Molaire shook his head: "Ye don't know Murdo MacFarlane," he said, "He'll never give up. He swore he would never return to Lashin' Water without gold. He's Scotch—an' stubborn as the seven-year itch."
"I'm Scotch," grinned Downey, hoping to draw the old man into an argument and turn his thoughts from the absent ones. But he would not be drawn. For a long time he smoked in silence while outside the wind howled and moaned and sucked red flames high into the stovepipe.
"She'd be two years old, now," Molaire said,
"An' maybe talkin' a bit. Maybe they've taught her to say grand-père. Don't you think she might be talkin' a little?"
"I don't know much about 'em. Do they talk when they're two?"
The old factor pondered: "Why—it seems to me she did—the other Margot. But—it's a long time ago—yet it seems like yesterday. I'm gettin' old an' my memory plays me tricks. Maybe it was three, instead of two when she begun to say words. D'ye mind, Downey, a year ago we played whist?"
"Two-handed cribbage is all right," suggested the Corporal. But the old man shook his head and for a long, long time the only sound in the room was the irregular tapping of contracting metal as the fire died down unheeded in the stove. The old man's pipe went out and lay cold in his hand. The bearded chin sagged forward onto the breast of his woolen shirt and his eyes closed. Beyond the stove Corporal Downey drowsed in his chair.
Suddenly the old man raised his head: "What was that?" he asked sharply.
Downey listened with his eyes on the other's face. "I hear nothing," he answered, "but the booming of the wind."
The peculiar startled look died out of Molaire's eyes: "Yes," he answered, "It is the wind. I must have be'n dozin'. But it sounded like bells. I've heard the bells of Ste. Ann's boom like that—tollin'—when some one—died." Stiffly he rose from his