breathlessly, “except that you must run so fast the logs never know you’re on them. They sink just for spite, once they know you’re there!”

It was a good method and they all tried it and fell in and pulled themselves up and tried it again. By the time the clean-up horn sounded they were fairly expert, as well as scratched and bruised, with stubbed toes and scraped elbows and each was daubed with black pine pitch from the sap in the ends of the pine logs.

“Mercy, mercy me,” said Sue, looking at herself. “I look frightful and it won’t come off with soap. Whatever will Aunt Sassie say?”

They were all dismayed for when they pulled on their stockings the pitch clung to the cotton. They looked as if they had been to the wars when they went up to dinner.

Aunt Sassie was furious. She said they looked like wild men—that the trouble with all children was that if you took your eyes off them for one moment they were into mischief.

“My father says,” began Timmie, but they howled him down.

Aunt Sassie rapped on the table. “Silence! I wish to hear what Timmie has to say.”

“My father says coal oil or grease will remove pine pitch without taking off your hide!”

“Then Rose-Marie-Ange will give you some lard after dinner,” replied Aunt Sassie, “and when you have all made yourselves respectable again, let me see you.”

But Rose-Marie-Ange was in a temper and wouldn’t give them enough lard. “I wish to make a pie,” she said, “and I cannot spare my lard, but here is some bear’s grease. It smells but it will do just as well.” She handed them a tin of a black, greasy-looking mixture.

Sue took a sniff. “Wow!” she shrieked. “I think I’d rather have the tar on my face!”

They worked for hours but in spite of the bear’s grease they couldn’t get the tar off their fingers and toes and when they reported to Aunt Sassie no one could make out which annoyed her most, the odor of the bear’s grease or the amount of arnica she had to put on their scratches and bruises. She cut out bits of court plaster, too, to cover the cuts and by the time supper came they were so spattered with the white of court plaster, the brown of arnica and the black of pine pitch that they all looked as if they had some new kind of plague.

The wind was still blowing strongly and when Aunt Sassie suggested an early bed, they all agreed without a murmur. They had been up since before dawn and bed suddenly seemed a sweet and lovely place.

But as Rose-Marie-Ange passed them on the landing, she whispered, “I have just heard. There is a telegram. The Agent is coming in the morning.”

“They’re getting madder every minute,” said Timmie. “I wish Aunt Sassie would come!”

“She won’t, not ’til she’s jolly well ready!” Sec answered.

“But what’s the sense of keeping them waiting?” asked Consy.

“Why shouldn’t she keep them waiting?” Don replied sharply. “Why should Aunt Sassie disturb herself for a bunch of rivermen?”

“Only because the waiting is piling up more trouble for herself,” Angus said. “When the men arrived they weren’t too bad, but now look at them!”

They all looked out of the dining-room window to where the rivermen stood on the verandah.

There were six of them. Red Antoine, Blabbering Bill, three other men with cant hooks and chains, and a stranger, plainly the Agent.

Sue hated the looks of him. He was tall and dark, with a heavy black moustache and black eyes, and from his lips hung a long black cigar which he rolled from one side of his mouth to the other. “He looks like a nasty crow!” Sue said, “and I can’t bear him!”

All the men were angry and impatient. Every little while they burst into deep-voiced habitant French and the tone of it showed plainly that they were in a fine fury. From the dining room the children could hear Blabbering Bill trying to smooth matters over by pointing out, “After all, Madame is old and to the old one must give time.” But he only seemed to increase the fury, and finally he said nothing.

The men had arrived shortly after breakfast. The Agent then explained that he wanted to see Madame Devereaux and that he was in a hurry.

And then and there the trouble had begun. The dark eyes of Rose-Marie-Ange flashed like lightning, as she explained that Madame Devereaux could not be disturbed until half past ten.

The Agent shifted his cigar. “Tell the old girl I’m waiting and tell her to get a move on!” he said.

Rose-Marie-Ange replied by shutting the door in his face. Half an hour later he knocked again. Rose-Marie-Ange opened the door.

“What can I do for you, M’sieu?” she asked politely.

“Is the old girl up yet?” the Agent asked.

“Old girl?” repeated Rose-Marie-Ange, wonderingly. “There is no old girl here, M’sieu! You have come to the wrong house!” and she closed the door with a bang.

There was a thunderous knocking then and much angry conversation on the verandah. Rose-Marie-Ange opened the door again.

“Is Madame, your mistress, up yet?” asked the Agent.

“But no, M’sieu! Madame does not arise until half past ten!”

“If you don’t call her, I will,” stormed the Agent, placing his foot inside the door.

There was a fine scene then. The boys, who were listening inside the dining room, rushed out, the girls after them.

“What was that you said?” asked Don, in such stormy tones that out of sheer surprise the Agent removed his foot.

“I said I wanted to see your aunt,” he replied, rather meekly for such an angry man.

“Then you must wait until she is ready to see you,” Don replied. “Shut the door, Rose-Marie-Ange!”

“Oh, la la! Master Donald, you are quite the man!”

Donald was quite a man, Sue thought. In spite of his careless ways, his teasing and ragging, if anything upsetting occurred, Donald suddenly became the head of the family and gave orders in such a way that he was obeyed immediately.

From that moment on, the rivermen waited on the verandah, smoking, walking up and down or just sitting on the steps. Rose-Marie-Ange took Aunt Sassie her tea at the usual time and then called down to Sec to keep an eye on Pearlie-Baby.

“Big doings,” said Sec. “I’ll bet Aunt Sassie is curling her hair.”

An hour later the door upstairs opened and, with Rose-Marie-Ange preceding her, Aunt Sassie came slowly down the stairs. Her hair was lightly curled, she wore her gold locket, chain and earrings, and over her shoulders the Indian shawl.

“Good morning, children,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

Rose-Marie-Ange opened the door with a flourish. “Madame Devereaux!” she said, as if announcing a queen.

All the men jumped to their feet. The Agent bowed and removed the cigar from his mouth.

“Good morning! You wish to see me?” inquired Aunt Sassie stiffly.

“I do!” snapped the Agent. “I’ve been waiting to see you for hours. What do you mean, Madame, by interfering with my drive? Who do you think you are to refuse to allow my men to tie their booms to this island?”

Aunt Sassie lifted a thin white hand. “I am the owner of this island,” she answered quietly, “and unless you alter the tone of your voice and the manner of your address, I shall refuse to listen to you any longer!”

“You’ll refuse to listen to me?” stormed the Agent. “Oh, no, you won’t, Madame, you’ll listen now! This Red Antoine here, this pigeon-hearted fellow, has listened to you once, and because you are old, did what you told him and strung his boom from mainland to mainland. No river boss in his senses would have done such a thing. Red Antoine well knew so long a boom must break!

“Break it did, and half our drive is piled up in this bay and every log in it must be poled out. Do you know what that means, Madame? It means that we shall lose money on this drive!”

“I am not interested,” said Aunt Sassie. “This island is mine. I do not like rivermen or their behavior and I refused to have any of them on it. There was nothing Red Antoine could have done about it!”

“Oh, yes, there was,” the Agent stormed. “You can’t get away with that with me. I’ve been brought here to make the drives pay and pay they’re going to, no matter what happens!”

The Agent put his cigar back in his mouth, pushed his hat back on his head and began again.

“See, Madame,” he said more quietly, “can we not be reasonable over this? We do not wish to offend but we must shorten our booms. The only way we can shorten them is to tie up to your island. There is yet another drive to come down the lake. If it should pile up here, too, I would lose my job. Don’t you understand?”

“Perfectly,” answered Aunt Sassie.

“Then we can tie our booms to your island, eh?”

“Never.”

“But why not, Madame? What are your reasons?”

“No boom was ever tied to this island in my grandfather’s time and none shall be tied now! I am not going to have those magnificent pines on the point scarred with boom chains!”

“Oh, you’re not,” shouted the Agent. “Well, let me tell you something, Madame. We’ll tie our booms to your island whenever we wish!”

“If you do, I shall have them removed,” replied Aunt Sassie firmly.

“You won’t dare touch them, Madame!” The Agent’s voice was low and had an ugly, threatening sound. The five boys closed in around Aunt Sassie. Timmie looked like an angry bantam.

“Keep your distance,” he cried in a high, shrill voice. “You’re not going to be rude to my aunt!”

Aunt Sassie drew him back beside her. “This man does not know he is being rude, Timmie,” she said. “He is so entirely lacking in the ordinary instincts of a gentleman that we cannot expect him to behave like one.”

Her voice was like ice and though Sue knew the rivermen couldn’t understand the words, it was evident they recognized the fact that their Agent was being dismissed like an insubordinate servant.

The Agent knew it, too, for he flushed deeply. He was shaking with anger as he stepped forward. “Talk’s easy,” he said. “Look, Madame, I’ve tried to spare you but now you can have it. The trees on this island don’t belong to you, they belong to my company. I can snub my booms to any one of them I wish!”

“What do you mean?” asked Aunt Sassie. Her color was beginning to rise, and her eyes had grown dark.

“Just this! You own the house and the land, but your granddaddy sold the timber rights on this island before he died. Understand! You may own the land. You don’t own any of the pines that are growing on it.”

Aunt Sassie laughed, a cool little laugh. “I repeat—this is my island,” she said, “and I do not want you on it. You must leave now and if you ever return, I shall have you put off.”

She turned and walked slowly into the house, followed by the children. The men stood for a moment, surprised and uncertain what to do next. There was much gloomy shaking of heads and much temper on the part of the Agent, but they left soon and could be seen walking back along the boom to the cook house.

“They’re gone, Aunt Sassie,” Don reported. “I’m afraid that Agent’s a bad lot.”

“You were wonderful, the way you spoke up to him,” cried Sue. “You just withered him, Aunt Sassie. He’s a horrible creature!”

“You were perfectly right,” cried Timmie. “He’s not one bit a gentleman. I’d like to have poked him!”

“I was so proud of you, Aunt Sassie!” Sec dropped a kiss on the top of her aunt’s head. “You were so cold and so top-lofty with him. He’s just a worm!”

“He’s the kind of a man who eats peas with his knife and pie with a spoon,” said Nancy. “You can’t expect anything from a man who does awful things like that!”

“He has the manners of a pig!” Rose-Marie-Ange exclaimed angrily. “He has no right to come here and make you unhappy, monster that he is.”

“Quietly, please. Someone give me a chair,” said Aunt Sassie. She was leaning on the table and quite suddenly her control vanished and she looked old and frail and somehow very little.

Little Chief slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Lean on me,” he said, “and trust us, dear Madame Devereaux. We will take care of you!”

The gentle sympathy of Little Chief’s voice cut through their noisy indignation. They looked at their aunt with a new understanding.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Sassie,” Angus said. “Little Chief’s right. We’ll take care of you.”

“I’m not worrying,” said Aunt Sassie. “The island is mine but I have never had anyone speak to me like that before and it was unnerving.”

Don looked at his aunt. “Was there any truth in what he said about the timber rights?” he asked.

“None whatever,” she answered. “As some of you know, my parents died soon after I was born and it was grandfather who brought me up. He was quite a rich man. They called him the King of the Lumber Barons and this house and island were his pride. He said the pines on it were the most perfect he had ever seen.

“We used to come up here every summer. There were plenty of servants in those days and he used to entertain up here, very simply, but very well. I was quite young when he told me he would leave the island to me when he died. I knew he intended it as a mark of the highest favor.

“Then, when he grew old he took in a partner, a young man whom he had seen grow up.” Aunt Sassie’s voice broke a little. “This young man made shocking mistakes in judgment and ran the firm into frightful debt. Grandpa said nothing. He used his private fortune to cover his partner’s mistakes and no one was out of pocket but himself.

“By the time all the debts were settled, very little remained but this island. I know he sold the timber rights to all his other property, but never to Four Winds.

“I looked after him for the rest of his life, with the help of Rose-Marie-Ange’s mother. He never recovered from the shock of his loss.”

“Aunt Sassie, what are timber rights?” asked Sue.

“A man may buy the timber rights on your island,” Aunt Sassie answered, “that is, he may buy the trees, which he may cut down and take away, but it does not give him any other rights. He does not own the land on which the trees grow. Do you understand?”

Sue nodded.

Aunt Sassie took up her tale again.

“Then Grandpapa died. He left me Four Winds and a tiny income. Every summer since, I have had the children from all branches of the family up here. That has been my life. Often I have lived here for weeks at a time with no one but Rose-Marie-Ange. I have never felt lonely. I always had the pines!”

Rose-Marie-Ange came in carrying a tray. On it were a pot of tea and some toast. “Madame, you didn’t eat enough breakfast to keep a bird alive,” she said. “Take this now and you’ll feel better!”

Sec poured the tea, Nancy spread the butter thickly on the toast, and Sue gave “Sing-Birdie-Sing,” who had never sung a note in his life, his bird seed and water. Even the boys hung around. Consy spun a top for Pearlie-Baby, whom he simply loathed, while Angus and Don mended the blinds they had promised to fix every day for a fortnight. It was as if they all wanted to do something to show Aunt Sassie she could count on them every inch of the way.

Little by little the color came back to her cheeks. “I shall rest now,” she said, “and then I think I shall write to your father, Donald. He’s in Scotland, I know, but I should like to inform him that this question of timber rights has arisen.”

Little Chief opened the door for her. Aunt Sassie smiled at him. “After this,” she said, “I shall always think of you as one of my family and I should like you to call me Aunt Sassie!”

Little Chief flushed with pleasure and his dark eyes looked very bright. There was a shy pause amongst them all. They knew Little Chief was greatly touched, but Biddie saved the day—“That makes you Pearlie-Baby’s cousin,” she said. “I hope you like it!”

Even Little Chief’s beautiful manners broke down at the thought of having Pearlie-Baby as a cousin!

But it was an uncomfortable day. They practiced birling and ran the logs again until Don said that Sue and Timmie could ride the logs as well as any lumberman. That was one of the strange things about lumbering. They taught you to “run” the logs, but when you went down the lake with a drive they called the same thing “riding” the logs!

Blabbering Bill came as usual at mail time but looked very grave.

“I must go back quickly, for things are not too good at the camp. There is too much talk,” he said; “and too much talk makes trouble. . . . I do not know what may happen tomorrow!”

Timmie saw it first. He and Sue were running the logs during the early morning swim when he noticed the golden yellow streak of a boom log through the dark brown of the drive. Timmie kept on running and Sue followed, even when he turned into the shore and clambered up on the bank.

“What did you come here for?” she asked crossly. She loved the battle of wits between her feet and the logs.

“Look!” cried Timmie. From the point of the island to the mainland was a long boom, and the end was snubbed to one of Four Winds’ biggest pines!

“Mercy, mercy me!” wailed Sue. “Whatever will Aunt Sassie say!”

Timmie didn’t wait to answer. He rushed across the point to the other side. There another boom stretched from an island pine to the opposite mainland.

“There’s something queer about the snubbing,” Timmie said. It was queer. First the tree had been wrapped for about three feet in height in sacking, old pieces of blanket, old jerseys, even part of a coat. There was straw, too, and lastly more pieces of blanket . . . and outside of all, the boom chains.

“What did they do that for?”

“To keep the boom chains from scarring the pines,” Timmie explained. “Sue, there’s going to be trouble. I feel it in my bones. The Agent has made the men tie the booms to the island and they’ve remembered what Aunt Sassie said about not wanting to have the pines scarred. I think Red Antoine and Blabbering Bill did this!”

They examined the booms. Beyond them the lake was blue and beautiful, without a single stick to be seen anywhere, while inside the logs were crowded in the bay. And the wind still blew. It was the third day.

“All out! All out! All out!” They could hear Don’s voice, faint against the wind.

Running back across the island, Timmie told of their discovery. There was no smoke in the cook-house chimney, no sign of men in the camp across the bay, but the golden yellow streak of the freshly cut boom logs showed that the rivermen had been on the island early that morning.

Even Rose-Marie-Ange was depressed. “No matter how you look at it, Master Donald, there will be trouble now,” she said, as she dished out the porridge. “I pray my blessed mistress may sleep late this morning! It is not right that the hearts of the old should ache. I shall not call her until it is necessary.”

But all too soon it became necessary. Before they had finished their breakfast, Blabbering Bill and Paul Guerin arrived together.

“We do not wish to disturb Madame Devereaux,” said Paul, “but for her own good, she should hear our story soon. There is going to be trouble, grave trouble!”

Rose-Marie-Ange and Sec went upstairs and in a far shorter time than anyone imagined possible, Aunt Sassie came down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She had wrapped herself in a heavy dark red quilted dressing gown and over her hair was wearing the little black lace shawl Sue’s mother had sent her.

Little Chief pulled out a chair at the head of the table. Aunt Sassie took it silently, and folded her hands in front of her. “I understand you have urgent business with me,” she said to the rivermen. “I know you are our friends or I should not have arisen at this hour. What can I do for you?”

It was, as Sue said later, the dreadfullest story that Blabbering Bill had come to tell.

When the Agent had gone back to the cook house, he had ordered Red Antoine to return to the island and snub the booms to the pines.

Red Antoine had argued against the order . . . he said that if he snubbed the booms to Four Winds there would only be trouble; and that the Bains Company always tried to avoid trouble.

Blabbering Bill continued the story. “Madame,” he explained, “the temper of the Agent was magnifique. He pounded the table until all the dishes danced. ‘You’ll do as I say,’ he shouted at Red Antoine. ‘I’m boss here,’ he said, ‘and the booms are to be tied to those pines. If you don’t tie them, you can get out!’ ”

Blabbering Bill paused for breath.

“Madame, I assure you, I am still frightened. That Red Antoine, he has a heart of fire. If you will believe me, he stood right up to the Agent! ‘I will not get out,’ he said. ‘I am the best river boss the Bains have. I have been with them since I was a boy. I will not be fired by you. I will not be fired by anyone but Edward Bain himself!’ ”

Blabbering Bill paused again before continuing. “Madame,” he said, “I thought the cook house would explode and fall right to pieces in the bay! You see, Madame, the men do not like the Agent. He drives the logs; he drives the men; he drives the mill; he drives everything! When you have been in the woods all winter, and you come down river, you like to spend maybe two or three nights in the town. If we are a little wild a good Agent closes his eyes. This fellow, this Agent, does not give us even one night in town . . . if we play hooky, we get fired!”

Blabbering Bill stood up. “You see, Madame, it is not good to be rude. It gets you some day when you least expect it. This Agent was rude to you. He, so big and strong, laughed at you like an angry horse! And you, Madame, if you will forgive me, not so young as once but for all the world to see, a great lady,—you, Madame, put him in his place. We liked that! You told him what to do. You told him to get out. You, so very little, told that big, big fellow to get out. It made us laugh and it made him rage. So, when the Agent told Red Antoine he was fired, we rivermen just walked over and stood behind Red Antoine. We said nothing. We just stood there.

“That fixed him, Madame! He had to sing another song, for just now it is hard to find a good river boss and Red Antoine is the best in the whole of Quebec.

“Then, Madame, what did this stupid fellow do? He cursed and swore and pounded the table and made a great commotion and shouted, ‘You will snub the boom to the island as I told you!’ ”

“ ‘But what good will that do?’ Red Antoine asked. ‘You heard Madame Devereaux. She will cut the booms loose!’ ”

“ ‘Tomorrow I am going up White River,’ the Agent answered, ‘to see about the big drive. While I am away, snub the booms to the big pines and put three men on the island to guard them until I return!’ ”

Blabbering Bill’s squeaky voice sank to a whisper and rose again. “Madame, my ears have never heard such a noise! I thought the last day had come! Red Antoine jumped right over the table and shook his fist in the Agent’s face!”

Paul Guerin rose and pushed back his chair. “Ah, Madame,” he cried. “Let me tell you what this Red Antoine said!”

“ ‘Listen you, pig that you are,’ he said. ‘You are new in this company and I am old in it. My grandfather and my father before me have been white water men for the Bain Company. I take no orders to bully old women and children, except from the owners and they’ll never give them!’

“ ‘Listen well to what I have to say! Fifty years ago, when my grandfather was a young fellow, he was hurt in a log jam. It was the grandfather of Madame Devereaux that fished him out of the water, took him down to Montreal, put him in a hospital and kept him there for one year and paid all the bills. And now you ask me to bully his granddaughter when she is old.’ ”

Paul Guerin smiled and drew himself up.

“Madame, when the Agent saw the size of Red Antoine’s fist and the red light in his eye, and felt his breath red hot against his cheek, he turned pale like the snow and spoke not a word.

“We left the cook house then and nothing more was said until supper, when we talked it over. After all, we have to keep our jobs. Voilà, Madame! We have made what you English call a ‘compromise’! We tie booms to your island but no men are put upon it. We hope you understand.”

Blabbering Bill took up the tale. His voice was anxious. “Madame, we pray of you, do not remove those booms. We have wrapped the pines with old clothes so that they shall not be scarred with the chains. You will forgive us, we hope!”

Aunt Sassie was very white and somehow it seemed as if she had shrunk a little inside the heavy quilted robe.

There had been no sound in the room save the voices of the two men rising and falling with the heat of the story. The fire in the kitchen stove had died away and Aunt Sassie’s tea remained untouched. Even Pearlie-Baby’s morning chatter had been silenced and she sat large-eyed and wondering on Rose-Marie-Ange’s knee, quiet for once.

“I am sure you have done the best you could,” Aunt Sassie said, “and I am very grateful to you. Where is the Agent now?”

“He left at dawn, taking most of the men in the camp with him. They have gone to White River to help bring down the big drive.”

Little Chief rose suddenly. “You have not told us all you know,” he said. “What are you keeping back? What more did the Agent say?”

Tall, and slim, Little Chief stood at the end of the table, no longer the quiet schoolboy, but a young Indian chieftain, son of Chief Laughing Cloud of the Western prairies and by heritage accustomed to rule.

“Out with it!” he said imperiously. “What more do you know?”

“It is not my wish to tell,” he said, “and I pray forgiveness for these words, but, Madame, when he returns, the Agent is going to cut down every pine on this island!”

No one spoke for a moment, then a storm of angry, shocked voices filled the room. Aunt Sassie’s face seemed ghost-like under the shadow of the lace shawl and her hands that had lain so quietly on the table were now tightly clenched. But her voice was firm as she asked for silence.

