"This is great, mother!" said Jamie who had not ceased to wring old André's hand since the two found firm footing. "But first I must teach her to swim, Ewart."
Poor Mrs. Macleod! I doubt if her idea of camping out was wholly rose-colored at that moment, for she was tired with the excitement, and constant travel in canoe and on foot of the last two days.
"The camp will be the safest place for me at present," she said, trying to appear cheerful, but glancing ruefully at the three rough board huts, gray and weather beaten.
"You 've done nobly, Mrs. Macleod, I appreciate your effort; and if you 'll take immediate possession of the right hand camp—it's yours and Miss Farrell's—I hope you will find a little comfort even in this wilderness. I 'll just settle with these Montagnais comrades, for after supper they will be on their way back to Roberval." Jamie interrupted him to say:
"Mother, here 's André, André, mon vieux camarade. This is my mother, André; I told you about her last year."
Old André's hand, apparently as steady as her own, was extended to meet Mrs. Macleod's. I saw how expressive was that handclasp. The only words she spoke were in her rather halting French:
"My son's comrade—he is mine, I hope, André."
What a smile illumined that parchment face! It was good to see in the wilderness; it was humanly comprehensive of the entire situation.
"This is Miss Farrell," said Jamie; "she lives with us, André, in Lamoral."
Never shall I forget the look, the voice, the words with which he made me welcome.