The dinner was somewhat hurried, and at its close the different members of the family scattered in various directions, all with some commission from Mrs. Colonibel to execute, except Armour, who went immediately to the library after requesting that the Micmac should be sent up to him.
With a noiseless, catlike tread the Indian, a few minutes later, knocked at the library door and after waiting for Mr. Armour’s “Come in,” advanced slowly into the room, and stared at his master with lazy, observant eyes, his hands hanging straight by his sides.
“You are prompt, Joe,” said the gentleman; “you were not off to your wigwam?”
A fiction politely kept up in the family for Joe’s gratification was that he every evening crossed the Arm to his solitary camp in the woods, when as a matter of fact he, on cold nights, occupied a snug and warm retreat at the cottage.
“Too early,” said he sententiously. “Go later, when moon shinum.”
“Mrs. Colonibel is going to have a skating party to-night,” said Mr. Armour.
“Yes; me busy,” said Joe.
“Are you; I am glad to hear it. I sent for you to ask that you give some assistance in preparing for it.”
“Mr. Valentine askum,” said Joe. Then he added with a gurgle in his throat resembling a laugh, “He likeum bear in trap now.”
Armour’s face darkened, then as quickly lightened again at a deliberate proceeding on the part of the Indian, whose eyes during a slow voyage of discovery about the room revealed to him a photograph of Vivienne on the mantelpiece at the sight of which he crossed himself devoutly.