“This island is mine,” she said. “No one can cut down the pines without my consent and that I shall never give.”

Paul Guerin groaned and beat his forehead with his hand. “You own the island, yes, Madame,” he cried. “But you do not own the pines. The timber rights were sold twenty-five years ago to the Bain Lumbering Company. Every stick of timber around Lac de Lune belongs to the Bains!”

“How do you know this?” Aunt Sassie interrupted.

“Because Red Antoine told us. As river boss, he has to know where he can cut. He saw the maps, the surveys. You own your island, yes; but the Bains own the pines and the Agent is so mad at you, Madame, that he is going to cut down every one when he gets back from White River. This is an unhappy business!”

Blabbering Bill’s squeaky voice broke across Paul’s sorrowful booming. “See you, Madame, it will be ten, perhaps twelve days before the Agent returns. He has to go far up White River and then to Montreal to see the owners. Your pines are safe until then. Paul and I will keep watch for you and see that no harm comes. But, Madame, during the time the Agent is away . . . !” Blabbering Bill hesitated.

“Yes,” said Aunt Sassie. “What is it you want to say?”

“Just this, Madame, if you will forgive me . . . Is there not someone who can tell you what to do? Perhaps a lawyer, or someone very wise who could help you? For unless you do get help, Madame, your pines—your most beautiful pines—are finished!”

There was another silence in the room, a breathless silence. Sue could almost hear her heart beat. Aunt Sassie stood up. Her voice was dry and thin but steady.

“You are my good friends,” she said. “I shall think over what you have said and talk to you later. Thank you again!”

Through the open door there was a glimpse of blue sky. Three birches cast their sun-dappled shade over the kitchen steps and floating in the bay beyond could be seen the dark brown of thousands of pine logs. Now and then the huge mass seemed to sigh, as if impatient for the ride down the river.

They could hear the calked boots of the two rivermen crunching down the path to the wharf. And yet no one knew how to break the silence of unhappiness that filled the kitchen.

Don stirred uneasily and then moved up the table and laid a hand gently on Aunt Sassie’s shoulder. She didn’t move. She just looked ahead and out the door.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Sassie,” Don said. “Don’t be frightened. We’ll take care of you!” His voice broke a little, as if he, too, were frightened. Still there was no sound or movement from the little figure. Don laid his strong sun tanned hand over her thin one.

The silence grew and then, as if the warmth of his hand brought back warmth to hers, Aunt Sassie sank back into her chair.

“Oh, Donald,” she said, half whispering. “Oh, Donald, the pines!”

“What shall I do?” the thin, frightened voice continued. “What shall I do? . . . I wish your father were here, Don. What can I do alone?”

Two tears, the tiny difficult tears of old age, fell and then, without warning, Aunt Sassie hid her face on her arms on the table and wept.

Sue’s throat ached and in her heart there was a bitter, burning feeling. She felt angry, too,—angry that anyone so frail and gallant should be hurt.

“I can’t bear it,” she cried suddenly. “I can’t bear it! Oh Aunt Sassie, dear, don’t cry. Don’t cry! We’re here, all of us. We’ll take care of you!”

She rushed up to the head of the table. The others surged forward too, with endearing words. . . .

“Light the fire,” said Consy gruffly. “Someone put the kettle on!”

The girls hastily cleared off the table and prepared a fresh tea tray, while the boys stirred up the fire, brought in more wood and water and busied themselves about the kitchen. Don stood beside the bent figure, awkward, yet somehow comforting.

It wasn’t long before Nancy brought over a cup of hot tea. “Drink this, Aunt Sassie,” she pleaded. “You’ve no idea how much better you’ll feel!”

Timmie proffered a piece of burnt toast. “I tried to make this nice for you,” he said, “but somehow I never can make toast without burning it. I think you’ll like the middle bits though.”

Nancy gave Aunt Sassie a second cup of tea. Slowly the color crept back into her cheeks. She managed a bit of Timmie’s toast but they were all anxious about her. She seemed so completely broken.

When she spoke again her voice was little more than a thread of sound and it seemed almost as if she were thinking out loud, remembering.

“Not the pines,” she whispered. “Oh not the pines. . . . I couldn’t bear to lose them. They were Grandpapa’s dream . . . he wanted to make a great park of Lac de Lune . . . he used to tell me that one lumberman at least would leave behind him the beauty that he found . . . his dream went to pay his partner’s debts . . . everything went until only Four Winds remained. He left it to me because he knew I cherished the pines as he did . . . that I would preserve them always. It was a trust . . . and now they tell me I must lose them. . . .”

Her voice had grown so faint they could hardly hear it. Aunt Sassie was old and tired. Aunt Sassie’s dream had broken and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do.

The sun poured in through the door way, making a golden patch upon the floor. Outside, above the pines, a bird soared, its tender, liquid notes filling the air with sweetness, but in the kitchen a shadow lay on every heart.

When the chores were finished the children wandered down to the point. They felt confused and frightened.

Superintendent Consell was in England; Sue’s father in the West; Don and Biddie’s in Scotland. There was no one near them as Sue said, that was grown up, except the curate, and no man with a name like Cyril Wilberforce-Atkins could handle the Agent.

They talked and argued until Rose-Marie-Ange came down to them. She looked strained and tired. “Madame Devereaux is asleep now,” she said. “She is so exhausted with the emotion of the morning that I think she will sleep all afternoon.

“I came to her first when I was twelve,” she continued. “In all that time, through good days and bad, I have never heard her complain, never heard her criticize, and the old gentleman, Monsieur Devereaux, so I have heard, was a tartar!”

Rose-Marie-Ange sighed. “Madame Devereaux is a noble woman,” she said.

Looking at the plump little maid’s tired face and remembering her gentle solicitude for Aunt Sassie, Sue leant forward and patted her shoulder shyly. “I think you’re pretty noble yourself,” she said.

It was the first time that morning that anyone had smiled and Rose-Marie-Ange dimpled and flushed until Sue wished Blabbering Bill was there to see her.

But the shadow of Aunt Sassie’s unhappiness crept over them again when Rose-Marie-Ange went back to the house. Above them waved the branches of the great pines. Angus looked up.

“Think, all of you,” he said quietly. “Four Winds will look like Bass Island when these pines are gone. . . . Where now there are trees and shade, there will be stumps and hot sun, splinters and bark and waste!”

“Don’t, don’t!” cried Biddie. “I can’t bear it! Make him stop, Timmie. Make him stop!”

“I can’t stop,” Angus said hotly. “You’d better know what’s happening. Aunt Sassie knows; that’s why she was so upset!”

Little Chief sprang to his feet. “Is there no wise man in our midst?” he cried. “In every tribe there is a wise man. Surely we can find one here!”

“What about Paul Guerin?” asked Consy. “He’s better than no one!”

In a few minutes they were running across the logs to the cook house. They found Paul alone, sad and heavy-hearted. Blabbering Bill and Dynamite Dave had gone in to Blue Sea and would not be back until night fall.

“I grieve for Madame, your Aunt,” Paul said. “She is a great lady. There she was this morning with her heart broken to bits. Did she make a scene? Did she weep? Not she! She has a heart brave as a lion and she called us her friends.”

Paul wiped his eyes. “That poor Madame,” he sighed. “And as for that Agent!” He picked up his biggest knife and began sharpening it rapidly.

“Put that down,” said Little Chief, “and listen to us. We have no need for violence, but much need for wit. Your head is older than ours and should be wiser. What can we do to save the pines?”

Paul opened his oven door and took out a raisin pie. “Let us eat a little,” he said. “It may help us think.

“There is only one wise man that I know,” he said, “although I would not mention this to Blabbering Bill. M’sieur Bill thinks he is very wise indeed . . . like an owl!” Paul chuckled slyly before continuing.

“I come from the village of St. Hilaire,” he said impressively, “the prettiest village in Quebec and one of the oldest and there I am second cook for the Seigneur St. Georges de Sennevoy. He lives in the Manoir House at St. Hilaire. The Seigneur is a very wise man, as well as a lawyer. He could tell you just what to do!”

“How do we get to him?” asked Consy.

“Ah, that is the question! St. Hilaire is forty miles away. You go out with Auguste to Blue Sea, then take train to Gros Point, change there to the train to St. Hilaire. It takes over one whole day and costs money.”

He drew closer to the table. “But there is another route,” he said, “a shorter way, by canoe and portage. It is not easy and you have to watch where you are going, but it will get you to St. Hilaire much sooner.”

With the stubby pencil he began to draw a map on a piece of crumpled paper.

“First,” he explained slowly, “you go straight across Lac de Lune to that deep bay opposite Four Winds. There is a sandy beach there on your left. As you approach the beach, you will see a small creek. . . .”

“I’ve been all over that bay. I never knew any creek came in there,” broke in Don.

“Ah no,” exclaimed Paul. “That is because the mouth is hidden by tag alders and it is difficult to find unless you are looking for it. But when you push back the alders, you will see a stream there not much bigger than your hand, but with water enough to float your canoe.

“You have to get out there and wade until the water deepens. Then you can paddle until you come to a small water fall. Here you will have to portage up a steep bank; a hundred yards or so beyond, you will come to a big pond we call Rabbit Lake. Follow the right shore and you will see another creek. It is very muddy and smells but you will be able to get through it by pushing hard.”

“What’s the name of the creek?” asked Angus.

“No one has bothered giving it a name,” replied Paul. “But at the far end of it you will come to Beaver Lake. Again you must follow the right hand shore until you come to a blazed pine close to the water’s edge.”

“Is it a fresh blaze or an old one?” asked Timmie.

Paul smiled. “You can find it easily, for I made it myself last fall. And it marks the beginning of the portage that will take you over into Joe’s Lake. From then on you will have no trouble. Joe’s Lake empties into Mink Lake and Mink Lake into the River St. Hilaire on which you will find the Manoir of the Seigneur de Sennevoy. The whole journey is not sixteen miles!”

“Do you think we can make it?” asked Don doubtfully.

“Make it? Pooh! Five strong boys like you!”

“And we four girls,” Sec cried.

“You girls can’t come,” said Don sharply.

“Why not?”

“You’re not husky enough. It’s a risk taking girls along!”

“I’m as husky as an ox,” Sue contradicted, “and it’s a worse risk to leave me at home!”

“Why?” asked Don.

“Because if you don’t take me, I’ll scream my head off!”

“So will we all,” burst in Nancy.

“And if we scream,” said Sec stormily, “Aunt Sassie’ll hear us and you know what that’ll mean!”

“Why shouldn’t the girls go?” Consy asked. “They’re as tough as pine knots. They do everything we do and they all swim.”

There was a heated argument then but Sec showed an amount of temper and an obstinacy that surprised them all. It was Paul who settled the matter.

“Listen to me,” he said. “It is plain that Madame Devereaux has confidence in Rose-Marie-Ange. Tell her your plans. Win her sympathy and she will make it right with your good Aunt. You will have to be in your canoes before sunrise. You will have to paddle hard all the way and you will not get back until late at night; but there is a moon and if you bring back good news, it will be worth it. Madame Devereaux will worry? Yes. But it is better to worry one day than weep for many.”

Paul laid his finger on the side of his nose. “Let us hope you will come back victorious,” he said. “And promise me to tell no one I gave you this map. It is our secret!”

They promised and while the boys studied the map, the girls helped Paul knead bread dough, mix biscuits, cut cookies and chop fruit for the pies Paul offered for their journey. They planned with him, too, how they should arrange their canoes, the extra paddles they should take, the bottle of fly oil, a bath towel each, so that they could have a swim by the way. They knew he kept them busy because he understood their anxiety. Sue and Sec were even making paper cutouts for his kitchen shelves when Biddie came running in from the raft.

“Look, Sec,” she cried. “Look!”

Through the cook-house door Aunt Sassie could be seen coming down the path leading to the point. She held the Indian shawl around her shoulders and she walked slowly. Past the wharf and bathing house, past the boat house, pausing now and then as if to rest. Under the great pine that crowned the point she stood motionless for a long time, looking up, and then at last laid her cheek against the rough bark.

“Oh, shouldn’t we go to her?” cried Sue.

Paul shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “A broken heart heals best alone!”

It was almost sunset when the frail figure turned back towards the house. “Go now!” said Paul. Carrying the milk, the mail, and three large pies, they made their way across the bay on the logs and booms.

Aunt Sassie made no reference to the morning. Even when Timmie spilt the syrup, there was no spark of interest from her, no reproach. She seemed lost to everything around her.

Rose-Marie-Ange was very grave when they told her their plans. “I should not let you go were it not that you are trying to save Madame’s treasure, the pines,” she said, “but as it is I shall say a prayer to St. Christopher for your safe return. In the morning I shall waken you before sunrise and see you safely off. Tonight, let us sleep early. We are all very tired.”

It was still dark when Rose-Marie-Ange called them, and they lost no time in dressing. The girls had braided their hair tightly the night before so that hair-brushing was not necessary and, as Sue said, washing was just a lick and a promise.

At the foot of the stairs Rose-Marie-Ange waited and shooed everyone into the kitchen. She had the fire burning and nine bowls of steaming porridge laid out on the long table.

“We haven’t time for this,” Don said impatiently. “We’ve got plenty of grub in the canoes.”

“You’ll all eat your porridge, Master Donald,” warned Rose-Marie-Ange, “or I’ll call your Aunt. Empty stomachs are poor companions for a day’s march!”

Hastily they gobbled their porridge and then, with a lantern to pierce the darkness, made their way down the path to the boat house. They were all sleepy and excited. Little Biddie could hardly keep her eyes open even when she reached the cool dawn air.

The get-away had been planned so perfectly that each one knew just where to sit, even which canoe the pies went in. They were ready to push off when a low whistle sounded across the water and another canoe appeared.

In it were Paul and Blabbering Bill.

“We thought we would see you off,” explained Paul. “There may be loose logs in the lake and in the dark you might bump into them. We will take you as far as Deep Bay and then return.”

Light was coming now in the east and they could make out each other’s faces.

The two rivermen led off. Don followed with Nancy, Consy and Sue next, then Little Chief and Sec, and last, Angus with Biddie and Timmie.

They had only gone a few canoe lengths when there came a whimpering sound and then a long mournful howl from the shore.

“It’s Babette!” exclaimed Sue. “What’ll we do? She’ll howl her head off if we don’t take her.”

“Then let’s take her,” said Consy, swinging the bow about.

True enough it was Babette and without waiting for an invitation she jumped from a huge boulder on the shore into the middle of the canoe. She was very full of early morning snuffles and wriggles of delight, but after a moment or two of coaxing consented to sit quietly in the centre of the canoe.

Hastily they joined the others. At the entrance to the deep bay opposite Four Winds, the two men said goodbye.

“Tonight at seven o’clock Paul and I will be at Joe’s Lake,” Blabbering Bill promised. “You may be tired and any way we think that Madame Devereaux will be less nervous if we meet you. Goodbye and good fortune!”

The rivermen turned back across Lac de Lune. The four canoes skimmed over the water . . . gray now in the early dawn. Far down the bay they found the tag alders and behind them a small creek, just as Paul had said. There was just enough water to float the canoes. Off came shoes and stockings and the children waded and pushed and poled until the stream deepened and they were able to scramble aboard again. Paddling steadily, without talking, each one was busy with plans for the protection of Aunt Sassie’s pines. Every stroke seemed too short, too slow for the miles they had to cover.

Now and then they frightened a brood of ducklings, and once a deer went crashing into the woods; a red-capped wood pecker scolded busily from a gaunt pine. The sun was rising as they reached the first portage around the little waterfall, but the bank they had to climb was much steeper than they had thought. The girls and Timmie took the paddles, food, cushions and everything movable, while the four big boys carried the canoes up the bank, across a little clearing and floated them into Rabbit Lake.

Everything was easy but the pies. They were a pest. Sue explained it was impossible to portage a pie properly any other way than inside you. Don said they shouldn’t eat so early; certainly not before the sun was properly up.

“But you need two hands to carry a pie,” Sue answered, “and if it were inside you, you could carry it without any trouble and use your hands for other things!” Her argument was so plausible and the climb up the bank had been so steep, that she won and the pies were eaten then and there. And as Sue pointed out, it wasn’t such a very great accomplishment. It was only a third of a pie apiece.

When the last crumb was gone and the three large tins had been hidden carefully away near the end of the portage, Don gave the command and they set out across Rabbit Lake. With that small body of water behind them, they followed a narrow, evil-smelling creek until they came to Beaver Lake.

It was little more than a pond. The beavers had been at work and along the water’s edge trees were lying every way, some freshly felled and stripped of bark. The canoes had to go slowly here, for there were snags under the water and the whole place was littered with branches. They saw the beaver house and heard a splash which Don thought might be a beaver. “They’re as shy as all get out,” he said, “until September when they start building their winter quarters. Just now they’re roaming for water lily roots, which is their favorite food. They take to them the way Sue does to pie!”

On the right hand shore they found the blazed pine and there began the portage over into Joe’s Lake. Although longer, it was easier than the first, for most of it was down hill but when they re-floated the canoes Don called a rest for their mid-day meal.

“That pie has stuck to my ribs,” said Sue happily, “and I don’t feel a bit hungry. Let’s swim first!”

So they ducked and floated and splashed, while Babette rummaged busily in the woods and brought back a wood chuck. It was her first successful hunting and she was reluctant to part with the soft, limp furry thing and yelped with indignation when Don took it from her.

The picnic basket was opened and a hurried meal eaten for Don kept worrying about the time. “We’ve a long way to go,” he said, “and if we’re not back at a fairly decent hour, Aunt Sassie’ll fret herself to death!”

Joe’s Lake was a long stiff paddle. There was a small island in the middle with a white sand beach. Near it was pitched a tent with camp equipment. They stopped and examined it and everything was in such beautiful order, so tidy and clean and smart, that Sue declared it looked like a Mountie’s camp.

“Oh dry up about the Mounties,” growled Angus. “You talked your head off about them when you first came. There are other people in the world besides Mounties!”

“I don’t think so,” said Sue stoutly. “And some day you’ll find out I’m right!”

They paddled out of Joe’s Lake into Mink Lake and at last reached the river St. Hilaire. It was a clear, sparkling stream and the bottom was covered with a light gravel over which they could see fish moving. The left bank was black with pines, and here and there a sprinkling of ash and maples. In places the branches leaned over until they touched, making a leafy tunnel through which the river flowed. It was cool and there was enough current to move the canoes without much effort.

Sue sank back from her kneeling position in the bow. “Aren’t we almost there, Don?” she called. “What does the map say?” Don looked at the map for about the millionth time.

“There are three big bends in the river,” he answered, “and we’ve passed two. There’s only one more before we come to St. Hilaire.”

“Then we’ve got to tidy up,” cried Sec. “The Seigneur won’t listen to us, if we look like tramps!”

Don called a halt and hands and faces were washed, clothes straightened and pig tails re-tied. “We still don’t look very pretty but at least we’re clean,” Nancy said.

“Who is going to be the speech maker?” asked Little Chief suddenly.

No one had thought of that and there was much argument over it. Don wanted to do the talking but Sec thought Sue would be the best because she was so fiery . . . Biddie preferred Little Chief because he had such elegant manners. . . .

Angus thought they should begin by introducing everyone. Sue liked that idea but Consy thought it stupid. “Get on to what you want as fast as you can,” he said. “The Seigneur won’t listen to us forever and besides we’ve got to be back at Four Winds tonight and it’s already getting late.” There was some argument over that, too, but finally it was decided that Sec should introduce them all to the Seigneur and Don should present their case.

“Now,” said Don, “for the last spurt. Let’s line up four abreast and arrive in style. All ready?” he called.

“All ready,” they answered.

“One, two, paddle!” he cried.

In and out, in and out, the paddles flashed. In and out, in and out—the speed quickened. The four canoes swept rapidly down river now, each paddler intent on arriving in style. The last bend was rounded without slackening pace, each bow in line with the others.

“Paddle up!” Don cried. They bent their backs to the stroke.

“Look!” cried Biddie. “Look! There’s a spire and some house tops, too!”

Off to their right, shining above the tree tops, rose the slender spire of the church at St. Hilaire, through the branches they could see roofs and a stone wall.

“Paddle up!” cried Don, “we’re almost there!”

A moment later there was a shout from Sue.

“A mill, a mill,” she cried. “There on the left!” But at the same moment there was another cry from Don, a cry of warning.

“Take care! There’s a spillway dead ahead.”

The warning came too late. There was a sudden surge of water under the canoes and before anyone could grasp what was happening they were swept over the crest of a long, shallow spillway. Sue dug her paddle frantically into the water, caught a crab, lost her balance, and the canoe began to tip. Just as it reached the end of the spillway it overturned and dumped Consy and herself into the river.

They came up spluttering and shouting warnings to the others but it was already too late. Everyone had dumped. The water was shallow but the current strong and paddles, cushions and equipment were soon floating down the stream. It was slippery work retrieving their possessions for the bottom of the river was covered with loose shale and they were still bare-footed. Everything that floated was easily picked up, but their shoes sank and it was quite a time before all nine pairs were found. There was a search too for the picnic basket. It had caught on a snag in the river bed and the sandwiches looked like porridge by the time they brought it up.

“Whatever happened?” asked Sue, as they waded ashore.

“I didn’t see the spillway,” said Don, “and we dumped, that’s all!”

They looked back up the river. From the shore, it was hard to see any difference of level that would have warned them of the spillway, but Don took all the blame. “If I’d been watching properly I would have known from the current that there was a drop coming.”

They assembled their belongings on the grassy bank and looked at each other.

“We certainly have arrived in style,” said Sue with a giggle and that set them off. They laughed until they cried. Lovely, elegant Sec looked like a drowned lily. Her hair had become loosened from the pig tails and hung about her in wet streaks. Biddie was like a little wet squirrel, with her dark curls close to her head and her brown face and shining eyes; but no one could think of words bad enough to describe the appearance of the rest of them.

“We must dry ourselves and find the Manoir,” said Sec. But the towels were wet and they couldn’t even dry themselves!

