Quite as calmly and as gravely sat Ian Macdonald. His eyes once more beheld Elsie, the angel of his dreams, but he had no right to look upon her now with the old feelings. Her troth was plighted to Lambert. It might be that they were already married! though he could not bring himself to believe that; besides, he argued, hoping against hope, if such were the case, Elsie would not be living with her father’s family. No, she was not yet married, he felt sure of that; but what mattered it? A girl whose heart was true as steel could never be won from the man to whom she had freely given herself. No, there was no hope; and poor Ian sat there in silent despair, with no sign, however, of the bitter thoughts within on his grave, thoughtful countenance.
Not less gravely sat Michel Rollin in the stern of his canoe. No sense of the ludicrous was left in his anxious brain. He had but one idea, and that was—old Liz! With some impatience he waited until the ladies inside the house were able to answer his queries about his mother. No sooner did he obtain all the information they possessed than he transferred Meekeye to her husband’s canoe, and set off alone in the other to search for the lost hut—as Winklemann had done before him.
Meanwhile the remainder of the party were soon assembled in the family room on the upper floor, doing justice to an excellent meal, of which most of them stood much in need.
“Let me wash that horrid stuff off your face, darling, before you sit down,” said Miss Trim to Tony.
The boy was about to comply, but respect for the feelings of his Indian father caused him to hesitate. Perhaps the memory of ancient rebellion was roused by the old familiar voice, as he replied—
“Tonyquat loves his war-paint. It does not spoil his appetite.”
It was clear from a twinkle in Tony’s eye, and a slight motion in his otherwise grave face, that, although this style of language now came quite naturally to him, he was keeping it up to a large extent on purpose.
“Tonyquat!” exclaimed Mrs Ravenshaw, aghast with surprise, “what does the child mean?”
“I’ll say Tony, mother, if you like it better,” he said, taking his mother’s hand.
“He’s become a redskin,” said Victor, half-amused, half-anxious.