“I scarcely think so, but we can try it,” and Armour carefully carrying the fragile ghost flower in his handkerchief walked by her side down the woodland path to the shore of a tiny cove where Joe’s canoe lay drawn up on the grass.
“Where is that Indian?” he said, looking about him when after the lapse of a few minutes Joe did not appear. “He is as subtle as a snake.”
“One can’t expect obedience from a Micmac,” observed Vivienne gently.
“No; he hates coercion, and too many orders would drive him from us. I don’t suppose there is another Micmac in Nova Scotia who serves white people as he serves us. It is phenomenal to get anything from them beyond assistance in hunting. We had better go on. He is evidently afraid to venture in the canoe with this flower. Ah, there he is. Joe, aren’t you coming?”
The Indian was lazily drawing his long legs over the pebbly beach. “No; me stay.”
“Surely you are not afraid of this,” said Armour, teasingly holding up the ghost flower.
“Me no ’fraid for Joe. Me ’fraid spirits makeum Miss Debbiline bad luck.”
“Say a prayer to keep the trouble away. You are a good Catholic.”
“Wirgin no hearum. She angry when spirits angry.”
“You have your new religion mixed with old superstitions, Joe,” said Mr. Armour as he assisted Vivienne into the canoe and placed himself in the stern. “I’ll send Jerry back for you,” and he pushed out from the shore.