“Look,” gasped Nancy. Running along the shore towards them were two men in livery and after them, coming down a flight of stone steps set into the stone wall, an elderly maid.

“Is anyone hurt?” one of the men called. “Anyone lost? What happened?” They listened with nods and smiles of quick understanding as the children told of their adventure.

But from the elderly maid came no such sympathy. They had laughed too loudly, she said crossly, and made such a commotion that they had disturbed Madame, her mistress’s, siesta.

“And why do you laugh, when you have almost drowned?” she scolded. “And why are you here any way? Whose children are you?”

The two men tried to quiet her shrill voice but without much success. She was Lucette, Madame’s maid, they explained, and they were keepers on the Seigneur’s estate. The big one was called Louis, and the other Zephirin. They wore dark brown breeches and shirts, with green and brown striped vests adorned with silver buttons and on their heads green forage caps with a silver buckle.

“But what are we to do with you?” asked Louis. “You cannot enter the presence of the Seigneur thus and besides you will catch a cold if you wear your wet things long!”

“Send them home, send them home!” cried Lucette. “Toinette will not relish drying their things and if Madame sees them, you know what she will do!”

But just at that moment Sue saw a tall, elderly man coming down the steps in the wall. He carried himself as a soldier does and reminded Sue of the Constable of the Tower. Hastily she tried to wring the water out of the folds of her skirt and push her hair back. The rest tried to tidy themselves too but it wasn’t much good.

Lucette’s shrill scolding tongue ceased.

“It is the Seigneur,” she said quietly.

Undoubtedly it was the Seigneur and a very noble gentleman he seemed to Sue as he approached.

“Well, what is all this about?” he asked smilingly. “Who are you and where do you come from?”

Without waiting for Sec Timmie stepped forward. “We are the McKays and Devereaux of Montreal,” he said, “and we have three visitors with us, Sue Winston from England, Consell from the Yukon and John Cloud from the prairies.”

Gravely the Seigneur shook hands with each and made inquiries as to the upset in the river. He was so friendly that they all started to talk at once and crowded around him, chattering like anxious magpies.

From the bank a soft voice floated down.

“St. Georges, they are soaking . . . they will all catch dreadful colds. Bring them up to the house at once!”

The blue eyes of the Seigneur twinkled. “That is my wife,” he said. “For thirty years I have been doing what she says. You had better come along with me quickly. Louis and Zephirin will look after your things!”

At the top of the steps they found Madame de Sennevoy waiting. She was slender and graceful with silvery hair and dark eyes and laughed a great deal.

“Take the boys to the gun room, Louis,” she said. “Lucette, take the girls to the laundry and get them plenty of towels. I’ll find things for them to wear while their own clothes are drying!”

Lucette led the way while Madame dropped behind with the Seigneur. The stone steps led up over a wall and down into an herb garden and beyond in the soft summer light lay the Manoir of St. Hilaire.

It was a long, low stone house with rambling wings, dormer windows in the red roof and a square turret. There were gardens, too, and little courts sheltered by stone walls, steps everywhere going up and down,—into gardens, through the apiary, into a cutting garden . . . up into the rose garden, down into the laundry, and up again to a terrace overlooking the river. There was a soft hum of bees, the low songs of birds and the chatter of the river as it raced over a little rapids below the mill. . . .

Sue could imagine the sleeping princess living in such a place, waiting for the Prince who took so long to come. The Manoir wasn’t as grand as Windsor Castle, or Glentoch, Monty’s home in Scotland, but it had the same dignity and there was a warm friendliness and loveliness about it that made one want to stay there forever.

The lawns spread out to the forest and among the dark trunks of the trees curved a white road, outlined with the shining green of close clipped yew.

“Next to Four Winds, this is the loveliest place in the world,” Sue said. Lucette’s cross face broke into smiles. “The Manoir is one of the oldest seigneuries in Canada, and the most beautiful,” she said. “You should ask the Seigneur to tell you about it, but let us get you dry first”; and she bustled busily down the steps into the laundry.

“Toinette,” she called. “Toinette!”

Toinette was a fat little woman, gay and friendly, and very like Rose-Marie-Ange. She didn’t seem to mind a bit leaving her ironing to help Lucette with the wet clothes. Another maid came down with an armful of bath robes and slippers.

“They are Mam’zelle Marguerite’s,” she said. “Madame thinks they may do!”

Lucette sighed, Toinette sighed, and both looked as if a shadow had fallen over them.

“Who is Mademoiselle Marguerite?” asked Sue.

“The Seigneur and Madame’s daughter,” Lucette answered. “And lovely as a rose,” sighed Toinette; “and ripe for picking!” Both maids sighed deeply again.

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Sue.

“Nothing,” both women answered together, and made such a bustle about helping with clothes and hair and hands that Sue knew that there must be something quite the matter with Miss Marguerite.

“Off you go,” cried Lucette. “You will find Madame on the little terrace beside the river. There is sun there to dry your hair.”

Wrapped in bath robes much too large for them and with shoes in which their feet slithered around, the girls trotted across the court and up the steps to the terrace.

There they found Madame de Sennevoy sitting in the sun; beside her lay Babette who had been combed and brushed by Zephirin. The boys joined them clad in garments belonging to the Seigneur, much too large and too long. On their feet were sandals which flapped noisily as they crossed the stones of the terrace.

“Now,” said, the Seigneur, seating himself beside his wife, “let us hear your tale.”

Little by little, in impetuous outbursts, they told their story. The Seigneur looked very grave throughout and Madame de Sennevoy murmured sympathetically from time to time, but when she heard of the threat to cut down the pines at Four Winds her dark eyes flashed with anger.

“St. Georges,” she exclaimed, “you must do something to this monster, this Agent! What wickedness! Your poor Aunt, my heart aches for her. St. Georges, do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” he said, “but let us have the whole story first!”

But when the story was told the Seigneur shook his head gravely. He was sympathetic but not encouraging. “This is a bad business,” he said. “I remember your Aunt, Miss Cecilia Devereaux, very well, and I knew her Grandfather. He presented the prizes at the Royal Military College at Kingston the year I graduated and got my commission in the army. He was a most distinguished gentleman. I hardly know what to say to you. These lumber people are difficult to handle. I should like to think it over tonight and discuss it with you again in the morning!”

There was a gasp of dismay from everyone.

“We can’t wait, sir,” said Don. “We have to go back to Four Winds tonight. Aunt Sassie’ll think we’re drowned if we’re not back for supper!”

“And besides, Paul and Bill will be waiting for us at Joe’s Lake . . . we can’t let them down,” said Angus.

“But, my dear children, you cannot leave us now,” Madame de Sennevoy broke in. “Your clothes are not dry. You would catch cold and besides you must be hungry.”

“There is still a better reason,” said the Seigneur. “Look behind you!”

Over the forest the dark clouds of a thunder storm were gathering; the wind was rising. “You could never return in time tonight,” he said. “It would be too dangerous.”

“But Aunt Sassie . . .” stammered Sue. “She’ll be scared.”

“I think not,” the Seigneur said, rising. “I shall send Louis and Zephirin through to Joe’s Lake with a note for Paul Guerin to take to Miss Devereaux. I shall explain why you came to me and tell her that I will probably keep you for a few days, certainly until I have come to a decision over the best way for her to handle the Agent and the pines.”

“Will you please tell her not to forget that there are still eight days before the Agent will be back?” asked Don. “She won’t mind our being away so much then.”

The Seigneur nodded and went into the Manoir. “He has gone to write the note,” said Madame de Sennevoy. “Try not to worry. My husband will see that nothing happens to your pines . . . that is, if he is able.”

From the terrace Sue and the rest watched Louis and Zephirin disappear up the river. Louis carried with him the large square envelope that enclosed the Seigneur’s letter to Aunt Sassie. The children felt a little uneasy about staying over and decidedly awkward in their too-long bath robes and flapping sandals . . . but the sky was growing darker overhead and before long came the low growl of distant thunder.

“You see!” said Madame. “It would never do for you to be caught in such a storm!” She stood up and looked towards the forest. Running swiftly across the lawn came a young girl of seventeen or eighteen.

“Our daughter, Marguerite,” the Seigneur murmured, while his wife called to her to hurry. Big rain drops were already falling when she reached the terrace and the whole party moved inside to the library.

Marguerite de Sennevoy was dark haired and lovely, with soft brown eyes and skin like a lily. Her hands and feet were exquisitely small, Sue noticed, and she moved with the light grace of a butterfly. But her beauty was marred by her expression, for Sue could see that she had been weeping.

She kissed her mother affectionately and turned to the children. “Where did you all come from,” she asked, “and what are you doing here?”

Madame de Sennevoy explained and presented each in turn. . . . “They will be with us for two or three days,” she concluded.

“Not in those clothes, I hope!” protested Marguerite. “Mother, they’re dreadful! Can’t we find anything better for them to wear?”

Madame de Sennevoy shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “Their own clothes are heavy and soaking wet. They won’t be dry and ready to wear until the morning!”

Marguerite stood looking at them, her pretty face still showing traces of tears. “I know!” she exclaimed. “The attic,—there are trunks and trunks of things up there. We won’t be able to go outdoors because of the rain, so let’s have a dress-up party, like we used to when I was little!”

Madame de Sennevoy’s eyes filled. “I wish you were little now,” she murmured, opening a desk from which she took out a small purple velvet bag. “The keys to the old trunks are all here,” she said. “I’ll call Lucette to help you.”

“Come along everyone,” called Marguerite. She passed her father in the hall but neither by look nor voice did she give any sign that he was present.

A narrow, winding stair led upwards from the hallway and this the children climbed with some difficulty, tripping over their long bath robes, losing a shoe or sandal with almost every step. Lucette was waiting for them on the attic landing. She held a couple of candle lanterns in her hand, and a heavy iron key.

“Open up,” commanded Marguerite, now as gay as you could wish. The key turned stiffly in the lock and the door creaked open on its hinges.

“It has hardly been opened since you came home from the convent,” said Lucette. “It’s rusty from lack of use!” She raised one of the lanterns above her head and they followed her into a long, low room that lay under the roof. There were small dusty windows at either end and great oaken beams stretched across the ceiling. The air was dry and musty, with strange gusts of sweetness. Sue sniffed. There was potpourri somewhere, sandal wood and sweet grass, too.

Don opened the windows and cool, damp air rushed in. But in spite of open windows and the lanterns, it was a shadowy place. Gradually their eyes became accustomed to the gloom and they could see great stacks of trunks, chests of drawers, boxes and bags, copper utensils of various kinds, dark with verdi-gris, old lamps and leather trunks, velvet covered cases and tin boxes, dusty account books, spinning wheels, an old armoire, chipped and broken, a baby carriage, a case of old pistols, an old silk hat, bunches of dusty herbs hanging from the rafters, a doll’s broken tea set, an old fiddle, sweet grass baskets, a set of ivory chess men.

Outside the rain hammered on the roof and through the windows dripping pine boughs could be seen. There was a chime as of fairy bells every now and then.

“Do you remember them, Lucette?” called Marguerite. She ran down the long room. Hanging from a peg above the window were a set of musical glasses . . . strange foreign looking strips of glass painted with gay designs of flowers and birds. When the wind stirred the glasses, they struck each other and gave out a silvery chiming.

“I hung them there just before I went to Paris,” said Marguerite. “Do you remember—we had a dress-up party and Charles was here and wore the Compte de Bretagne’s uniform. . . . And now—” she paused and flushed deeply; “now everything is hateful!” She struck the musical glasses angrily and set them clashing.

Sue wondered what could have happened to make the lovely Marguerite so deeply angered. She wondered, too, who “Charles” could be . . . and whether Aunt Sassie would miss them . . . and whether Louis and Zephirin would mind the rain . . . and then forgot everything in the fun of rummaging through the trunks.

“Each man for himself,” called Marguerite. “Every one of you must find a costume to wear to dinner tonight. Open anything you want to, I’m going to do the same.”

Such a banging and such a sneezing! Every time they lifted the lids a cloud of dust would rise but inside the open trunks everything lay in order. There were brocades and satins, velvets and gold lace, uniforms and cocked hats, peasant costumes and baby’s clothes, tea gowns and feather boas, hats and caps and shawls, boxes of dried rose leaves, orange spice balls, riding habits and breeches, aprons and liveries . . . and there were little cries of “Look at me” and “Isn’t it pretty!” “Could I wear it?” There was a clanking now and then as the boys discovered old fire arms, short swords and spurs.

And always the beat of the rain upon the roof. Sue’s heart sang softly. It was good to be here with these ancient things, good to be touching the loveliness of lost days, good to be inside in this dim, exciting attic instead of beating across an angry lake. She lifted a dress of lilac brocade. It had full panniers of a deeper hue and a tightly laced bodice; a little fan of mother of pearl was attached to the waist with a tarnished silver cord. Sue wondered who had worn it first.

Sec found a gown of daffodil yellow. “Do you think I could wear it, Sue?” They held it up and together they decided to wear the daffodil and lilac gowns that night. “That is, if they can be made to fit,” cautioned Lucette.

Up here with her young mistress, Lucette was a different person. She was all smiles and very helpful in choosing gowns. It was she who found the lilac shoes for Sue and showed her how to stuff the toes with tissue paper and cotton so that she could wear them that night. It was Lucette, too, who brought out the courtier’s suit of faded blue for Little Chief and took the ruffled shirt and promised to press it for him. Marguerite grew happier as the afternoon wore on but she was more like an April shower than a summer day. All would be serene and happy until she found something that reminded her of other times, and then her eyes would fill with tears. She was, Sue decided, a most temperamental person!

In a bedroom on the floor below the girls tried on their dresses. Everything was too long and too large, but Lucette told them a needle and pins would hold them together for the night. Soon the girls were all sewing busily, while the boys went off to the gun room to polish swords, buttons and spurs.

“There’s a box of side combs and high back combs in the chest near the musical glasses,” said Marguerite. “Will you get them for me, Sue?” She was dressing Nancy’s hair high on her head.

Sue and Sec went back to the attic together. By the lantern light they found the combs and behind the chest a long tin box. “We haven’t opened that,” Sec said. “Let’s look!”

The box was lined with faded blue tissue paper, fold upon fold, and in the centre lay a dress of old ivory brocade and lace. It looked as if it never had been worn. “I wonder how I’d look in it,” said Sue. . . . “I’ve half a mind to take it down and try it.” But it seemed so fresh and lovely lying there that she laid the papers back and shut down the lid.

They sewed and polished and brushed and pressed and ironed until Madame de Sennevoy came up to see them. With her came a maid carrying an enormous tea tray and they all had tea sitting on the floor of the upstairs hall. Madame told them that the Manoir was one of the oldest in New France, which was what Quebec was first called. It was built by the first St. Georges de Sennevoy, on land granted by King Louis the Fourteenth of France. “Our family has lived here off and on ever since,” she said. “Sometimes we have been rich and sometimes poor, once our allegiance was to France, now it is to England. Though our tongue and name are French, we are English in all things that matter.

“These costumes you’ve found belonged to our family at various periods. Fifteen years ago we did the house over entirely. The attic had been sealed and when we opened it, we found these lovely old clothes and much of the furniture in the hall downstairs. They are very precious to us, so take good care of them when you come down to dinner.”

Sue thought dinner would never come. Lucette brushed her hair until her head was sore, but at last Marguerite came and piled the red curls on the top of her head, pinned her into the lilac gown, and fastened the elastic that held the high heeled slippers on her feet. Sue turned slowly in front of the pier glass. “I look as grand as I feel,” she said, and watched while Sec was laced into her daffodil frock. Nancy wore a Brittany peasant’s gown, a soft blue skirt and bodice with a black velvet corselet laced with ribbon, the skirt banded with black velvet, the kerchief and apron of fine tucked and frilled net. Her shining hair was covered by a net cap.

Little Biddie was a picture. None of the costumes was small enough for her, except a page’s suit. The knee breeches were of pale blue satin, the doublet and cloak of darker blue, and on her curls she perched a rakish little cap with a brilliant buckle and feather.

“It’s almost dinner time,” said Marguerite. “Are we all ready?”

They followed her out into the hall.

“Mercy me!” said Sue. Standing in the hall was a group of young noblemen. Sue blinked her eyes. It couldn’t be the twins. Yet it was the twins, in kilts and velvet jackets, silver buttons and jewelled dirks. Beyond in the scarlet uniform of a British Lieutenant of the days of Wolfe and Montcalm, Consy stood, as completely at his ease as if he had worn regimentals all his life. Timmie wore the blue and white of the French drummer boy of long ago. But it was on Little Chief that all eyes came to rest. He wore the brocade and broadcloth of the Compte de Bretagne. The frilled shirt had been freshly pressed, a shining sword was at his side and his hair had been lightly powdered. He held himself as a young King does, gracious but aloof.

Marguerite curtsied gravely. Little Chief bowed elegantly . . . and from somewhere came the sound of quaint, stilted music.

“That’s Mother playing,” Marguerite said. “We’ll go down the stairs to the great hall and through into the drawing room.”

Leading with Biddie, Marguerite started down the wide staircase. The long skirts were difficult to manage and the four girls were glad to walk slowly. The music grew louder as they crossed the great hall, with its heavy dark furniture and yellow damask curtains. Their heels beat a tattoo of uncertainty on the shining floor. “I hope I don’t fall on my nose,” whispered Sec. “I can’t think why anybody wants to wear high heels.”

From behind an arched door the music sounded clearly. Marguerite paused. “When I open it, let’s go in, one at a time,” she said. “Sue, you lead off!”

The little group waited while Marguerite listened to the music. Then on a rising rhythm of sound, she swung wide the door. Sue took a long breath and moved slowly forward. For a fleeting moment she stood there, wondering if all she saw could be true. A long low room with palest lilac walls stretched before her. The floor was covered with an Aubusson rug of delicate shades of rose and lemon. Curtains of violet brocade spattered with a design of yellow buttercups hung at the windows, the gilt chairs were covered with faint shades of violet velvet or damask. Over the fire place hung a great gilt mirror and the candle scones of silver gilt were backed with smaller mirrors. The only light came from candles, hundreds of them it seemed, all of them flickering softly. At the piano Madame de Sennevoy sat playing an old French gavotte. Half way down the room the Seigneur waited, grave and distinguished in his evening clothes.

Sue moved into the room, head held high, candle light falling on her burnished curls and lilac gown. Around her wrists were violet bands with little nosegays tied to them. Sue lifted her skirt with hands that turned the nosegays outwards and sank in a formal curtsey to the Seigneur.

“Mademoiselle Susannah,” he murmured with a deep bow. . . . Sue rose and passed on to the piano and sank again in the same deep curtsey to Madame de Sennevoy.

Sec followed. “If Sec gets any prettier before she grows up,” Sue thought, “you won’t be able to look at her at all. She’ll just blind you.” Golden-haired, daffodil-gowned, the slender figure curtsied deeply as Sue had done and took her place beside Sue near the piano. One by one the others entered, each another perfect picture, but again it was Little Chief who was the complete success. He moved with a distinction that no one else had and when he bowed to the Seigneur, the two seemed set apart in a different world.

“Monsieur Le Compte,” the Seigneur smiled, “will you take Madame in to dinner?”

“I am greatly honored,” said Little Chief, and offered his arm to Madame de Sennevoy. Rapidly the Seigneur paired the boys and girls off, and finally offered his arm to Sue, which she knew was a great compliment. They followed the others across the great hall and up a short flight of steps into the dining room. The long wide table had flowers in the centre and around it were immense yellow covered chairs. All the glass was amethyst, the candelabra held pale candles. . . . It was an entirely grown up dinner. No children’s food at all, and there were seven courses. At first the nine visitors from Four Winds were all very shy and found it difficult to talk, everything was so grand; but Biddie’s misadventure with a pin put them all at their ease.

“I moved the pin to let out the waist band of my breeches, so I could eat my dinner comfortably,” she said, “and now I’ve lost it somewhere and if I stand up, I’ll lose my breeches!”

They all laughed and no one more than the Seigneur who sent for another safety pin. From there on everyone talked at once in the cheeriest fashion possible . . . that is, all but Marguerite who would chatter gaily for a while and then lapse into a moody silence. She looked very lovely in her black velvet, hooped skirt frock, but also very unhappy.

The dessert was ice cream and angel cake and afterwards there were peaches, which the Seigneur showed them how to peel and dip in sugar and lemon. None of them had never seen this done before but they all felt very much at home with each other and slightly sticky . . . and there were finger bowls of amethyst glass, with bits of scented verbena floating in them, which left their fingers fresh again.

Madame de Sennevoy caught Sue’s eye and nodded and the girls all rose. There was a hasty readjusting of gowns, for only basting thread and pins held them together, but by the time the Seigneur and the boys rejoined the ladies in the great hall they were all serene again. The rugs were pushed back and they danced the Sir Roger de Coverley and the Lancers. They tried to dance a polka, but their shoes clattered off when anything more violent than a formal dance was attempted, so they returned to the Lancers.

Finally Sue’s feet ached from the high heels and she sank on the stairs for a rest. Little Chief came over. “Tired, Sue?” he asked. She shook her head until the curls danced. “Not a bit, but my toes ache in these funny slippers.” He sat down on the steps beneath her.

Sue looked at him again. “Little Chief,” she said, “I wouldn’t know you. You are so handsome in those clothes and so elegant in your manners. I’m terribly proud of you!”

“I’ve never been happier than I am at this moment,” he confessed. “To be here with you all and to have taken Madame in to dinner is one thing . . . but you knew me before any of this happened and you tell me you are proud of me. That makes me even prouder.” Little Chief stopped speaking and looked sternly ahead.

Sue understood. He was just too happy to say anything more. She watched the stately figures of the dance, the pretty flushed faces of Sec, and Nancy, the grace of Marguerite. Last night she had been in a tumbledown old stone house on an island in a backwoods lake. Tonight she was in a home surrounded by the wealth and beauty of centuries of leisure. Sue felt like a story-book princess.

She turned to Little Chief. “Do you remember that night on the prairies?” she asked. “You and me by that tepee and those dreadful men with their evil faces. Do you remember how hot and dirty and tired we were?”

