"Wilfred, mon ami," (my friend), pursued Gaspé, bent upon interrupting the low-voiced confidence, "it was for your sake grandfather decided to make his first inquiries for a farm in this neighbourhood. Batiste was so ambiguous and so loath to speak of your journey when he came after Louison's post, we grew uneasy about you. All the more glad to find you safe at home."
"At home, but not in home," answered Wilfred, significantly laying his finger on his lips, to prevent any exclamation from his bewildered friend.
"All right," said Mr. De Brunier. "We will enter together."
Pête, who was already opening the gate, bade them heartily welcome. Hospitality in the lone North-West becomes a duty.
Wilfred dropped behind the sledge, slouched his fur cap well over his eyes, and let Maxica fold his blanket round him, Indian fashion.
Pête led the way into the kitchen, Wilfred followed behind the sledge-driver, and the Cree was the last to enter. A long row of joints were roasting before the ample fire, giving undoubted indications of an approaching feast.
"Just in time," observed Mr. De Brunier with a smile, which gained a peculiar significance as it rested on Wilfred.
"Ay, and that you are," returned old Pête; "for the missis is gone to be married, and I was on the look-out for her return when I heard the jingling of your sledge-bells. The house will be full enough by nightfall, I reckon."
Wilfred undid the strap of his snow-shoes, gave them to Maxica, and walked softly to the door of his uncle's room.
He opened it with a noiseless hand, and closed it behind him.