“I can never forget it,” Little Chief replied. “It is because of that night that I am here now! I never told you before, but your Monty is responsible for my being here. Just before he married Miss Vicky he saw Father Hugenard of the Qu’appelle Mission. He said he felt grateful to me for taking care of you on the night we captured Joe La Biche . . . that he wanted me to have an education and would pay for it. You know the rest. Father Hugenard brought me to the Jesuits and placed me in the charge of Father Le Mercier. He has been more than a father to me. He has taught me all he would have taught his own son. He made me see from the beginning that I could only bring glory to my race if I met all the requirements of the white man and took my place among them with honor. This I have tried to do.”

Sue looked at him and smiled. No one knew better than she how far he had gone from the shabby tepee and greasy blanket . . . and what was even better—no one looking at this delightful boy would ever believe he had begun life in a roaming band of Indians.

“One more Sir Roger,” called Madame de Sennevoy and Little Chief led Sue forward.

Soon afterwards good nights were said. It had been a perfect day. Sue thought . . . all of it, as she gave a last glance down the stairs to where the Seigneur and his wife stood watching them disappear to bed.

Marguerite ran up to join them. “Come along Sue,” she said, “I’ll show you where your room is!”

Sue followed, wondering why anyone so lovely should be always on the brink of tears.

She asked Lucette about it while her hair was being brushed.

“Ah,” said Lucette. “It is a bad business. Plenty of sorrow and heart break for my lovely young mistress. . . . And none of it necessary. He is young and handsome. She is young and beautiful. I ask you, is it not reasonable that they should fall in love?”

“I should think so,” Sue answered. “Have they?”

“Such love as I have never seen,” murmured Lucette. “Every night my young mistress cries herself to sleep.”

“Mercy me,” said Sue, “that’s very bad. Crying makes your nose red, at least it does mine . . . but then I howl when I cry. Does Miss Marguerite howl?”

“Certainly not,” said Lucette crossly, pulling Sue’s hair with the comb purposely, as Sue well knew. “It is not ladylike to howl. . . .” Lucette sighed deeply and then continued: “There are only three days left. Thursday he leaves for Panama and it will be three years before he is given a furlough. In three years, what chance has Mam’zelle Marguerite? I tell you, Miss Sue, the first girl that lays an eye on Monsieur Charles in Panama will marry him snap off, like that!” Lucette snapped her fingers so close to Sue’s ears that she felt as if a firecracker had exploded.

The story sounded exciting, but confusing. It seemed that in the village of St. Hilaire there was a blacksmith called Jacques Auclair, at whose smithy the Seigneur’s horses were shod. Auclair was a very fine old man and his wife Marie was the best housewife in the country side. For years she had made all the conserves for Madame at the Manoir. The Auclairs had a son called Charles, and what a son! The best boy that was ever born! He was always first at school! He never lied, was never noisy, always clean, always polite, in fact, an angel. Privately Sue thought he sounded like a first class prig. When he was little he used to accompany his mother to the Manoir and play with petite Marguerite . . . later, when she learned to ride, she would stop by the smith’s house to have a glass of milk with Madame Auclair and her son, a bit of cake perhaps. The two children were inseparable.

Then the young Charles attracted the notice of the priest in the village. He was given extra lessons and the first thing everyone knew, Charles had been whisked away to the Jesuit School and then on to McGill University in Montreal, where he graduated as an engineer. He was so brilliant that a big firm employed him at once and now he was leaving for Panama on a three year contract. “They say he will go far,” Lucette concluded, “but of what use is that, if one dies of a broken heart?”

“Why is he going to die and why is his heart breaking?” persisted Sue.

“Quiet yourself,” said Lucette, “until I am through. Charles came home this spring to spend a time with his parents and my young mistress returned from France. She saw him! He saw her! . . . and the fat was in the fire! Love came to them at once, beautiful young love.”

“Mercy,” thought Sue. “She’s going to sing in another minute!”

“No one noticed that they were in love,” Lucette confided. “The Seigneur and Madame did not think that the son of a blacksmith would aspire to the hand of the Seigneur’s daughter. But one morning two months ago, the Seigneur found out about it.”

Lucette moaned softly. “It was terrible! The Seigneur ordered Monsieur Charles off the place and forbade him ever to return. He then forbade Mam’zelle Marguerite to ever see him again. But Mam’zelle is also her father’s daughter and as fiery tempered as he. She knows she cannot marry in Quebec without her father’s consent and that he refuses to give. She knows, too, that her father cannot prevent her seeing Charles and so she meets him every day . . . but there are only three days left!”

“But what’s wrong with Charles that the Seigneur won’t let her marry him?” Sue asked.

“He is not a gentleman; he is the blacksmith’s son.”

“What has that got to do with it?” asked Sue. “You said he was good looking, always clean, always polite, and kind and full of fun. . . . Isn’t that being a gentleman?”

“It should be,” sighed Lucette, “but it is not enough for the Seigneur. He wants his daughter to marry well, and a blacksmith’s son is not a good marriage for the daughter of one of the oldest Seigneuries in Quebec.” Lucette shook her head sadly. “I do not know what my poor young mistress is going to do.”

Sue turned in her chair. “Who would have thought the Seigneur was such a mean old thing?” she said. “I thought he was almost the kindest, nicest man I’d ever met.”

“So he is,” agreed Lucette. “But he has pride and a hot temper. He said things he never meant, things that burned the heart of my young mistress. She will not even speak to him now. If he could find some way to give her her desire without too much damage to his pride, he would jump at the chance. He is longing to give in and doesn’t know how. I could weep for him.”

Lucette put down the hairbrushes and gave Sue’s curls a final pat. “Get into bed now and I’ll tuck you up,” she said. “I’ve talked too much, but I can think of nothing but these broken hearts.”

Lucette turned down the lamp wick and blew out the light. Sue could hear the rain outside on the eaves, the wind sighing in the trees. There seemed more to growing up than just long skirts and hair dressed high on the top of one’s head. She wondered what Charles could be really like. She felt he must be nice or Marguerite wouldn’t be bothered with him.

She tried to feel as if her heart was broken and couldn’t get a response. Her heart was thumping busily away and yet she felt heavy in her mind. She wiggled and twisted and turned in her bed. Here were four people terribly unhappy; the Seigneur and his wife, and the two lovers. She wished she could do something for them. She thought of Aunt Sassie losing her pines at the end of her life and Marguerite losing her lover at the beginning of her life. Sue wept into her pillow. It had been a long day and an exciting one. She was very tired but she couldn’t sleep because she couldn’t bear unhappiness. If there were only something she could do to help!

Clippety clop, clippety clop, clippety clop . . .

It was a sound Sue loved above all others, a sound she felt would waken her if she were the Sleeping Beauty. The sound of a horse’s feet.

Clippety clop! . . .

Sue hopped out of bed and ran over to the window. There was no sign of a horse anywhere, just broad smooth lawns, trees and flowers. She reached for the bathrobe she had worn yesterday afternoon. Wrapping it around her, she slid her feet into a pair of slippers and stole down the stairs where she gently pulled back the big bolts of the great hall door.

It was cool and fresh outside after the rain and the grass felt soft and springy under her feet. She was a bit stiff but she knew that would wear off during the day. She wondered where the horse was she had heard and wondering, wandered across the lawn to the woods and followed the white road that led to the great iron entrance gates. Peering through them, she could see the spires and roof tops of the village of St. Hilaire. She shook the gates but they were locked so she turned back and followed a grassy path through the woods. There were hare bells and ferns and spikes of scarlet lilies, now and then clumps of red pigeon berries, tiny pine seedlings struggling upwards, and over all the sweetly acrid scent of the pines.

Past a little pool draining noisily over some stones, past a great clump of hedge heliotrope, taller than Sue herself, past a crooked turn in the road, until quite suddenly she came upon the high stone wall she had seen from the terrace yesterday. It was ivy covered here and set into the wall in a little niche was a slender figure of a Madonna. Her robe was a vivid blue. In one arm she cradled the Babe and the other held the folds of her robe. Someone had visited her already Sue noticed, for in the curve of the arm were freshly picked roses. She was such a pretty Madonna. Sue laid her bunch of hare bells at the feet of the small statue. In the ivy encircling the niche she found a bluejay’s nest. A baby bunny peered anxiously at her from behind a low bush. She laughed. It was so gay, so sweet. She trotted on.

Further along the wall she found a heavy oak door. She pushed it open and went through. It led into a little wood of silvery birches. Somewhere she could hear water falling and there was another more familiar sound still. Sue listened. . . . She knew that sound. It was a horse nibbling grass. Quietly she stole forward. The nibbling ceased, there was a light whinnying. Tied to a tree behind a clump of pines, a young chestnut stood looking at her. Sue pulled some grass and held it out. Gently the soft nuzzling lips took it from her hand. She scratched behind the chestnut’s ears and patted him.

Where there was a horse, she knew there must be a rider, especially when the horse had a saddle.

Sue continued her adventuring. She hadn’t far to go. She heard a man’s voice and then a girl’s. She peeked through the trees. It was Marguerite and a young man who was holding both her hands and talking to her, low and anxiously. Sue took a good long look at the young man. If this was Charles Auclair, then Sue thought any girl would want to marry him. He was tall and fair, with dark blue eyes and he carried himself like a soldier. He was smartly dressed in the right kind of tweeds and looked for all the world like one of Monty’s friends in Scotland. “If it wasn’t that I’m going to marry a Mountie,” Sue told herself, “I wouldn’t mind marrying him myself—that is, if he’d wait for me.”

She gave the chestnut another handful of grass and then went back through the gate in the wall and continued her exploring. There was a dove cot with a thatched roof where the doves sat sleepily preening their feathers . . . and beyond a cutting garden massed with flowers lay a vegetable garden, protected by stone walls. From beyond them came the sound of restless hoofs. Sue followed the sound. Inside ivy covered stables she discovered a dozen box stalls. From all but one a shining silken head turned towards her. There were low whinnyings and stampings as if the horses were urging her to come to them. Sue knew and understood their antics. They wanted sugar. She opened the door into the tack room. There were saddles and bridles there and spurs and crops, and row upon row of ribbons, but no jar holding lumps of sugar. She investigated the trophy case. Not a speck of sugar anywhere. She went back to the stable and filled her arms with hay to give a handful to each horse in turn. There were two Belgian draft animals for farm work, great blonde beauties with braided tails and manes, two pair of carriage horses, black and gray, and five hunters.

They looked down at her in surprised fashion. “I suppose I do look funny in this white bathrobe . . . ,” Sue began but whatever she intended to say was forgotten in a fury of approaching sound. Someone was riding towards the stables at full gallop, lickety-split, and almost at once the small chestnut she had seen in the woods thundered in through the open door, bearing Miss Marguerite on his back.

Sue watched her slide down from the saddle and, sobbing, lean against the chestnut’s neck as if for sympathy. The suddenness of the arrival had frightened the other horses and it was a few minutes before they stopped plunging and stamping in their stalls. By the time Marguerite slipped out of the box stall, all heads were turned anxiously towards her.

“Sue! What are you doing here?”

“Exploring,” Sue answered. “Why are you crying?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You don’t need to,” Sue answered. “I know. You’re crying because your Charles is going away and you can’t marry him.”

“Who told you?”

“Lucette. She says your heart is breaking!”

Marguerite sat down on an upturned box and buried her pretty face in her hands. Sue noticed a pink rose at her belt, the same kind of pink rose that had been tucked into the Madonna’s arm, the same pink rose that Charles had worn in his lapel.

“Why don’t you marry him?” asked Sue.

“He won’t marry me,” wailed Marguerite.

“Mercy, mercy me,” said Sue. “This is awful. He’s one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen. You’re missing something, if you miss him. What ever have you done to him?”

“Nothing!”

“Then why won’t he marry you?”

Marguerite lifted her head. “My father doesn’t think Charles is good enough for me because he’s the blacksmith’s son. My father is a hateful, mean man. He was shockingly rude to Charles and forbade him to come to the Manoir again. He told Charles that he was trying to marry me because I was an heiress. He said the most dreadful things!”

“What do you care?” interrupted Sue. “If they’re not true, I’d just go off and marry him anyway, if I were you.”

“I would,” said Marguerite hotly, “but I can’t marry in Quebec without my father’s consent.”

“Why don’t you go somewhere else?” asked Sue.

“I would,” sighed Marguerite, “but Charles won’t. He says he won’t marry any girl whose father refuses to receive him. He says he doesn’t approve of hole-in-the-corner weddings. . . .”

“I don’t either,” exclaimed Sue. “I like a good big splash, veils and trains and cake and ice cream and bridesmaids and rice and old shoes.”

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” wailed Marguerite, starting to weep again, but this time they were tears of anger.

“Here am I,” she said stormily. “Caught between two men, both of whom say they love me and both of whom are too proud to consider anyone but themselves.” Marguerite caught up her crop and without another word swung out of the stable and along the path.

Sue looked at the horses. “Mercy,” she said, “I’ll never get married, if it takes all this bother.” But the horses shook their heads as if in disbelief.

Sue hurried back to her room. There she found her clothes lying on the bed, washed and ironed and crisp. Even her shoes were dry and so snow-white with pipe clay that she hardly recognized them for the travel stained pair she had worn yesterday.

Lucette was serving breakfast on the terrace when Sue came downstairs and there she also found the others from Four Winds. The Seigneur joined them just as they were finishing the last piece of toast. Don asked him whether he had been able to decide about the Agent and the pines.

The Seigneur shook his head. “I am afraid I can’t give you much hope,” he said. “If the Agent wants to cut the timber on Four Winds, it looks to me as if he has the right to do so, but there’s a new act on lumbering that I have yet to read. I’ll let you know my final opinion this afternoon.”

Breakfast over he took them all down to the stables to see the horses. The Belgians were gone and in the stable yard an old groom was burnishing the coats of the pair of blacks.

“I ride every day,” the Seigneur said. “It keeps me fit and the horses exercised. Would any of you like to ride?”

Little Chief’s voice rang out. “I should, sir!”

“Do you know much about horses?” the Seigneur asked.

“I ride every day at school,” Little Chief answered.

“Take your choice then,” said the Seigneur, smiling.

Little Chief chose a light bay, opened the stall and slipped a bridle over her head. He led her out. “Where shall I take her, sir?” he asked.

The Seigneur pointed down a leafy lane. “Ride down about a half a mile,” he said, “and then turn right into the fields. You’ll find some jumps there if you want to try them. Aren’t you going to use a saddle?”

But Little Chief didn’t answer. He was already up and away down the road, walking his horse slowly and talking to it softly.

The Seigneur took Sue with him across the gardens to where an open field held the barred gates and hedges for practice riding.

They leaned on the fence quietly, not talking. Sue didn’t know what to say to this courteous, charming man who was really such a black villain at heart. He had seemed so distressed when he told them he was afraid the Agent had the right to cut the pines and yet Marguerite had told her he was a hateful man.

Across the field they saw Little Chief on the bay. He trotted her slowly for a time, increased the pace and then rode towards them at a swinging canter.

He reined in for a moment, his eyes shining, his face aglow. “She’s a beauty, sir.”

The Seigneur nodded. “Let her out,” he said.

Round the field Little Chief rode at a gallop and then came up the jumps, with an ease and style that brought the Seigneur to his feet.

“Look at that!” he cried. “Look at that! I’ve never seen such riding. It’s superb. And bareback too!”

He turned to Sue. “What’s the lad’s real name?” he asked. “You children call him Little Chief.”

“John Cloud,” Sue answered proudly.

The Seigneur cheered as Little Chief swept past them again, horse and boy completely one.

“Well ridden, Cloud,” he called. “Well ridden!” He turned to Sue. “If I had had a son,” he said, “I would have wished him to be like this lad. . . .”

Sue’s heart stood still. What was it Lucette had said? The Seigneur would like to give in, only he doesn’t know how! Was this a chance to help the lovers and the Seigneur too?

“Well,” Sue heard herself gasp out, “you can have a son like him if you want.”

The Seigneur turned, surprise in his voice and eyes. “What do you mean, Sue?”

“You could let Marguerite marry Charles and then you’d have a son-in-law, which is next best to having a son.”

The Seigneur’s face darkened with anger and his voice was as cold as ice.

“Someone has been gossiping,” he said. “While there is no reason why I should explain my attitude over my daughter’s unfortunate infatuation for this young man, I realize I am doing her mother and myself an injustice if I do not make my position clear. This young Auclair is the blacksmith’s son. He is lowly born and can never acquire the habits of thought and action to which my daughter is accustomed. That is why I have forbidden the marriage. Had he been an aristocrat like young Cloud I would have no objection. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, you do!” said Sue emphatically. “And you think John Cloud is an aristocrat?”

“Obviously,” replied the Seigneur.

“Well,” said Sue slowly, “John Cloud is what you’d call a savage, a red Indian! When I knew him first, he was dirty and greasy and horrid to look at, but Monty, who was a Mountie, had him properly educated, gave him all the advantages he could, and now look at him!”

The Seigneur was very pale.

“Little Chief told me all about it last night,” Sue went on. “He said Father Le Mercier warned him that he would have to be more perfect than those who had the luck of a family back of them . . . that he would have to watch himself always!”

Sue took a long breath. “And any way, Charles looks just like you and Monty and Little Chief. He wears the same kind of clothes . . . I’ve seen him . . . and he’s just as proud as you are. This morning he told Marguerite he wouldn’t marry her.”

“What?” thundered the Seigneur.

“Yes,” insisted Sue, “I know all about it. Marguerite wanted to go outside of Quebec to marry him but he said he wouldn’t marry any girl whose father wouldn’t receive him and under no circumstances would he marry a girl in any hole-in-the-corner wedding. And I call that a pretty spiffy sort of a gentleman, no matter who his father is!”

“Go away,” said the Seigneur, “and let me alone. Go away, I say!”

Sue moved some little distance away but she was wound up and she knew it would be her only chance of helping the lovers. “Why don’t you go down and see Charles?” she shouted. “Why don’t you go down and tell him you’re both wrong . . . and stop poor Marguerite from crying all the time!”

There was no answer. Sue ran back to the Manoir. The Seigneur was a very angry man and Sue knew that she had broken all the laws of hospitality and good manners, but somehow she felt that this was a matter beyond all ordinary considerations.

The boys were playing tennis with Marguerite and Sue joined Sec to watch the game all morning. She wondered if Aunt Sassie was all right . . . she wondered what the Seigneur was going to do. . . .

Luncheon was served on the terrace. They waited a long time for the Seigneur and then sat down without him.

“I can’t think where he can be,” exclaimed Madame de Sennevoy.

“I saw him go out the big gates when we were playing tennis,” said Don.

Sue’s heart bumped around inside her for about the millionth time that morning. Supposing he had gone to see Charles!

“You remember, he was going to hunt up something in a law book about lumbering rights,” Don continued. Sue’s heart sank. From where she was sitting she could see the great gates, now wide open.

Luncheon was almost over when she saw two men pass through the gates. She waited.

Could it be?

No . . . it couldn’t.

Yes, it was . . . it was the Seigneur and, unless she was crazy, it was the young man called Charles who was with him.

A curve in the road hid them. Sue waited but there was no sign of them again. Perhaps she had been wrong and it wasn’t Charles. She fidgeted.

“Sue, my dear, aren’t you hungry? You haven’t eaten anything.” Madame de Sennevoy was looking at her.

“Yes, I have . . . no, I haven’t,” Sue stammered, “I mean, no thank you, Madame. I am not hungry.”

“Well for cat’s sake,” said Angus. “Sue not hungry? I expect the world to blow up at any moment.”

Sue hardly heard him. The rest were laughing at her, she knew, but there was something more important happening at the moment than raspberry short cake. She wished they would keep still.

“Aren’t you feeling well, Sue?” asked Sec.

“I’m perfectly all right,” snapped Sue. “Why should you all turn on me!”

“You’re so fidgety.”

“I feel fidgety,” Sue muttered grouchily.

Where had the Seigneur gone and who was really with him? Sue would have given every one of her red curls to know.

“Leave her alone,” said Marguerite sympathetically, “and don’t tease her.”

The door from the library suddenly opened and there stood the Seigneur, looking at his wife. He seemed tired. “Will you come in, please, Julie,” he said. Madame de Sennevoy rose and left the terrace.

Sue looked at the table laden with its fruit and cake. “I’d like to scream,” she said to herself, “and kick the table over too. If I only knew what was going on!”

But nothing happened for a long time, then the door opened and the Seigneur called his daughter. “Marguerite, will you come here, please?”

Marguerite paid no attention. It was as if she hadn’t heard him. Madame de Sennevoy appeared behind her husband.

“Will you come here to me, my dear?” she said. They were almost the same words but Marguerite rose and went to her mother . . . and the library door closed behind the three.

“What is it all about?” asked Consy. “There seem to be fireworks in the air.”

“Come close,” whispered Sue importantly. “I’ll tell you what has happened.” Leaning across the table, they all listened to her adventure of the morning.

“Oh, Sue!” exclaimed Sec. “How could you say such awful things!”

“Somebody had to say them,” answered Sue, “but I think I shall burst if I don’t find out soon whether Charles is in that room or not!”

“Don’t be a goose,” said Don. “It’s a lot more important that we find out what’s going to happen to the pines.”

They all waited anxiously for the door to open. After a long time Madame de Sennevoy called them.

“Come, children,” she said.

Marguerite was standing in the window, between her father and the tall young man Sue had seen that morning, and the three were smiling happily.

Lucette carried in a tray with glasses and decanters full of golden liquid. The Seigneur moved forward. “I want you to join me in welcoming my future son-in-law,” he said.

It was all very merry. Everyone laughed a great deal over nothing and later the children watched Charles lead his Marguerite out across the lawn, followed by the Seigneur and his wife.

Lucette told them all about it.

“The Seigneur had a change of heart this morning,” she said. “I always knew he would, of course. He is the best man in the world and the kindest. He went down to the village and paid a formal call on the Auclairs, the blacksmith and his wife, and asked to see Charles, their son. There was a little difficulty then, but when Charles came, they talked of marriage, of his work and prospects, and the Seigneur asked Monsieur Charles to return with him to the Manoir so that he might give him his daughter’s hand himself.”

“How lovely!” broke in Sue.

“It’s just like a fairy tale,” cried Biddie.

Lucette made little humming noises in her throat. “But there is more,” she confided. “Tonight the Seigneur goes to Montreal to arrange for the wedding. Today is Tuesday. On Thursday morning, my young Mistress becomes the bride of Charles Auclair. She will be married here, not the grand wedding she deserves, but just a simple one.”

“Won’t she have a trousseau?” asked Sue. What on earth was the fun of getting married without a trousseau.

“It will be sent after her,” said Lucette.

“Won’t she have a wedding dress?”

Lucette shook her head. “There is no time.”

“Where have they gone now?” piped up Timmie.

“To make a formal call on Monsieur Jacques Auclair and his wife.”

Don took Sue and Sec aside. “Don’t you think it’s time we left for home?” he asked. “We’ll only be in the way here now and the Seigneur will never think of the pines with so much on his mind.”

“Oh yes, he will,” said Sue. “I’ll have a talk with him before he goes to Montreal.”

Late that afternoon the Seigneur sent for them all. “When I’m in Montreal,” he said, “I will see Edward Bain, the head of the Bain Lumbering Company. We were at the Royal Military College together and I’ll try to persuade him to leave your pines alone. As the law stands, Miss Devereaux’s grandfather apparently sold the timber outright and it now belongs to the Bains. Lumbering companies, however, do not like trouble and I hope we can adjust the matter. But remember, it all depends on the good will of Edward Bain. Legally, the Agent seems to be within his rights.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Don gravely.

“And I want you to remain for the wedding,” the Seigneur continued, looking at Sue. “You have brought great happiness to this household and we should like to keep you with us until the festivities are over.”

The children looked at one another, all of them wondering about Aunt Sassie. “I’m afraid we can’t, sir,” said Don, “much as we’d like to. Aunt Sassie’s all alone.”

“She’s got Rose-Marie-Ange and Pearlie-Baby with her,” argued Sue, “and she knows we can’t leave until the Seigneur finds out about the pines. We might as well stay, Don.”

“I think you had too,” smiled the Seigneur, “and I’ll telegraph your aunt that you’re staying with us for the wedding. I’m sure she’ll understand!”

The Seigneur went back into the house and as the little group broke up, Sec beckoned Sue. “I’ve got an idea,” she whispered. “Let’s go up to the attic.”

Once there, Sec led the way over to the far corner and opened the long tin box.

“I see,” exclaimed Sue, “I see! But let’s take it downstairs, Sec, where it isn’t so dusty.”

They shut the lid and carried the tin box down to the floor below. There they lifted out the ivory brocade dress. It was so simple that both girls felt a little disappointed—just a full skirt and tight bodice with a frill of lace at the neck and tiny puffed sleeves.

“Still,” said Sec, “it’s better than no wedding dress at all.”

“But what will we wear?” asked Sue. “We can’t go to a wedding in sailor suits and the boys in their knickers and shirts. They haven’t even one coat between them.”

“I know,” said Sec. “Do you remember the dress Nancy wore last night? The peasant costume? Well, there’s a whole trunkful of them up there!”

Up the stairs again the two girls tip-toed and brought down the costumes. With some alteration these could be made to fit.

“Let’s find the bride,” cried Sue. “We’ll show her her wedding dress and bridesmaids’ costumes.”

Sec shook her pretty head. “Let’s find her mother and Lucette,” she said.

It had been a pretty teary day, Sue decided. Marguerite had begun the day with tears of rage and disappointment and was now standing in the ivory brocade, shedding tears of happiness. Madame’s eyes were full of tears, too, and so were Lucette’s. The dress almost fitted. It had to be taken in at the waist and the hem let down . . . and then to make everything perfect, Madame brought out the wedding veil of soft, cobwebby lace that had been worn by six generations of de Sennevoy brides. “We’ll mount it on tulle,” said Lucette, “and she’ll look a dream!”

“Would you like to see our bridesmaids’ dresses?” Sue asked.

“Your what?” asked Marguerite.

“Our bridesmaids’ dresses! You can’t be properly married without bridesmaids and this is all we can find to wear.”

Sue thought Madame de Sennevoy would never stop laughing, but the bride-to-be seemed to think it a perfect arrangement.

“These are Brittany peasant costumes,” she said flushing, “and I am marrying the great grandson of a Brittany peasant. . . . There are men’s costumes to match these upstairs. Why shouldn’t the boys wear them and act as Charles’ attendants!”

Such a commotion of pinning and pressing followed as was never seen. Lucette did the fitting and the girls sewed all day Wednesday until tea time. There was a rehearsal then of the wedding procession. Trunks had been labelled and flowers picked and placed in great masses throughout the house by the time the Bishop of Montreal arrived to spend the night.

They were all sent to bed early but before they went upstairs, the Seigneur told them that he had seen Edward Bain. “He tells me that this new Agent is a cracker-jack,” he said, “but he is annoyed that there has been any trouble. There seems to be some doubt about who owns the timber on Four Winds, but Mr. Bain has assured me that no trees will be touched on the island until he can go up and see for himself what the situation is. You need have no immediate worries. And now good night and happy dreams! Tomorrow is the great day!”

“Good night, sir! Happy dreams!”

Marguerite turned to Sue. “Good night, Susie,” she said. “I was quite wrong when I told you Father was hateful. He isn’t at all. He’s the kindest, nicest, sweetest father that ever lived.”

The four girls sat cross-legged on the floor of the gun room. Between them stretched a white sheet and in the centre of it a mound of rose petals. Fast as their fingers could fly, the girls stripped great baskets of roses of their blossoms and showered the petals into the sheet.

“Not a thorn must go into the petals,” Lucette had warned them. “There must be nothing to mar the smoothness of the bridal path of my young mistress.”

It was a nice idea, Sue thought, but she wondered if the boys would ever stop carrying in more roses. The petals were to be strewn in the path of the bride as she returned to the Manoir.

Lucette bustled in. “Where is Master Don?”

“He’s helping with the evergreen arch.”

“And the others?”

“Consy and Little Chief are in the garden,” Sue began, when the two boys appeared.

Lucette grabbed Consy. “Run to the village,” she said, “and bring me back two balls of good stout twine. Madame wants a garland of lilies around the stairs and we have run out of twine.”

Consy disappeared. Little Chief was starting to help the girls when Lucette returned. “Run to the village,” she cried, “and bring me back more white tissue paper. We haven’t enough to finish packing the bride’s trunks.”

Little Chief disappeared.

“In exactly three hours time,” Sue exclaimed, “we will be starting for the church.”

It had been a busy morning. They had been called early and had helped Lucette with the beds. They had watched the blacks and grays drive down the road to the station to meet the morning train, which brought guests from Montreal, old friends of the family who had been invited to the wedding. They had helped cut the flowers to decorate the little church just outside the Manoir gates, where the ceremony was to take place and all of them had run messages here, there and every where. The whole place was in the delightful confusion that Sue loved. Everybody excited and happy and slightly cranky because there was so much to do and so little time to do it. No one had seen the bride. No one would until she came downstairs dressed to depart for the church.

“In exactly two hours time,” Sue continued, “we will go up and dress, and if there’s one thing I like more than another it’s being a bridesmaid. It makes you feel important!” She told them of Miss Vicky’s wedding at the Mounties’ Barracks in Regina; of Matilda’s wedding in the Yukon.

Almost all the roses had been stripped when Consy and Little Chief returned.

“Who do you think we found in the village?” Consy asked. “Two Mounties!”

“No!” screamed Sue. “Where? How?”

“They’re at the Mayor’s house and you were right, Sue. That camp in Joe Lake was a Mountie Camp.”

Sue jumped up. “You finish the roses, Sec,” she cried. “I’m going down to see those Mounties! I won’t be long.”

Sue and the two boys were off like the wind. “Don’t be late for the wedding,” Sec called, but there was no answer from the three running down the drive. It was only a few minutes before they reached the Mayor’s house and there, sitting on the verandah, were two tall young men with straight, flat backs and bronzed skins. Sue looked at them for a minute and then pointed a finger at the tallest.

“I remember you,” she said. “You lent me your pill box the morning I got my red coat and rode with the Commissioner. I’m Sue Winston!”

The tallest Mountie laughed. “Of course I remember you, Miss Sue; but you’ve grown a bit since then. I heard you were in England!”

“So I was,” answered Sue, “but I’m here now and what I’d like to know is, where are your red coats?”

“In the house,” smiled Constable Nelson. “We don’t wear them fishing,” he added with a twinkle. “Are you doing any riding, Miss Sue?” he continued.

“Indeed I am,” Sue answered, “only this time it’s not a pony, I ride, but the logs. It’s great fun. I’ll teach you, if you’d like to learn!”

They all laughed at that and he told Sue that he and his friend, Constable Beck, were on leave and had come to stay with the latter’s cousin, the Mayor of St. Hilaire.

“But what were you doing at Joe Lake?” queried Sue.

“Trout fishing,” replied the Constable. “We had some grand sport there.”

“If you really want to see some fishing, why don’t you try Lac de Lune?” asked Consy. “The black bass there are marvellous.”

“They just jump right into your boat,” said Sue enthusiastically. The two men laughed again at that but made more inquiries. Were there good places for camping? What kind of bait was used? Would bass rise to a fly?

“You might come and stay at Four Winds and find out,” Consy suggested. “That is, if Miss Devereaux wouldn’t mind. There’s a little beach on the island where you could pitch your tent.”

Sue clapped her hands. “That would be lovely. I know Aunt Sassie wouldn’t mind. Please say you’ll come.” The two men promised they would “think it over.”

“I’d like to stay until you really promise to come,” Sue said, “but I’m one of the bridesmaids and I’ve got to run and get dressed. Everyone in the village is asked to the wedding,” she added. “Of course you are coming!”

They shook their heads.

“Not coming!” exclaimed Sue. “What’s the matter with you? I never heard of anyone not coming to a wedding when they’re asked!”

The Mayor, a round cheeked, rosy little man with a short white beard came out on the verandah, and with his help and the boys’, Sue was able to persuade the two Mounties to put on their scarlet jackets and attend the wedding.

The Mayor bowed fussily to Sue. “Rest assured, I will bring them with me. I am coming up to the Manoir in about an hour to offer my services to the Seigneur. It is not often that a son of the people marries into the aristocracy and this is a great day for St. Hilaire.”

Back in the gun room, Sec was filling the bridesmaids’ baskets with rose petals and the others were waiting for news about the Mounties. Sue told them everything that had happened.

“I’m glad you asked them to visit us,” Don said. “I only hope they come. It might be a good thing to have the Mounties around, in case we have any trouble with that Agent.”

“Why should there be any trouble with the Agent?” Sue asked impatiently. “You know what the Seigneur said; that Mr. Bain would come up and see to things himself. No friend of the Seigneur would do anything mean to Aunt Sassie!”

“I hope you’re right,” Don answered, “but I’m scared at being away so long. I don’t think we should even stay for this wedding!”

“And miss being a bridesmaid!” broke in Sec. “Well you can just go back by yourself then, Donald McKay! I’ve never been a bridesmaid before and nothing is going to interfere with my being one today!”

“All right,” protested Don. “All right, have it your own way, but we leave first thing tomorrow morning!”

The girls carried their baskets of rose petals into the great hall and went up to dress.

An hour later they stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Marguerite. The boys had on dark blue trousers with short velvet coats embroidered with bright colors and under them white fluted shirts. They said they felt like sissies but Sue knew they were as vain as peacocks. Each of the girls wore a different colored skirt, rose, green, yellow and blue; but the velvet corselets and the kerchiefs, aprons and caps of stiff white net were alike. They carried the baskets of petals on their arms. Babette’s collar was wreathed with daisies and tied with a huge white bow.

It was exciting waiting for the moment when the bride would appear. They watched the guests from Montreal leave the house, with long dresses sweeping the gravel of the winding drive as the ladies walked down and through the gates to the little church outside the entrance. They saw the Mayor arrive in his robes of office, attended by the two Mounties, resplendent in their uniforms, scarlet coats and all. They heard him offer his services to the House of Sennevoy in a flowery speech and crave permission to lead the bridal procession.

Just for a moment the Seigneur hesitated and then smilingly gave his consent. Madame de Sennevoy joined the children and adjusted a ribbon here, a bow there, before leaving for the church.

The church bells began to ring.

Down the stairs, at last, came the bride. Over her dark curls and ivory gown floated the lace veil, mounted on clouds of tulle. She carried a little prayer book of ivory colored velvet.

“It is the one her mother used, the day she married me,” the Seigneur said.

The Mayor came forward and kissed the bride’s hand and complimented her and pompously took up a position in the great doorway.

“We are ready,” he said, as if for all the world he was more important than the bride.

Timmie followed him, the four boys next, in pairs, the bridesmaids behind them and then the bride, on her father’s arm.

There was no music, nothing save the chimes ringing out from the little church, the birds and the ever present song of the pines.

Down the curving driveway, out through the great gates, along the little road and up the three steps that led into the church the procession passed. The Mayor went in first but the two Mounties, brave in their scarlet and gold, remained on either side of the steps, and as the bride and bridesmaids passed, saluted smartly.

Within the little church that hardly held one hundred people the windows were open and the sills banked with flowers. Two prie-dieus stood at the foot of the altar and at one of them, smiling happily, waited Charles Auclair.

Outside the church, the villagers stood listening to the service; bright faces in turn peering through the windows, soft voices joining in the prayers. The whole church seemed full of happiness. In the left front pew sat the Seigneur and Madame de Sennevoy. On the right Monsieur Jacques Auclair and his wife Marie, both in their best black Sunday clothes. Sue looked at Monsieur Jacques for a long time. He was dark; his face stern but kindly and there was a dignity about him that became him well. Sue felt that the Seigneur and he were equally proud men.

There was a soft rustling in the church, the Bishop lifted his hands over the bridal pair and blessed them. The bride and groom rose. Charles Auclair took a sprig of myrtle from the prie-dieus and handed it to his bride. With a pretty gesture, she repeated his action. Later Sue learned that the exchange of myrtle seals the vows of all Brittany brides and grooms.

Hand in hand Charles and Marguerite came down the aisle, followed by the Seigneur with Madame Marie Auclair, and Monsieur Jacques with Madame de Sennevoy.

But before the procession left the church there was the sound of music and laughter outside and the words “p’tite Marguerite” repeated many times. Through the open door Sue could also see flashes of scarlet. The two Mounties were clearing a passage for the bride and groom.

“I don’t know what we’d have done without the Mounties,” Sue whispered to Sec. Sue was right, for Marguerite was so beloved that the whole village was waiting to wish her good luck and happiness; but Constables Nelson and Beck soon cleared the way so that the bridesmaids could scatter their rose petals. The procession began. It was led by an old fiddler in a smock and flowing tie. With him were two flautists and two other fiddlers. They played a gay, joyous, lilting tune, a tune played and sung at the weddings of the Brittany peasants since they first came to Canada so long ago.

Running along beside them were the children of the village, throwing their flowers before the bride’s tiny feet, singing and laughing.

On the steps of the Manoir stood the entire household staff, all wearing the livery reserved for formal occasions, a livery of blue and red with silver buttons. The oldest of them all, the chief woodsman, made a little speech of congratulation and as the bride and groom moved up on to the terrace there were murmurs of “si beau! si belle! si brave!”

The bride and groom were beautiful and they were brave. Sue thought, but not more beautiful or brave than the father and mother who had hoped for quite a different type of wedding.

There were chicken patties and sandwiches and cakes and ices and toasts and speeches and much laughter and helping everywhere, two scarlet coated Mounties—which seemed just right to Sue.

Great trunks came down the stairs and were piled into the farm wagon. They were decorated with white bows and labelled “Madame Charles Auclair.”

The two grays came prancing up to the door, the old coachman and footman in full livery on the box.

“Goodbye sir, and thank you. I’ll take good care of her!” The bridegroom shook the Seigneur’s hand.

“Goodbye, Madame Marie, I’ll take good care of him.” The bride kissed her mother-in-law.

“Goodbye, goodbye!”

The horses tossed their heads, the wheels turned and Monsieur and Madame Charles Auclair were off to the train, already whistling around the bend.

There was dancing then on the terrace until the guests from Montreal took the late afternoon train home. Only the Bishop stayed on to chat.

Don was full of news. “I’ve talked to the Mounties again about fishing Lac de Lune and they’ve promised to go back with us in the morning. We’ll pack our canoes and cache them beside the Mounties’. They’ll help us portage them up above the spillway now, so that we can make an early start. I’m still scared of something happening while we’re away.”

The girls went inside to change their dresses, and carry them up to the attic where they were folded carefully away.

In the window, the fairy glasses were swinging gaily, as if in honor of the bride and groom.

All in all, Sue felt it had been a great adventure.

The sun was up when the children left the Manoir in the morning, but with the exception of Lucette, only the sun saw them leave. She had called them and given them hot chocolate and toast and three enormous baskets—“Things for your journey,” and “Things for your Aunt,” and “Things for those beaux garçons, the Mounties.” She seemed very tired and a bit old and looked as if she had been crying. She said she had; that all one did was bring up children and see them go away.

“But don’t you have fun with them while they’re around?” asked Biddie.

“Truly,” answered Lucette, “and I am sorry to see you go. Perhaps you brought us luck! I don’t know. I only know the Seigneur changed his mind after you came!”

They bade her goodbye and sent further messages to the Seigneur and Madame. Above the Manoir grounds they found the two Mounties waiting and the five canoes ranged along the river bank.

Angus and Constable Beck paddled together and Constable Nelson took Biddie and Timmie in with him. Although the paddling was now up stream, the journey home went faster than had the trip to the Manoir. The Mounties were a great assistance and the portages nothing at all with such strong brown arms to help.

At noon Lucette’s basket labelled “Things for your journey” was sampled and found to be full of delicious picnic food. Ham, cut thin and spread with mustard and rolled in swirls like pencils, so you could eat it in your fingers; fresh rolls full of creamy butter, a pot of wild grape jelly, some cheese and little pancakes put together in pairs with maple sugar and butter filling; two halves of chicken in a special parcel and labelled “pour les beaux garçons.”

“That must mean you,” said Sue to the Mounties. “Lucette never called any of us ‘beaux garçons’!” The two men accepted both the chicken and the compliment with a grin.

Joe’s Lake and Beaver Pond, the little streams and portages vanished behind them until at last, in the late afternoon, they came to Rabbit Lake and after it, Deep Bay. Across the mouth of the bay, they found a new boom of very heavy logs. These were hard to cross and they were glad of the extra strength of the Mounties to hold the boom sticks down in the water until each canoe had floated over. Far up the lake could be seen a dark brown mass of logs.

“It must be the big drive,” Don said. “And look at the camp!” Even at that distance they could see it was full of men, crowds of them. But on Four Winds the pines still waved their giant boughs.

Don sighed with relief. “Am I glad to see those pines!” he said. “I was so afraid something might happen when we were away!”

As they paddled across the lake, they could hear the men’s voices shouting, quarreling, the sharp clang of the anvil and the whinnying of the horses. There was smoke pouring from the cook-house chimney and the booms were still strung to Four Winds.

When they reached shallow water off the island, they part paddled, part poled the canoes along the shore of the bay to the boat house landing. Babette jumped out of Sue’s canoe and scurried up to the house with yelps of happy homecoming. Hildred and Feathers came tearing down the path, followed by a smiling Aunt Sassie with Pearlie-Baby and Rose-Marie-Ange, to welcome the party home.

It was good to be back again and better still to see the look of relief on Aunt Sassie’s face when they told her that Mr. Bain had promised to come up and see the pines before anything was done to them.

“Then there should be no more trouble,” Aunt Sassie exclaimed. She greeted the two Mounties. “And now that we have the protection of these gentlemen, nothing can happen.”

Constable Nelson frowned. “We are on leave, Madame,” he said, “and we have no power to act except in the North West Territories. In Quebec, we are just civilians, like yourselves; neither more, nor less. If you need police help, you would have to call upon your local police.”

Aunt Sassie smiled. “Still, we are glad to have you on the island and I hope you will have supper with us.”

The two men declined. They were sorry, they said, but they had to get supplies, and as soon as they pitched their tent, they would go into Blue Sea, spend the night there and return the next day.

Rose-Marie-Ange gave Sue the island news. Paul and Blabbering Bill had been most attentive to Madame Devereaux, the note and telegram from the Seigneur had kept her from being nervous, and only yesterday had rivermen started pouring into the camp on the mainland. “No one knows when the Agent will return,” she said, “but it cannot be long now, for the big drive is already coming into Lac de Lune.”

Supper was just over when Paul and Blabbering Bill arrived with the milk and mail. They had much camp gossip to relate. No one had heard from the Agent, not even Red Antoine, but he could be expected any day now that the big drive was coming down. Blabbering Bill had seen the two Mounties and had cleared a channel among the logs for them so that they might reach open water with their canoe. It was all very pleasant and friendly and when Don told of the Seigneur’s visit to Mr. Bain, Paul was as happy as a sand piper.

“Ah, my old master is a wise one,” he said proudly. “I thought he would save the day for us and I am glad all went so well. Now, let me hear all about p’tite Marguerite.”

Paul was told about the wedding, and Blabbering Bill sighed and said that weddings were happy moments when the right people married! Sue thought it was a good thing he hadn’t seen Rose-Marie-Ange making eyes at the two Mounties. He also told them that Miss Julie Zotique was well and happy, and that if he was late bringing the mail, it would be because of extra work. “There are now over two hundred men in the camp and more coming!” he explained.

When the two rivermen left, Aunt Sassie suggested early bed, but the girls wanted to tell her about their bridesmaids’ dresses and the boys their adventures on the canoe trip.

They were still sitting on the verandah, talking, when they saw Blabbering Bill returning. His hair was tumbled and he was breathing heavily, as if he had been running.

“What’s the matter?” asked Don.

“I bring you bad news,” Blabbering Bill answered, looking anxiously at Aunt Sassie.

“What kind of bad news?”

“Terrible news!” The little man moaned. “The Agent is back!”

“The Agent!” the children repeated after him. They couldn’t believe their ears.

“Yes! He reached camp one hour ago and already he and Red Antoine are at each other’s throats. It is a bad business this, a very bad business!”

“What happened?” asked Don sharply. “What’s he going to do?”

“That’s what I have come to tell you and it’s a dreadful thing I have to say!” Blabbering Bill turned to Aunt Sassie. “Madame, the Agent has ordered the men to cut down every pine on this island first thing in the morning. I do not know for sure, but I think he has heard that Mr. Bain is coming up, and he knows that unless he cuts the trees before the Boss arrives, he’ll never cut them. We men know that, too . . . but if we lift one finger against him, we’ll be fired . . . and we need our jobs. If I was found here, Madame, I should be fired for sure, but I had to come! I had to warn you what that black-hearted villain is up to!”

The little group looked at Aunt Sassie. She sat there almost as if she were made of stone. Two or three times her lips parted and then, in a dry, thin voice, she thanked Blabbering Bill for his kindness in bringing her the news and for the risk he took in coming.

“I don’t know what can be done now,” she said. “It is too late to reach anyone before morning!”

There was a sudden outburst of shouting from across the bay. “I must go, Madame,” Blabbering Bill cried hastily. “There is some trouble in the camp and I may be missed. If there is any more news, I will be back!” He ran down the path. No one followed him. No one felt able to move or speak.

They had come home so happy, so sure that all was well and now their world had gone topsy-turvy again. They knew, too, that there was nothing they could do against the brute strength of the rivermen and their axes; they knew even better what the loss of the pines would mean to Aunt Sassie’s gentle heart.

Her voice broke the spell of shocked silence that held them all. “Rose-Marie-Ange, take Pearlie-Baby to bed . . . the rest of you, leave me for a while. I’ll call you when I want you.”

They followed Don down to the pines, where the branches high above them seemed almost to brush the stars. “What can we do?” cried Nancy. “We can never let these pines go! We must do something before morning!” Her voice released their tongues. Furiously they discussed the problem, all of them talking at once, vowing vengeance in one breath and asking each other how it could be accomplished with the next.

It seemed clear to everyone that the Agent must have heard of the Seigneur’s visit to Mr. Bain and was determined to get the pines down before his arrival.

“But the Agent will swear he knew nothing of Mr. Bain’s visit,” Don exclaimed, kicking savagely at the gravel path. “He’ll say he only acted in the interest of the Company; that he needed these pines for extra heavy booms; that they were growing so near the water he could drop them right into the lake and save the extra trouble of moving them. He’ll have the excuses ready all right!”

“It’s a plain spite case and nothing else,” exclaimed Angus. “He hates Aunt Sassie for getting rid of him the morning he tried to bully her!”

“It’s more than that,” said Consy. “He knows he’s doing a mean thing, and he knows the whole camp is against him. But what started the real trouble was when Aunt Sassie told him he wasn’t a gentleman and therefore couldn’t know how to behave like one.

“That’s what got his dander up,” Consy continued. “If you’re a gentleman, people can say you aren’t and it doesn’t seem to matter; but when you aren’t a gentleman, it sticks in your throat to be told you’re not!”

“But what are we going to do about it?” demanded Little Chief impatiently. “Talking won’t save Aunt Sassie’s pines!”

“I wish we lived in a fort,” cried Biddie, her dark eyes bright with anger. “We could pour boiling oil down on them when they arrive, like they did in the olden days!”

Sue and Sec stood close together. They both felt very small and helpless and very frightened. The more everyone talked, the worse everything seemed. And up on the verandah, a little old lady was sitting all alone.

“We’ve got to help,” wailed Sue. “But we’re in an awful jam!”

And then something clicked in her head. The words brought back to her a prairie morning and a tall Mountie bringing back an Indian child that had been stolen from the Mission School. He had found the child in a hostile camp, had picked him up, and ridden back alone. Sue had asked the constable then if he had been scared. “Sure I was,” he replied, “but what could I do? When you’re in a jam, you’ve got to show a bold front. I bluffed them into thinking I wasn’t scared and I won!”

“I’m scared to death now,” said Sue to herself, “and I’m also in a jam . . . but if I could only put on a bold front. . .” She buried her head in her hands and tried to think.

“Don,” she said finally, “listen! When they chop the pines down, which ones will they tackle first?”

Don scowled.

“The ones nearest the water, stupid! The axe men will drop them right into the lake, one after the other, and float them away. It saves labor.”

Sue went back to her thinking.

“Don,” she said in a few moments, “have we any ropes?”

“Miles of them,” he answered.

“Any potato sacks?”

“Oh dry up!” said Don rudely. “We’re not playing games! We’re up against it!”

“Sure we are,” snapped Sue, “and we’re going to get out of it. We’re going to bluff our way through! Listen while I tell you what to do!”

Leaning forward, she half whispered her plan. At first the others scoffed. Next they told her it might be a good idea and then they examined it seriously. They argued and fought and schemed and disagreed but little by little the plan grew until Timmie suddenly went wild.

“I can’t wait for Aunt Sassie to call us,” he cried. “I’m going right up to tell her now!” He was up and along the path like a happy deer.

They found Aunt Sassie sitting in the starlight where they had left her. It was difficult to make her understand. She seemed set apart from them, as if she were in an unhappy world of her own and their whispering voices worried her. At Don’s suggestion, they all went indoors.

Sitting at the dining room table, Sue told her plan all over again. From the very first, Rose-Marie-Ange liked it and it was her admiring approval that brought Aunt Sassie to attention.

Don took up the story then, Consy added his ideas, and each one joined in pleading for permission.

Aunt Sassie shook her head. “Dear children,” she said, “I’m sorry. It is a clever idea, but far too full of danger. . . . I know you’ve planned it all for me, but the pines aren’t worth the risk of any of your precious lives. I must say ‘no,’ and I say it with reluctance, for I can see how much you want to help me. But it must be ‘no’!”

They began again. They pleaded and argued. Sec and Biddie wept but Aunt Sassie was firm. “I should be unfaithful to my trust to your dear parents,” she said, “if I allowed as much as a hair of one of your heads to be injured . . . and I know there is danger in your plan!”

Don stood up. He spoke slowly as if he was thinking each word before it came. “Aunt Sassie, you say you would be unfaithful to your trust to our parents, if you allowed us to follow this plan . . . but you had a trust before this . . . a trust to Great-Grandpapa Devereaux that you would protect the pines. That is the first trust and you’ve got to keep it first!”

He stared hard at Aunt Sassie while he spoke, but they all saw the signs of obstinacy rising in her; the flushed cheek and set lips and suddenly Don lost his head and pounded the table with his fist.

“You’ll do as I say!” he shouted. “I’m head of this house. I’m the oldest McKay here. I’m head of this family when father’s away. I know what’s best!”

Sec’s voice broke in across Don’s. “What if we do get smashed up a little bit? What difference does it make? We can be patched up and the pines can’t!”

“What if we do get our legs broken?” shrieked Sue. “They can be mended. Daddy’s had his leg broken twice and you should see him dance a Red River jig!”

“I’ll biff anybody on the nose that touches the pines,” shouted Biddie.

“Nobody’ll dare lay a finger on us,” bellowed Consy.

“This plan is one of wisdom,” cried the clear voice of Little Chief. “It leaves our enemy defenceless.”

“This’ll fix ’em!”

“Leave it to us!”

“We know best!”

“We don’t care what happens to us!”

“No one shall touch the pines!”

The children stormed on and on, until Don’s voice cut across the uproar again.

“Leave this to me,” he shouted, pounding the table again. “I’m boss here and I want quiet. I tell you, Aunt Sassie, this idea’s right. It can’t go wrong, and right or wrong, we know it’s our only hope and we’re going to do it!”

The louder he grew, the more Aunt Sassie’s eyes sparkled, until at last she smiled and when Don paused for breath, she completely took the wind out of their sails by saying admiringly:

“Donald, you speak just like your great-grandfather! He would fly into the same rages, ‘justifiable rages’ he called them. Perhaps your indignation with your old Aunt Sassie is ‘justifiable.’ I don’t know, but I have nothing more to say. Now tell me again exactly what is it that you want.”

“I want your big trunk straps,” said Sue, “and your best down pillow.”

“All the rope in the house,” added Consy.

“Some strong rubber bands,” said Little Chief.

“A couple of boat cushions and a rug,” said Sec.

“A handful of rice,” said Timmie.

“Some pepper,” said Biddie.

“A potato,” said Angus, with a grin.

“A box of humbugs,” said Don.

Rose-Marie-Ange leaned across the table. “Tell us all the parts we are to play,” she said, “and just what each one of us does!”

They lowered their voices for fear anyone might hear them, even though all the windows were closed and the stone walls of the old house were two feet thick.

There were times when Aunt Sassie shuddered and grew faint with terror and, as the last detail of the plan was completed, she rapped nervously on the table.

“Just one thing,” she said. “I’ll do everything you tell me. If the plan succeeds, you’ll be responsible for its success. If it fails, I will be responsible for the failure, for I am older and should know better than to allow you to do it. But children, I am afraid of your unruly tongues! Promise me faithfully, each one in turn, that no matter what happens tomorrow, no one will speak one single word, except to me or to Rose-Marie-Ange!”

“You’re crabbing our style, dreadfully,” murmured Sue.

“I mean to,” answered Aunt Sassie tartly. “I shall have quite enough to do without worrying about your manners and there are times when your tongues run away with you. Now do you all promise?”

“Yes, we do,” said Don, “all of us!”

It was funny the way Don suddenly seemed to have grown up. Sue wished tomorrow had begun!

Sue wondered if the door would ever open. She felt as if there were a lump of ice in her tummy and her knees shook so that they banged each other. Her teeth chattered, too.

It had all seemed so dashing the night before but now, in the dim hall, with only a candle to light the shadows, she was not so sure. She remembered those big axe men she had seen that day at the landing; those swift, silent men of such height and strength. How could she ever have thought she could beat them? How could she have been so conceited?

“I wish I had some courage,” she thought, “but I only seem to have it when I’m planning.” She wondered if the others felt as she did. Not a word had been spoken since they rose. They had dressed swiftly, gone to the kitchen, gulped down the porridge Aunt Sassie had been so insistent about and taken their places on the hall stairs. Don and Angus, with Little Chief, had slipped out the side door. No one was to move until they returned. The signal for action was to be the opening of the front door. Silence, Don had said, was imperative.

Consy sat on the lowest step, holding in his arms Pearlie-Baby, who crooned gently to herself. It was all very mysterious to her. She had never had a humbug at five in the morning before and she liked it. Consy had never played with her before and of all the boys, she liked Consy best. Sue giggled quietly. Consy looked so uncomfortable, holding the small child who pulled his hair in the sheer delight of being with him.

Sec sat on the sofa under the stairs, her arm around Nancy. Biddie and Timmie looked like gnomes, their hair was so dark, their eyes so bright.

Aunt Sassie sat before the hall door, her tiny figure taut under the heavy sweaters and coats she wore to keep off what she called the “night air,” though how she could make that out was beyond Sue, as it was already morning.

Rose-Marie-Ange leaned against the dining-room door. In her arms she held a strange-looking bundle of rugs and pillows and straps and ropes.

“I feel all higglety-pigglety,” Sue told herself fearfully. If only the Mounties hadn’t gone away the night before! If only they were with them now! She felt in her pocket for her hankie and her fingers touched something hard. Her heart gave a big thump. It was her crest, her Mountie crest. She pulled it out and gave it a quick rub against her skirt and pinned it on her sailor blouse. She hadn’t worn it all summer. It had looked like ‘showing off’ to wear it and she knew how the McKays hated show-offs. But this morning was different. She had taken it out of her trunk when she was dressing. Even then she suspected that she was going to have need of all her courage. She touched the crest with light fingers. The lettering said, “Maintiens le Droit,”—Maintain the Right!

Sue felt better, even though her knees still banged and the lump in her tummy remained.

Pearlie-Baby cooed softly. She was trying to kiss Consy now. Sue fastened her eyes on the door. Would it ever open?

Silently, almost invisibly, it opened, letting in the dawn light, the fresh cool air. Silently they all arose. Single file, with Aunt Sassie in the lead, they followed the slim form of Little Chief out across the verandah, down the path, past the wharf and boat house landing, down the slope into the pine woods on the point. Here they separated.

At the tallest pine, furthest out on the point, Rose-Marie-Ange, Aunt Sassie, Consy and Pearlie-Baby stood still. The others took up their positions, each in front of a pine fringing the water’s edge. At the foot of each tree lay a coil of rope.

Rapidly Don and Angus tied each girl and boy to the tree decided on. The rope was twisted around their waists and knotted in front, but their arms and legs were free. No one spoke. At the tallest tree, Aunt Sassie watched Little Chief arrange the strange bundle Rose-Marie-Ange had carried. In position it looked for all the world like an Indian Papoose bag, which was exactly what they wanted. It was made out of a potato sack, three boards, two down pillows, some trunk straps and a hank of rope. Swiftly the rope ends were flung up over a bough, brought down again and knotted, then caught around the girth of the pine trunk. Into the secure little bag, Don lifted Pearlie-Baby. She was a bit bunty, though, and they had to slide her in with a thin board like a shoe horn; but Don coaxed and blandished and Aunt Sassie bribed with another humbug until the baby child was comfortable. The strangeness of everything seemed to amuse her, or perhaps it was the surprise of finding herself popular for once, for there were no complaints. All one could see were her smiling face and pudgy arms waving at Consy!

At the very tip of the point and nearest the water sat Aunt Sassie, while Pearlie-Baby crooned from the big tree beside her. On the right and almost touching Aunt Sassie was Consy, and beyond him Biddie, Timmie, Nancy and Angus. On the left was Don, and beyond him, Sec, Sue and Little Chief. They made a formidable half circle.

Rose-Marie-Ange tied Don and Angus, made a tour of inspection and reported back to Aunt Sassie. “All is well, Madame,” she said. “When that black-hearted villain arrives, he will have to chop everyone in two, if he tries to take the pines!” Her black eyes shone with excitement as she arranged the rugs and cushions under Pearlie-Baby’s tree and helped Aunt Sassie make herself comfortable.

“Shall we not talk a little now, Madame?” she asked. “Not one word has been spoken yet and it would let off steam if we could chat a little!”

“Only in whispers,” Aunt Sassie answered. “We do not want to spoil our surprise.” Aunt Sassie laughed softly to herself. There was a perkiness, an excitement about her that they all admired. The whispered conversation did let off steam, the ice in Sue’s tummy melted, her knees stopped banging, Biddie’s color came back and they all began to wish the axe men would come.

It was a well-laid plan, Sue thought. At this end, Four Winds narrowed to a sharp point and on it grew the largest and finest pines. Up the little slope to the level land above on which the house stood, there were more pines, all of them magnificent; not the perfect giants that fringed the point, but all so large and growing so thickly that no one pine could be chopped down without falling on another. As Don had said the night before, “The only way you can cut down the trees on the point is to cut the ones nearest the water first, float them away and then cut backwards up the slope!”

The sun was up now and Sue could see across into the logging camp clearly. There was a great banging of pots and pans in the cook house, the sound of voices, quarreling, shouting. The horses were led down to drink and the fresh flame of the forge blazed now and then. The men had breakfast and afterwards there was a sorting of tools, an argument or two, and then, coming across the cook-house raft to the boom that led to the old wharf landing, Sue could see the axe men.

“Here they come!” warned Rose-Marie-Ange quietly.

“Silence!” said Aunt Sassie in a sergeant-major sort of a voice that none of them had ever heard her use before. All straightened back against their trees and tried not to look frightened.

On the axe men came: twelve of them, carrying saws and axes. They were a sullen, ugly-looking group, unwashed, unshaved, with tousled, uncombed hair. They were over the crest of the little slope leading to the point before the head man noticed the children.

“Name of a name!” he roared. “What have we here?”

No one answered.

He came down the slope at a half run, followed by the others.

“What have we here?” he cried again. “What goes on? What’s all this about?”

Still there was no answer.

The men now crowded around the pines and from them came exclamations, laughter, growls and mutterings. Uneasily they edged forward and examined all the trees. Pearlie-Baby welcomed the newcomers with smiles and waving arms, but Sue noticed that not one of them came near enough to touch her or any of the others. It was almost as if they were afraid.

But the head man was disturbed and shook his head reprovingly.

“See you, Madame, this is one good joke. Yes, but it fools no one. The pines have to come down! You would not want the little ones chopped in two. No? Then, Madame, tell the children to loose themselves!”

There was no answer.

“Madame, you have no ears? Perhaps you are deaf?”

There was still no answer.

He tried again.

“See you, Madame! This Agent is a big man and strong. He has sent us over to cut down these pines. We must cut them down, Madame. If not, we are fired for sure! And after we go, others will come until the pines are down!”

There was no answer.

The men retreated to the crest of the slope and talked among themselves. It was quite clear that they were puzzled, quite clear that they did not like the look of things.

The head man came back alone.

“Madame, I implore of you! Give heed to reason! These pines belong to the company . . . the Agent is an angry man. He will stop at nothing. He will hurt you all, perhaps, but he will get his own way!”

There was no answer.

Growling deeply in his throat, like an old she-bear, he turned back and soon Sue could see him trotting along the boom to the camp. His men sat down under the trees and smoked and argued in low tones. One of them smiled slyly at them and waved. A half hour passed. Pearlie-Baby dozed comfortably. Suddenly Blabbering Bill came running along the boom and down the path towards them.

“What . . .” he began, and then, as he took in everything, he flung his hat into the air and danced a crazy jig of joy.

“Name of a dog!” he cried. “But you have cut the throat of that Agent! What can he do now, I ask you? What can he do now?”

They all looked hopefully towards Aunt Sassie but she shook her head and they remained silent.

Blabbering Bill explained that he had been sent over at his own request. “I could not believe my ears,” he said, “when I heard what was happening. So I said, ‘Let me go and talk to Madame Devereaux, I shall arrange things.’ The Agent let me come. I shall tell him, Madame, that your obstinacy is that of granite. Madame, I salute you!” And Blabbering Bill bowed elegantly and left.

But the noise that followed his return to camp was frightening. From across the bay came a sound like a herd of angry bulls, all roaring at once. Sue shivered. The axe men lying on the ground stood up. They seemed to be uneasy. Sue looked at Aunt Sassie. The spunky little old lady was standing beside Pearlie-Baby. Between her finger and thumb she held a humbug, prepared to stop Pearlie-Baby’s howls if anything happened to frighten her.

From the boom came the sound of feet again and suddenly the point was full of men, led by the Agent. He stood looking at Aunt Sassie and his face was dark with rage. Sue couldn’t help it. She just had to giggle. She was so frightened her teeth were chattering and yet it was so funny to see this horrible man and all his rivermen held up by an old lady and a pack of youngsters. There was nothing he could do, either. To cut the trees down he would have to cut each child in two and Sue knew he wouldn’t dare to do that. He couldn’t cut the trees back of the point for they would fall forward and kill someone. It was all just as they had planned. The Agent, in fact, was sunk!

He strode nearer to Aunt Sassie.

“Madame,” he said, “remove these children at once! I will not put up with this nonsense!”

Pearlie-Baby was wonderful. Everyone had been so nice to her, everyone so friendly, that she thought the Agent must be a friend, too. Taking the humbug out of her mouth, she offered it to him, all sticky and half eaten.

The men smiled and there were murmurs of “quelle jolie bébé, la belle petite, merveilleuse!” Sue thought the Agent would blow up! He repeated his order: “Remove these children!”

Aunt Sassie took out her crochet work.

The men moved uneasily. The Agent’s voice rang out again.

“Very well, Madame!” he said. “I shall leave you and your children to hang on those trees until you drop. My men will wait until then!”

He went back to the camp. The axe men winked, smiled at the children and lay down under the trees and went to sleep. Quiet settled down on Four Winds. Sue wriggled a bit. The rope cut into her waist. Sec and Biddie were stretching, Consy and Don twisting and bending as well as they could. They were all beginning to feel stiff.

Ping! The axe man nearest Sue suddenly lashed out violently with his arms and changed his position. Ping! A man near Little Chief muttered something about the flies and turned on his side. There were no flies that Sue could see. Further away a man with a big saw pulled his hat down over his face. Ping! A man with a double-bladed axe moved further up the slope.

Sue caught on then and grinned across at Little Chief. Each fly was a well-directed grain of rice from the catapult made last night out of a green hazelwood stick and a rubber band from Aunt Sassie’s desk.

The morning wore on. About ten o’clock Rose-Marie-Ange left the point but was back soon with sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and enormous jugs of milk. The men paid her many compliments but to all she responded with a toss of the head. The food was not for them for it was plain that she considered them quite as evil as the Agent.

It was not long before a man came over from the camp and called the men to dinner. When they left, the messenger remained sitting on the crest of the slope, like Humpty Dumpty, staring down and smiling. Rose-Marie-Ange gathered together the jugs and cups and took them back to the house, but in no time at all she came flying down again. She was flushed and her dark eyes were alight with some excitement.

“Madame! It is good news,” she said. “Across the bay I see the Mounties coming. When they land, I will tell them everything and bring them to you. All will now be well, and we shall rid ourselves of these black-hearted villains!”

Full of importance, she started back to the house but as she passed the lone intruder she stopped.

“Black snake that you are,” she said. “Why are you here and where are all the others?”

The man smiled sheepishly. “I am here as a watchman,” he explained. “If any one of the children gets loose from a tree, I’m to call out, and start chopping at once!”

“You’ll be here ’til you die then,” snapped Rose-Marie-Ange. “And the wolves will come and eat you and die because of the poison in your blood!”

“What a day!” thought Sue. Rose-Marie-Ange was quick-tempered and loved to dramatize herself but no one had suspected her of such a lively imagination.

“Black snake that you are!” Sue turned the words over on her tongue. They were good to remember. Insulting people was not a happy occupation, but if one had to be insulting, it was good to know the right words.

And now the Mounties were coming. There would be no more trouble after they arrived! Sue’s heart beat happily. She smiled at Little Chief and at the others she could see.

But the day held new surprises. In a short time Rose-Marie-Ange returned carrying a little tray. On it was a large piece of blueberry pie, a piece of cheese and an apple. She had tucked a bow in her hair and changed her apron, and her eyes were full of crocodile tears. She addressed the watchman in a loud voice.

“M’sieu,” she said, “I pray you to forgive me. It is I who have the black heart, but I am worried about my mistress and the children. Would you take a little refreshment?”

The man looked as if he could be knocked over with a feather. “You no longer mad wit’ me?” he asked.

Rose-Marie-Ange shook her head and the two of them sat down on a log together and began a low, whispered conversation.

Sue wondered what on earth had come over the little maid, who was plainly out to captivate. What was she doing with this unwashed axe man? And what had happened to the Mounties?

Sue sighed impatiently and kicked at the pine needles at her feet. If she could only talk! There were several bright remarks she would like to make and none of them any too polite. Perhaps that was why Aunt Sassie had imposed this awful rule of silence!

Over the crest of the slope came two tall figures in khaki slacks and shirts. Sue clapped her hands quickly over her lips. She had almost screamed. They were Constables Nelson and Beck.

When they reached the watchman, he stood up. “Who are these fellows?” he asked.

“Beaux of mine,” Rose-Marie-Ange replied, “but not as handsome as others I have known,” and she fluttered her eyelashes in her best fashion.

The two Mounties were a mixture of admiration, amusement and anxiety. In a low, clear voice that could be heard by all but the watchman Constable Nelson told how he and Constable Beck had returned from Blue Sea a short time ago with their supplies. They had met Rose-Marie-Ange on her way to the kitchen with the empty milk jugs. She had explained matters and at their suggestion had gone back to flirt with the watchman and so give them a chance to consult with Madame Devereaux.

“What is our position?” asked Aunt Sassie.

“Well, of its kind, it’s absolutely perfect,” answered Constable Nelson, “as long as you can hold on! But how long can you keep this up? That baby’s pretty young and no one knows how soon we can get hold of Mr. Bain!”

“What are you going to do?” interrupted Sue, breaking silence.

“We’re going straight back to Blue Sea and try to reach Mr. Bain by telephone or telegraph. If we can’t, we’ll try the Seigneur. It’s only half past eleven now. We’ll hope to be back by supper time. Can you hang on that long?”

They all laughed.

“One other thing, Madame Devereaux,” said Constable Nelson, “I cannot advise you officially, of course, but unofficially speaking, you should know that no one can touch you or take the children down from the trees without being guilty of assault!”

“What’s assault?” piped Biddie.

“It means to lay violent hands on a person. So if anyone attempts to cut you down, just warn them you will have them arrested for assault and I think they’ll keep off!”

Constable Nelson came over to Sue.

“Well, Miss Sue,” he said, “you’ve got yourself in a fine pickle now, haven’t you? Dollars to doughnuts, I’ll bet this was your idea!”

Sue grinned. “You couldn’t arrest the Agent for me, could you?” she asked. “By the time you come back, this rope will have cut my tummy in two!”

Constable Nelson shook his head and both men hurried away. Sue took off her crest, breathed on it, and polished it on the leg of her stocking. When it was quite bright again, she pinned it back on her shoulder.

It was not long before the Agent returned, this time with Red Antoine and twice as many men, among them, Joe Baptiste, the blacksmith, and Dynamite Dave. Sue could see there had been some trouble, and though the Agent’s voice was quiet, it held a frightening quality.

“Madame,” he began, “for the last time, will you get these children away from here? These pines belong to my company. I am perfectly within my rights to cut them down!” He paused and spoke more slowly. “I don’t want to be nasty, but I’m going to have these pines. You’re blocking the business of my company and I don’t intend to put up any longer with the antics of a pack of children!”

Aunt Sassie never even lifted her head. She just kept on crocheting.

The Agent waited. Nothing happened. He turned to Red Antoine. “Take that child down,” he said sharply and waved towards Pearlie-Baby.

Red Antoine never moved.

The Agent turned a ripe, rich color and stepped forward swiftly. It was evident to all that he intended to take Pearlie-Baby down himself.

But between Pearlie-Baby and himself he found Aunt Sassie, an Aunt Sassie such as none of them had ever known before.

“Lay one finger on my child,” she warned, “and I’ll have you arrested for assault!”

The Agent hesitated. Red Antoine moved over beside Aunt Sassie and Pearlie-Baby opened her mouth and shrieked. She shrieked as if she were being murdered. She shrieked until Sue felt her ears would crack. None of the men knew, of course, that this was just Pearlie-Baby’s daily method of getting attention, but the effect was terrifying.

Aunt Sassie kept on repeating her speech about assault over and over and over, the Agent shouted orders, and the men muttered among themselves. Quite unexpectedly, the voice of Red Antoine cut through the din.

“We hear what you say, all right,” he told the Agent, “but not for all the shouting in the world are we going to touch that baby. These men hired on as lumberjacks and to drive your cut of logs down to the mills. They didn’t hire out to fight women and children . . . and they’ve no mind to now, do you understand, my frien’?”

“Joe Baptiste!” the agent bawled. “Take this child down!”

“Who? Me?” the blacksmith asked. He looked over at Aunt Sassie and shook his head, “Not me, M’sieu! I know a wild cat when I see one and she’s it all right. She wouldn’t leave an eye in your head if you touched that kid. No, m’sieu, you can do your own dirty work!”

There was a low exclamation of approval.

“Antoine! Baptiste! You two get your time tonight!” The Agent’s voice was hard and sharp. “The rest of you stay here. This old woman and her kids will break sooner or later. When they do, you’ve got your orders. You can go to work.”

Sue’s heart sank. The men looked angry and unhappy and two of them had been fired.

Red Antoine stepped forward.

“There isn’t a man here,” he said slowly, “that’ll cut down those pines or lay a finger on those children!”

“Then they’re all fired,” said the Agent. “Get out, the whole lot of you. Go and get your time, every mother’s son of you!”

“Do you mean that?” asked Red Antoine quietly.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” roared the Agent. “Make tracks, now. Get your time and clear the camp.”

“We’re making no tracks, my frien’.” Red Antoine’s voice was smooth and cold. “We’re going to stay right here. And since we’re no longer on the Bain Company’s pay roll, we’re going to see that you leave these pines alone. There’s twenty-four of us and if you think different, try and start somet’ing!”

The Agent waited a moment, staring at Red Antoine. No one spoke. No one moved a muscle. Sue felt that she’d even forgotten how to breathe. And then, when it seemed as if she couldn’t stand it another second, the Agent turned and they watched him cross the boom towards the cook house.

Red Antoine came over to Sue. “You can get down now. Missy,” he said. “We’ll look after you. Neither the pines nor you youngsters will be touched.” He smiled at Aunt Sassie. “You are a very brave lady,” he said. “Let me help you untie these ropes.”

“Wait,” cried Don. “We got you into this trouble because you were decent enough to stand by us. But we started this thing and we’ve got to see it through. You can help, if you like, but we’ve got to hang on, too.”

“If you want to be of real help,” Angus said, “you might tell us what that Agent’s going to do.”

Red Antoine and his men laughed mightily and the blacksmith stepped forward.

“Look you, young sir,” he said, “Red Antoine picked every man in this crew. We are the best fighters in the whole camp. We can lick them all . . . and the whole Province of Quebec as well. If that Agent comes back, we’ll be ready for him.” He ran his fingers over the edge of his two-bitted axe and smacked his lips.

“I pray of you, gentlemen, no violence!” It was Aunt Sassie’s voice they heard. “I do not wish the children exposed to further trouble!”

“Well, we’ve gone this far, Aunt Sassie,” Don exclaimed shortly, “and now we’ve got to go the rest of the way. Straighten up everyone. We have friends with us. Let’s show ’em what we’re made of!”

Rose-Marie-Ange backed up Don’s challenge by bringing down fresh milk and food. But now that the immediate danger was over and the men lay peacefully on the pine needles, the strain began to tell.

Pearlie-Baby whimpered. She was tired of being a papoose. She was even tired of humbugs. Everyone was tired. Little Biddie sagged forward over her ropes. Nancy’s feet had gone to sleep; Sec was drooping like a lovely lily; Timmie looked like a ghost. Sue could see that the men were becoming concerned over them. Finally, Aunt Sassie relaxed the rule about no speaking. That revived them for a time and they chattered gaily with each other and the men. For some unspoken reason, no one mentioned the Mounties’ visit to Blue Sea.

The shadows lengthened. The afternoon was drawing on.

“What shall we do tonight?” Aunt Sassie asked Don.

“We will stay on guard,” Red Antoine answered, and then leapt to his feet.

“Look!” he cried. Coming across the boom and led by the Agent were some sixty men, all of them carrying axes, pike poles, cant hooks, saws.

“Come on!” roared Red Antoine.

Every man jumped, grabbed his axe and formed a line between the children and the crest of the slope.

There was the sound of men’s feet trampling along the path, the Agent’s voice, bidding them hurry. . . .

And then, without warning, they heard Rose-Marie-Ange calling frantically, “Madame Devereaux! Madame Devereaux! It’s Mr. Bain! It’s Mr. Bain! Mr. Bain has come!”

Everything was happening at once! Over the top of the crest came Rose-Marie-Ange, screaming with excitement! Behind her was a short, heavily built man with a strong, impatient face. Beside him were the two Mounties. On the left, helter skelter, came the Agent and his men.

Red Antoine crouched as if to spring. The cries of the little maid had made no impression on him but suddenly he caught sight of the short, heavy figure.

“M’sieu Edouard!” he cried, “M’sieu Edouard!” and rushed forward, his face alight.

“It’s Mr. Bain. It’s Mr. Bain. It’s the Boss. It’s the Boss himself!” It seemed as if hundreds of voices were calling out the name.

And it was Mr. Bain and he could move as fast as any whitewater man on the river.

With a sweep of his hand, he turned to the Agent.

“Get off this island!” he ordered crisply. “Take those men with you.” With the other hand he waved a friendly greeting to Red Antoine.

“Good lad!” he said, as he strode forward to Aunt Sassie.

“Madame Devereaux.” He bowed. “I am Edward Bain. If you will ask your children to get down off those trees, I will guarantee no disturbance from my men. I knew your grandfather when I was a boy and I know he would ask you to trust me.”

Aunt Sassie just waved her hand. She was too surprised to speak. In a flash the two Mounties, Red Antoine and Blabbering Bill were helping to untie the ropes. Constable Nelson lifted Biddie up and held her in his arms. Her legs had crumpled under her. But all of the children were shaky and stiff. Sue had all she could do to keep the tears from coming. Pearlie-Baby was making the air hideous with her shrieks of temper, the two Mounties were laughing as if they would never stop and there was excitement everywhere.

“I am sorry this has happened,” Mr. Bain said, “but I have a great admiration for the manner and method in which you saved your pines. Who was responsible for the idea?”

“Sue!” they all cried.

“Which is Sue?”

“Me!” said Sue, trying to curtsey, but her legs were too wobbly and, in spite of the nearness of Constable Beck, her knees gave way and she sat down with an awful flop; but she soon knew why Mr. Bain was president of a great lumbering company. His orders came thick and fast. Sue found herself being carried chair wise, between two husky lumbermen. Sec and Nancy were carried, too. Constable Beck took Pearlie-Baby and Mr. Bain helped Aunt Sassie up the slope. The boys staggered along on shaky legs, but by the time they reached the house, the muscle cramps had begun to loosen.

There wasn’t much talking. They were all too tired and relieved to bother with words. As soon as the verandah was reached, Mr. Bain turned to Aunt Sassie.

“With your permission, Madame Devereaux,” he said, “I’ll take charge of things for a while. Your household has been upset and I should like to give you every assistance now.” Aunt Sassie bowed like the grand lady she was, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Mr. Bain called Red Antoine and Blabbering Bill and then turned back to her for a moment. “Will you be good enough to put me up for the night?” he asked. “My presence will be a guarantee for the safety of the pines and in the morning we can discuss our business together.”

Aunt Sassie bowed again. Mr. Bain turned and spoke to Red Antoine and his men. The children couldn’t hear what was said, but the men cheered mightily and started off at a run across the boom. In no time at all Paul Guerin came over from the camp, wearing his white cap and apron. He carried a couple of big baskets. After him came Red Antoine and his gang, with lumber on their shoulders.

Paul Guerin explained his presence.

“M’sieu Bain has ordered me to prepare the evening meal!” he said. “Is it all right with you, Madame? He feels that my cousin, here, should have a rest!” The big cook gave a knowing wink and Rose-Marie-Ange blushed becomingly.

From the wharf there came sounds of busy saws and hammers. “Mr. Bain has ordered the wharf repaired,” explained Blabbering Bill, who always seemed to stick very close to Rose-Marie-Ange.

Sue moved over to the Mounties. “I’ll burst,” she said, “if I don’t hear how you found Mr. Bain!”

Constable Nelson smiled. “It wasn’t difficult,” he said. “We had luck. We went in to Blue Sea on the double quick. The telegraph operator there called Montreal. We found that Mr. Bain was on the Quebec express, just due to stop at a way station to take on water. There was a freight due there as soon as the express pulled out. Well, we called the station. The telegraph operator there got word to Mr. Bain that there was serious trouble at the camp, trouble that required his immediate attention. Mr. Bain transferred from the express to the freight and came through to Blue Sea. We had a team waiting and brought him in.”

Constable Nelson laughed. “Jumping Jupiter!” he added, “but I have never met the equal of that corduroy road! The bumps we took! Mr. Bain is not a patient man and he likes to travel fast. Most of the time he was in the air as we came along. And his language was something to listen to!”

“Was he angry?” asked Sue. “Did he hate the Agent?”

“He never mentioned him!” Constable Beck answered.

“All he said was, ‘How fast can we get in?’ ”

“How did Mr. Bain happen to be on the train?” asked Don.

“He was on his way to inspect a new mill,” explained Constable Beck. “It seems that the Agent sent him a telegram last night, saying he would not be needed here until Monday, otherwise you would have found Mr. Bain here this morning!”

“The Agent’s a sneak!” exclaimed Don angrily.

The Mountie nodded. “He’s all of that, but I don’t think you will be bothered with him any longer!”

“I am thankful to Mr. Bain,” said Aunt Sassie, “but without you two men, I doubt if we could have saved the pines. Sue was quite right. She said the Mounties could handle any situation without trouble and you have! We are deeply grateful to you!”

What more she would have said, no one knew, for at that moment Blabbering Bill came past the verandah and stopped for a moment. “Do not tell,” he said, without moving his lips. “It is a secret and I should be fired if I told . . . no one knows, of course, except all the whole camp, but the Agent is now driving into Blue Sea and his bag has gone with him!”

Blabbering Bill cackled like a joyous rooster and hopped around the corner of the house, as if he were dancing a jig.

And then, before they could discuss this new event, more happened!

“Mercy, mercy me!” exclaimed Sue, “the day seems never going to end. Who can this be?”

A little bateau was coming towards the island. In it were two strangers. They beached their boat and the two figures clambered up the bank and came towards them.

The taller figure came first. He wore a boater, a black suit, a clerical collar and a large pair of glasses.

“Dear Miss Devereaux,” the taller figure said. “We missed you and your delightful family at church during the past fortnight. I was beginning to grow anxious about you. Only this afternoon I learned you were in difficulties and I came posthaste to offer my services, should they be of any value. I trust I am in time!”

It was the Rev. Cyril Wilberforce-Atkins and he looked like a tired but belligerent owl. He carried with him a shillelagh, which he waved loosely in front of him.

“If those tiresome rivermen are not gone,” he said, “I shall take them on myself with this! It was my grandfather Wilberforce’s and I treasure it. I believe that if one gives a man a jolly good whack with it, it splits the head right open!”

“Mercy me!” said Sue all over again, “and I called him a pip-squeak!”

Behind the curate stood a stocky figure. Sue looked again. It was ’Poleon, who had met her when she first arrived at Blue Sea Station. He nodded soberly.

“I drove him in,” he said, making a gesture towards the Rev. Cyril, “not with Baptiste, the dog, but with the horse of my father! The horse and I shall stay all night. We are tired!”

Aunt Sassie was gushing away at the curate.

“Mr. Bain’s staying the night,” whispered Don, “the curate’s staying the night, ’Poleon’s staying the night! Where are we going to sleep!”

They all started giggling. Aunt Sassie rose grandly. “Children,” she said, “will you make yourselves tidy for supper?”

“You’d think Aunt Sassie could have let us go dirty for once,” Angus said bitterly, as they plodded up the stairs.

“Oh no!” growled Consy. “Didn’t you know that the white man’s burden is a cake of soap and Aunt Sassie believes in our carrying it, day and night?”

But Rose-Marie-Ange had arranged everything. Sue was to be moved in with Sec for the night and her room given to Mr. Bain. Biddie’s and Nancy’s room was turned over to the Rev. Cyril Wilberforce-Atkins, while they doubled up in Rose-Marie-Ange’s room.

’Poleon was to sleep on a cot in Timmie’s room.

Supper revived them all. It was an early supper but Mr. Bain thought they needed it. They had fresh bannocks, pies, blueberry and molasses, hard-boiled eggs, honey, jam, omelets, scalloped potatoes, pickles, broiled ham and weak tea.

Sue couldn’t believe it was Guerin’s tea, but Paul said later that he had made the tea that way because Mr. Bain had told him he didn’t like lye. . . . “It’s a funny thing,” Paul Guerin said, “but the boss does not like his tea boiled. He says it is bad for the lining of the estomac!”

Mr. Bain seemed very fussy about all his food. He didn’t want any pie; he only took a little of his omelet, and half a bannock, but he seemed fascinated by the amount the children ate. When Sue shamelessly dug into her third piece of pie, his eyes popped and he could contain himself no longer.

“Do you youngsters eat like this all the time?” he asked. Everybody laughed, even Aunt Sassie. She was wearing her Indian shawl and earrings. Mr. Bain sat on her right, the curate on her left, with the two Mounties beyond on either side. She looked tired but happy and there was an unmistakable air of grandeur about her.

After supper everyone followed Mr. Bain down to the wharf. A new floor covered the log piles, the sides had been strengthened and various repairs and improvements made.

Aunt Sassie was really wonderful. She stepped forward and made a little speech.

“Red Antoine,” she said, “I should like to express my heartfelt gratitude to you and your brave men for the protection and friendliness you showed me and my children today. I am afraid that in the past I have thought hard things about rivermen. It seems that I did not know how fine they are. I am an old woman now, but not too old to learn that the world changes and people with it. You are very welcome, you and your fellows to Four Winds. My grandfather, if he were alive, would, I know, welcome you, too!”

The men cheered Aunt Sassie soundly and Mr. Bain stood beside her, looking very pleased, and then walked out on the wharf.

“Listen men!” he said. “Tonight Red Antoine becomes Agent on this drive! He is the first riverman ever to be promoted to this position in the Bain Company. I have known him all my life and he richly deserves it. He has served the company well, and everyone who knows him has been enriched by his friendliness and good will. . . .”

But Red Antoine could contain himself no longer. He flung his hammer into the air and broke right into speech.

“Bigosh, M’sieu Edouard, you make me Superintendent? You make me Agent for this drive? Bigosh M’sieu Edouard, I am one very proud man!”

They cheered and laughed and howled and Babette and Hildred and Feathers barked and Paul and Blabbering Bill and ’Poleon came down to see what was happening. It was a lovely din.

“There are two things I’d like to know,” Mr. Bain said as they turned back to the house. “Why Sue wears a Mountie crest and why Biddie carries a pepper shaker with her?”

“I wear my crest whenever I’m scared or in trouble,” Sue answered. “It gives me courage.”

“And I carried the pepper shaker,” said little Biddie, “so that if any riverman tried to touch Aunt Sassie’s pines, I could shake it all over him, so that he wouldn’t be able to see and would choke as well!”

“Merciful Saints!” cried Mr. Bain, looking down at the small, blood-thirsty Biddie. “I’m glad you haven’t taken a dislike to me. I don’t know what you children are going to grow up into, but there’s one thing sure, you’ll all be able to take care of yourselves!”

Long after, when Sue went to bed, she could hear the rivermen still celebrating the promotion of their river boss.

But from the point came another sound . . . the song of the great pines that still lifted their proud crowns to the sky.

When Sue wakened in the morning, she felt all bones and aches. She was crochety and crabbed. She looked at the others in the dim room. They were all sleeping soundly. Dressing quietly, she opened the door and crept downstairs. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t seem sore.

Rose-Marie-Ange was already in the kitchen and at the window table, covered with its red and white checked cloth, sat Mr. Bain. He looked very like her father, Sue thought, friendly and gay and not at all important.

“How did you sleep?” asked Sue.

“The first part of the night,” he said, “I couldn’t sleep at all but when I found that soft place in the middle of the bed, I slept like a top. How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Sue answered. “I’m very cantankerous and all my bones ache.”

“That’s old age creeping on,” said Mr. Bain. “I first started feeling awful in the morning about forty years ago and my father told me then that it was old age!”

“You’re fooling me,” said Sue, and they both laughed. Rose-Marie-Ange came over with big bowls of porridge.

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Bain.

“You’ll never grow into a big boy if you don’t eat your porridge,” Sue said. “At least that’s what Rose-Marie-Ange tells Timmie every morning!”

Mr. Bain reached for the maple sugar and cream. “All right, Sue,” he said. “Here goes!”

“Feeling better now?” he asked a few minutes later. Sue nodded. “You’re looking better yourself,” she said. “Would you like a piece of sop-in-the-pan?”

“What?” he asked.

“It’s our Four Winds specialty,” Sue explained. “If you come over to the stove, I’ll show you how to make it, so that you can teach your cook at home.”

The two were deep in the mysteries of cooking sop-in-the-pan when the door opened and Timmie came in, very sleepy and very grouchy. His good morning to Mr. Bain could hardly be heard, but under the urging of Rose-Marie-Ange he managed to eat a bowl of porridge. That wakened him completely and, to her dismay, Sue saw that Timmie was in one of his most argumentative moods.

He cooked himself some sop-in-the-pan and then joined Mr. Bain at the little table by the window.

“Are you a lumber baron?” he asked.

Mr. Bain blinked and then, with an amused smile, admitted that perhaps he was.

“What is a lumber baron?” asked Sue, anxious to prevent Timmie from continuing.

“It’s like being a robber baron,” Timmie answered. “You know, it tells about them in the history books. They built big castles to live in and whenever they wanted any money they went out and robbed the people passing along the road!”

Mr. Bain’s eyes fairly popped out of his head.

“I don’t think we’re as bad as that!” he said gently.

“My father says you are!” argued Timmie. “My father says lumber barons aren’t worth their salt; that they’re a greedy, money-grubbing pack of wolves!”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Bain.

“Indeed he does,” Timmie replied warmly. “And he says more than that. Would you like to hear what else he says?”

“No, Timmie,” broke in Sue, “Mr. Bain doesn’t want to hear at all!”

“Don’t be so bossy!” Timmie answered crossly. “Let Mr. Bain answer for himself. This is man talk, not girl stuff!”

Mr. Bain chuckled. “He’s right, Sue, it is man talk. Let him have his say.”

Timmie was horribly wide-awake and on his favorite hobby. His hair was standing on end, his dark eyes sparkling.

“My father says that all the gold in India isn’t to be compared with the value of Canada’s streams and forests. He says that all the mines in this country can go dry and we’ve still more millions in tourist trade than anything else. He says that no one is thinking of what this country will look like when all the trees are gone; that no one is looking ahead!”

“Now, now, Master Timmie,” Rose-Marie-Ange protested. “That’s enough!”

Mr. Bain shook his head. “Let him have his say, and then I’ll have mine.”

“Fair enough,” Timmie replied. “Will you please tell me why lumber barons go around making the whole world hideous?”

“We don’t!” said Mr. Bain.

“You do!” Timmie insisted. “Look at Lac de Lune. You couldn’t find a prettier lake anywhere in the world. Yet your men come along and cut down trees and leave slash and dirt and trash around and make everything ugly. There wouldn’t be a pine on this island this morning, if the Mounties hadn’t found you in time!”

“Well,” said Mr. Bain patiently, “after all, the trees are ours. Lumber is needed for buildings, furniture, carriages, kitchen tables like this, floors, all kinds of things. Trees make lumber and lumber is something without which we couldn’t get on at all. You have to be reasonable, Timmie!”

“I don’t feel reasonable,” said Timmie. “I feel awful. All day yesterday I thought black thoughts about you lumber barons and, what’s more, my father says that only criminals would cut along a shore line. . . .”

“I should like to talk to your father,” said Mr. Bain, who was fast turning a rich ripe plum color.

“Well, I don’t know that you would,” Timmie answered. “You mightn’t like it after you had talked to him, for he says that when Canada wakens up to her possibilities, a lot of you lumber barons will go out on your ears. He says if you had any sense you’d never cut down a tree without planting another.”

“Don’t you ever forget anything your father says, Timmie?” asked Mr. Bain. “And who is your father anyway?”

“He’s a professor of engineering at McGill University.”

“How does he know so much about lumbering?”

“I asked him that myself once,” Timmie answered, “and he told me that he was an amateur in it but that he believed in keeping his eyes open all the time.”

Mr. Bain smiled. “From what you say, Timmie, I gather that your father discusses most problems with you, but I am curious to learn whether he ever stops talking.”

“Not often,” admitted Timmie. “Mother says he talks too much to me, and about things I can’t possibly understand. But my father says that if you don’t learn when you’re young, you never will when you’re old. My father says that you’re old much longer than you’re young!”

Sue leaned across the table.

“Mr. Bain can you run a boom?”

“I used to be able to,” he answered.

“Let’s call the others, then,” said Sue. “We’ll go across to Bass Island and you can see what Timmie means!”

Mr. Bain nodded. “All right. Shall we meet here in half an hour?”

The other girls were still asleep and so were the boys, but when Sue and Timmie shook them awake and told them about going to Bass Island, they hurried into their clothes.

The curate appeared, too, and had breakfast in the kitchen. He liked the oatmeal porridge. He said it reminded him of his own nursery days, which annoyed Consy. “He doesn’t even seem to know that we are out of the nursery,” he growled.

Everyone was cranky—they were so stiff and tired. But by the time Mr. Bain rejoined them, they had had their breakfast and were feeling better.

The Mounties and ’Poleon appeared and paddled the curate across the bay, but the others, led by Timmie and Mr. Bain, ran the booms like good rivermen. Paul Guerin met them with a happy grin as they reached the cook-house raft. He and Dynamite Dave were kneading dough for rolls.

There were very few men about and the party crossed the mainland to Oiseau Bay at a fast walk. Once they had left the untidiness of the camp behind, the woods opened out again into the wild beauty of the forest. There was soft moss under their feet, drifts of pine needles, pigeon berries here and there, the lace-like loveliness of the occasional birch, and the song of the pines overhead. Soon they could see the shining blue of the lake again. On the shore they found half a dozen of the camp’s bateaux. Timmie, Biddie, Sue and Mr. Bain crossed to Bass Island in the first one.

It looked even worse than when Sue had first seen it! The dead leaves and branches had mouldered. There were flies and mosquitoes and a rank growth of weeds; jagged stumps and partially burned logs, piles of brown brush, beaches disfigured with bark and chips, pine crowns dead in the sun.

“There you are!” exclaimed Timmie. “That’s what your lumbermen did! Next to Four Winds, this was the prettiest island in the lake. How do you like it now?”

Mr. Bain didn’t answer. He just crashed through the brush and rounded the island, stirring up piles of branches with his foot, examining stumps and trees felled but not taken away. The Mounties went over the island, too, with the curate and ’Poleon. All the curate could say was “Deplorable, deplorable!” which didn’t seem to please Mr. Bain. He was even less happy when Biddie led him to Little Duck Bay.

“This was my island,” she said. “I found it first and in this tiny bay there were eleven little ducks, hardly with any feathers. They were frightened of even me; but they were growing and your men came and spoiled the island, the fireplace, the spring, everything!” In spite of herself, Biddie wept.

“I loved the little ducks! Why did you kill the little ducks? They hadn’t done anything to you?”

Timmie took her arm. “Never mind, Biddie,” he said, “don’t cry. Come home with me!”

Mr. Bain took out a large white handkerchief and wiped Biddie’s eyes. “Don’t fret, Baby,” he said, “we’ll make things right for you!”

“You’d better!” cried Timmie, glaring. “And she’s not a baby!”

“I know, I know.” Mr. Bain answered shortly. “But, look here, Timmie, what would you do if you were in the lumber business? You couldn’t leave all the trees standing. If you did, you’d have no business.”

“My father says,” Timmie replied stoutly, “that a fringe of trees should be left standing along the shores of every lake and river. You lumbermen could still get all the logs you needed, but you wouldn’t leave the whole country looking hideous, like you’ve left this island.”

“Let’s get back,” Mr. Bain said. He made no further comment.

The trip home was a silent one. No one had anything to say until they were back again at the cook-house raft. And there, sitting in the sun beside Paul Guerin, they found the Seigneur.

“St. Georges!” cried Mr. Bain.

“Edouard!” the Seigneur replied. “I hear that all goes well!”

“How did you get here?” Sue cried.

The Seigneur smiled and pointed to Paul. “My old friend there sent for me. He told me that things were not going well with you. The telegram came in last night. I caught a freight at St. Hilaire, transferred to an express, spent the night in Montreal, came on here this morning, drove in with a silent fellow called Auguste, and here I am! Paul has told me the story of your adventures. I congratulate you all!”

“It has been a happy ending, sir,” Don smiled. “Will you come to Four Winds now and have luncheon with us.”

The Seigneur bowed. “I should be delighted.”

“I’ll tell Aunt Sassie, sir. We’ll go across on the boom and bring back the big boat for you and Mr. Bain and Mr. Wilberforce-Atkins. We won’t be long!”

Across the raft and along the boom the children ran. They were tired no longer, neither were they sad. The world held so many friends.

Aunt Sassie had just finished dressing and was coming down the stairs. When they told her their news, she looked very pleased and went back for her Indian shawl and earrings. Rose-Marie-Ange grew rattled at once.

“It is not possible to wash the dishes, cook for a herd of wild buffaloes, clean the house, be lady’s maid to Madame Devereaux and nursemaid to Pearlie-Baby, and still keep one’s reason. Am I to have no help?”

Hastily the girls scattered in various directions. They laid the table, washed the dishes, made the beds, tidied the verandah, changed Pearlie-Baby’s dress, brushed their hair and were breathless but ready when the boys returned, poling the big row boat through the logs with their load of guests.

Aunt Sassie was waiting for them on the verandah. Paul and Blabbering Bill, who had appeared from nowhere, came quietly up the path and disappeared into the kitchen.

Mr. Bain sat down on the steps beside Biddie and took some papers out of his pocket. He smiled at Aunt Sassie, “While we were waiting at the cook house,” he said, “I discussed the matter of the pines and lumber rights with my old friend, St. Georges de Sennevoy, and my new friend, Mr. Wilberforce-Atkins. I should like to tell you of our decision.”

Mr. Bain paused, “I shall need your best attention, children,” he continued, “so that you may understand the confusion about the ownership of the pines on Four Winds.”

Everyone drew nearer to Mr. Bain and listened carefully, for it was clear that he had something important to tell them.

“When your great-grandfather Devereaux sold his holdings around Lac de Lune, twenty-five years ago, he gave us a deed. This showed that he had turned over to us all the timber rights at Lac de Lune. In a separate letter, however, he kept for himself Four Winds Island and all that was on it—buildings, trees, everything. But because Lac de Lune was so large and Four Winds so small, no mention of this reservation appeared in the deed of sale.

“The deed was registered in the land office and the letter put in the company’s safe, and there it remained until I found it, just a day or two ago. And that explains why the Agent and Red Antoine found no mention of Four Winds when they went over the deeds.”

“How did you find out about the letter?” asked Don.

“When I was examining the deeds, an old clerk who had been with the company for almost forty years, remembered there had been such a letter. We finally found it, along with a lot of other old papers, in the company’s safe. This letter will be attached to the original deed as soon as I return to Montreal.

“But no matter who owned the pines, the Agent had no right to behave as he did,” continued Mr. Bain. “He used threats and tried to use force. His treatment of your aunt was inexcusable; for no matter what Timmie may think of us lumber barons, we do not go around looking for trouble! Red Antoine was wise and carried on the best traditions of our company. I am very proud of him!”

Mr. Bain shuffled the papers on his knee.

“And now I have a document here that you can thank Sue and Timmie for,” he said. “It is written with the pen and ink that I found in the cook house, signed by me as president of our firm and witnessed by the Seigneur and Mr. Wilberforce-Atkins. It is an order to all employees of the Bain Lumber Company, forbidding the cutting of any timber on the shore line of lakes, islands or mainland. In future we will cut inside the forest and leave a fringe of trees to hide the slash and stumps. The shores of Lac de Lune will never again be desecrated with ugliness!”

“But if you leave all the timber standing on the shore,” Sue asked, “however will you get the logs out into the water?”

Mr. Bain explained. “The men will cut a narrow road leading from the shore back into the forest and take the logs down this road to the water as they cut.”

Everyone sat silent. It all seemed too good to be true. No more ugliness, no more Bass Islands, no more trouble over the pines. . . .

Aunt Sassie’s faded blue eyes filled with tears. “I wish my grandfather had lived to see this day,” she said. “It would have made him as happy as it does me. His dream has come true . . . the loveliness of Lac de Lune is preserved forever more. . . .”

What more she might have said, no one ever knew, for just at that moment a figure appeared, running up the path. And such a figure! He was of medium height and thickset and wore a very tight striped brown suit, two sizes too small for him. The coat and trousers were too short and showed thick ankles and wrists. His shoes were a bright tan, with pointed toes, and buttoned over light socks. His shirt was pink, his suspenders red and his bow tie a very pale blue. On his head teetered a straw sailor hat. He was a pale, blondish sort of man, with a sallow skin and light blue eyes.

“What do you want?” Don called as he came near.

“I have come to see my girl,” the unexpected visitor replied in a blustering sort of a voice. “My Rose-Marie-Ange.”

“Mercy, mercy!” exclaimed Sue. “The very worst has happened. Whatever will we do?”

No one answered her. Before such an unpleasant-looking young man, even Mr. Bain was helpless.

“Come this way,” said Don, and the young man followed him around to the side door. Sue hopped inside the hall and ran along to the kitchen. Rose-Marie-Ange, Paul, and Blabbering Bill were getting luncheon.

“Psst!” hissed Sue. “Rose-Marie-Ange, come here, quick!” “What is it now?” the plump little maid demanded.

“Your fiancé is here,” Sue whispered. “Rose-Marie-Ange, however could you do it? He is horrible. If Blabbering Bill ever sees him, he will surely want to kill him.”

“And a good job, too!” exclaimed Rose-Marie-Ange. “But, after all, what could I do? He was all that was available at the time.”

“You’ve got to do something quick, now,” Sue cried. “There is fire in his eye. I’ll bet he heard about Blabbering Bill and it brought him running!”

There was a knock at the kitchen door.

Sue rushed back through the house to the front verandah. “Come quick,” she said, “and see the fun!” The other children followed her around to the side entrance.

Rose-Marie-Ange was standing in the doorway. Inside the kitchen they could see Blabbering Bill, but Paul Guerin was nowhere to be seen. The suitor stood with one foot on the bottom of the kitchen steps.

“so!” said Rose-Marie-Ange, “and you pay me a visit at last! And what for, I’d like to know?”

“I have come to name the day,” the young man blustered.

“what day?” called Blabbering Bill.

“Our wedding day,” the man answered. “And what is it to you, anyway? Rose-Marie-Ange has been my girl now for these five years. I’ve come to set the day of our marriage.”

“so?” said Rose-Marie-Ange. “Well, I am not so sure, I have another beau now!”

“I have heard as much and that is why I am here. Show me the man that dares to look at you with eyes of love and I will fix him!” The young man started to take off his coat.

Blabbering Bill ducked out under the arm of Rose-Marie-Ange.

“I am here,” he said. “I am ready.” He crouched as if to spring. The newcomer crouched, too, and began to roll up his sleeves.

“Oh ho!” he cried. “You think you can fight me! Come on my little rooster, I’ll show you!”

There was a nasty gleam in Blabbering Bill’s eye. “Don’t be so sure, mon brave!” he warned and advanced with a queer, half-dancing step. But before either man could touch the other, Paul Guerin strode out of the kitchen door.

“What is this all about?” he boomed. “Who is this noisy fellow?”

The newcomer drew back. He had not seen Paul before and there was so much of Paul to see.

“Does anyone want this fellow around here?” Paul demanded. He held his huge carving knife in his hand and it was evident that he didn’t like the newcomer.

“no!” they all cried.

“Then get out!” thundered Paul. “We do not like you. Make tracks! Mosey, vite!” With each word Paul gave another flourish with the carving knife.

The newcomer didn’t wait to argue: he started back down the path as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Take your coat!” Sue cried. “Take your coat!”

Don picked it up and started after the disappearing suitor. The children followed, with Paul and Blabbering Bill in full pursuit. Around the side of the house, past the verandah, down the path to the wharf they all ran pell mell, screaming at the top of their lungs.

“Get out! Make tracks! Mosey! Vite!”

The young man jumped into his boat, just in time to escape Paul’s boot.

“And you need not come back!” cried Rose-Marie-Ange, “for I am to marry my friend here, Aristide Napoleon Hercule Charbonierre.”

There were more cheers then, but cheers of joy, and much blushing on the part of Rose-Marie-Ange and many congratulations.

They all streamed back to the house—Paul, Blabbering Bill, and Rose-Marie-Ange to the kitchen, and the children to the verandah again, where Sue told the story of the fiancé who arrived too late.

Mr. Bain chuckled. “I’d rather have you children with me, than against me,” he said, handing Timmie a letter, addressed to his father. At Mr. Bain’s suggestion, Timmie read it out loud. There were pleasant words in it about Timmie and it also said that Mr. Bain would like to meet Mr. McKay on his return from Europe, to discuss the future of lumbering and his son, Timothy Andras Peebles McKay.

Timothy looked up at Mr. Bain and grinned. “Thank you very much, sir,” he said, “but when my father sees you, he will still want to know when you are going to plant a tree for every one you cut down.”

Mr. Bain laughed. “Good lad, Timmie,” he said. “I expect to find you Chief Forester of Canada some day and it will be a good day for the Dominion!”

He turned to Aunt Sassie. “I like your children,” he said, “but I think they must be more difficult to keep in order than a whole camp of rivermen!”

“Not at all,” answered Aunt Sassie proudly. “I have never had a moment’s trouble with them at any time. They are the best mannered, best behaved, sweetest children in all the world!”

“Oh, Aunt Sassie!” they cried together. “What a whopper!”

“Let us go in to luncheon,” said Aunt Sassie with dignity.

It was a very happy luncheon. The children were at their best. Biddie sat beside Mr. Bain and they planned to clear up the little bay at Bass Island so that more ducks could find a home there. Aunt Sassie was beaming. The whole house was filled with happiness.

Afterwards the visitors said goodbye. The Mounties and Don took the Reverend Cyril Wilberforce-Atkins across the bay in the rowboat, along with the Seigneur and Mr. Bain. The others, with Paul, Blabbering Bill and ’Poleon, ran the boom and walked along the shore from the camp to the boat landing, where they found old Auguste waiting with the Sunday calèche. Over at Four Winds they could just make out Aunt Sassie, with Pearlie-Baby and Rose-Marie-Ange, waving their last goodbyes.

Sue twinkled at Mr. Bain. “There’s still one member of our family you haven’t met,” she said.

“Not really!”

Sue nodded. “Would you like to meet her?”

“I should indeed!”

“This way, then,” Sue cried and started through the woods.

“Come along, everybody!” called Mr. Bain. Old Auguste thought that included him, too, for he trudged along behind them.

“Look!” cried Sue when they reached the clearing; and then in astonishment, “LOOK!” Beside Miss Julie Zotique stood a tiny calf.

“Très jolie,” murmured Blabbering Bill. “I had forgotten to tell you . . . so much has happened! The petite is one week old and her name is Juliette!”

Sue touched Mr. Bain’s arm and then pointed towards the little Jersey. “May we present the last members of our family,” she said, “Miss Julie Zotique and her daughter Juliette?”

For a moment old Auguste stared solemnly at the pair and then, with a roar of laughter, broke his rule of silence.

“Miss Julie Zotique?” he demanded. “Wit’ a baby! Mais non! Madame Julie Zotique!”

Down the corduroy road the calèche bumped its way, carrying their good friends, “si gaie, si brave, si beaux. . . .”

“Au revoir!”

“Au revoir!” the children echoed.

There was a turn in the road and the calèche disappeared from sight.

This time the new moon brought no rain, only a gentle wind from the north. “The heavens smile upon me,” Red Antoine said. “Now I will move out the logs in the bay before the big drive comes down. All is good!”

Day by day, the children watched the busy figures running the logs, plying their cant hooks and pike poles until at last the bay was free again, save for the cook house raft.

They learned, too, why their friend was called “Blabbering Bill.” He chattered to the logs as he sprang from one to the other and urged them out into the lake.

“Not that way! This way!” he would cry in his high, squeaky voice, as a big pine log spun in the wrong direction, or “Come along my stubborn beauty,” or “This way to the mills,” to a log heading for the shore. As Red Antoine said, “Bill always blabs as he works!”

And then one morning the drive moved past Four Winds. Slowly, steadily the red brown mass drifted by. Along the booms, out on the points of islands and the mainland, the rivermen worked, from early dawn to dusk, pushing the logs out in the main channel to keep them moving. They had to work like lightning, Sue saw, and be surefooted, and clear of eye and head. Now and then the logs seemed to quicken their pace; sometimes a few sticks would upend and with a grinding noise settle back into the slow pace of the drive.

There were cries, too, from the rivermen, cries of warning, or of triumph when a threat of a pile-up or a jam was safely past.

From dawn until they couldn’t tell a log from a shadow, the rivermen kept at their work. A week went by. The men had no time for the children now. Paul and Dynamite Dave worked ceaselessly, for these men had to be fed four times a day. Joe Baptiste sharpened pike poles and cant hooks day and night. Bateaux were moved along inside the booms or portage across points of mainland. Some of the tents were struck. A second week went by.

The moon was rising full. The drive was moving faster now. At the beginning of the third week, blue waters showed again at the head of Lac de Lune.

“Tomorrow,” said Blabbering Bill one night, “we leave you. Tomorrow we tow the raft and cook house down to the mouth of the chutes, the horses go out front again, the tents are struck. The drive has almost cleared Lac de Lune.”

In the morning, when the children wakened, the cook house was gone. Only the tail end of the drive showed reddish brown far down the lake.

“I saw them go,” said Rose-Marie-Ange with a blush. “I got up to wave a farewell to my fiancé. He and Paul told me they could not bear to say goodbye to you, so through me they sent their prayers and good wishes that ‘all your winds blow fair.’ ”

Sue laughed. “Don’t you remember,” she asked, “that was what Blabbering Bill said the morning he came; that he would be back when all the winds blew fair?”

That night the mail brought other news. “All your people will be here next week end,” Aunt Sassie said, looking up from her letters. “We must have everything in order when they come.”

Life seemed strangely quiet without the drive, the cries of the rivermen, the friendly visits to the cook house. The moon was waning now; there was a chill in the air at nightfall and here and there a leaf showed red or gold.

The night before the arrival of their parents, there was a gathering under the pines. The Mounties were still with them.

“I wonder where we’ll all be this time next year,” sighed Sec.

“Here!” said Sue promptly. “This is the nicest place in the world!”

“The nicest,” said Constable Nelson reproachfully. “Have you forgotten the prairies and the barracks?”

“Never!” said Sue. “I’ll never forget them! They were my first adventure and some day I’m going back there. . . . But this has been a new kind of an adventure and I’m ready now for another. . . . But first let’s all promise each other faithfully that each summer forever more we’ll come back to Four Winds and Aunt Sassie!”

“And Pearlie-Baby,” said Consy.

“And Rose-Marie-Ange,” said Biddie.

“And Blabbering Bill,” said Nancy.

“And Madame Julie Zotique,” said Timmie.

Across the sky the northern lights flung their shimmering path. From the verandah they heard Aunt Sassie’s voice.

“Come children, summer is done!”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of Susannah Rides Again, by Muriel Denison]