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“Oh, how kind of you,” said Flora to her father, when she afterwards sat with him alone in this boudoir, and looked round on everything with the deepest interest.

“Well, it was natural that I should get ready a comfortable place for my only flower.”

“Your only flower,” exclaimed Flora, “why, what do you call Ian, and Kenneth, and Roderick?”

“Not flowers, certainly,” replied her father, pulling her down on his knee; “they may be regarded as useful vegetables, if you will, but they are scarcely flowers that one likes to fondle.”

“There, now, sir, you have fondled me enough at present, so tell me all about yourself and your doings.”

“Tell me first, Flo, how it fared with you by the way.”

“Oh, that is soon told. After you left me I remained with old Mrs Crowder in peaceful serenity until Rooney came back from Quebec, and then I consulted with him as to the possibility of getting down here before the close of winter. Being an old nor’-wester, and an Irishman, he had his answer ready. ‘Sure,’ said he, ‘there’s nothin’ aisier. The masther bade me go down to Jenkins Creek wi’ the things as soon as possible, which or’narily mains faster than yer able, so I meant to be off to-morrow be daybreak on fut, wid a sled behind me. But if your ladyship intinds to honour me wid yer company, this is how we cud do it. I’ll hire a sleigh an’ drive ye down to Sam Small’s hut. I know that Sam has got one or two sleds and teams of dogs, for, like myself, he’s an owld nor’-wester, an’ likes to revive owld memories by takin’ a trip now an’ then in the owld fashion. There’s no road av coorse, but dogs ain’t like horses; they don’t have no need of roads, so that don’t matter. I’ll git owld Bogus, the Injin, to help. He an’ I can bate the tracks wid our snowshoes, and the dogs ’ill follow kindly, an’ so we’ll all go down to the creek together.’”

“Well,” continued Flora, “this plan was carried out at once. We started next day and got on famously in the sledge. We had only one upset. It might have been an awkward one, for the horse was very restive when he got off the track into the deep snow, but fortunately, just at the time, up came two travellers, one of them such a handsome man! and they got us out of our difficulty.”

“Were you in danger, my pet?” asked McLeod.

“Not exactly in danger, except the danger of having to walk at night through the forest, and without snow-shoes.”

“Hm! not such a small danger that as you seem to think, Flo,” said McLeod gravely. “However, these gentlemen got you out of the scrape—well, go on.”

“Well, on we went, came to Sam Small’s hut, slept there, got two dog-sledges, slept at the hut of Jonas Bellew in Boulder Creek, whose door we were obliged to break open, for he wasn’t at home—and, here we are.”

“Well, my pet, here you are likely to remain for some time to come. It’s not exactly as fine a residence as you’ve been accustomed to, but there are many worse.”

“Worse,” exclaimed Flora, “there couldn’t be many better—in the circumstances. I regard it as a small palace. Dear father,” she added, “don’t let our reverses weigh so heavily on you. Think of your favourite saying, ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ Perhaps good may be in the wind somewhere for us.”

“Ay, and I’ll think of one of your favourite sayings too, Flo, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’”

“But I’ve got a better saying than that now, father,” said Flora, with sudden earnestness, “the saying that dear mother was so fond of quoting from the Bible before she died: ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Oh, father, that word comforts me now, for I have gone to Jesus and have pleaded with Him His own promise that whatever we shall ask in His name God will give it to us.”

“Bless you, Flo,” said her father tenderly, “and what did you ask for,—success in our new enterprise?”

“No, I asked for guidance in every step of it, for that is certain to lead to success.”

“Do you feel sure of getting an answer to that prayer, Flo?” asked McLeod, gazing at his daughter with a perplexed expression.

“Quite sure,” replied Flo confidently, “because God, who cannot lie, has promised.”

“Now, what will you say if we fail in this enterprise?” asked her father.

“That my prayer has been answered,” replied Flo.

“What? if he guides us to failure will you count that an answer?”

“Yes, indeed I will. More than that, I will count our failure to be success, for whatever God leads us to must be success if we commit our ways to Him.”

“That’s a convenient doctrine,” replied McLeod, with a slight smile, as he called to remembrance several conversations he had had with infidels during his travels, “and no one will ever be able to refute you, for, whatever betide, you will still be able to maintain, logically, that you have received an answer.”

“Just so, father, and why not? Is not that convenient doctrine, as you call it, in accordance with the word of God Himself, who says that ‘all things work together for good to them that love Him?’”

“You have learned to talk like your dear mother, Flo,” said McLeod, rising; “we will continue this subject another time. At present I must away to work with the boys.”

He left the room hastily, and his daughter, calling in the assistance of Elise, proceeded to arrange her little boudoir in a somewhat more sedate, though by no means less joyful, frame of mind than that in which she had made her entry into her new and unquestionably humble residence.

Chapter Five
The “Enemy.”

Meanwhile, Reginald Redding—still breathing defiance to the clan of McLeod, with his heart steeled against all softer influences, and with all his bristles erect—arrived at Jenkins Creek.

Seeing no one about the door of the hut, he passed it with an indignant frown, and proceeded direct to the cascade, where, from a considerable distance, he had observed the three settlers as they busily plied their axes.

A thaw had set in. The little cascade was beginning to roar ominously, almost savagely, behind the curtain of ice which had concealed almost the whole of it during winter. The ice on the edge of the Saint Lawrence had already given way, and was being swept out to sea in variously-sized fields and masses. Everything gave indication that the reign of winter had come to an end, that the short-lived spring had laid its warm hand on the whole region, and that summer was not far distant. Summer acts its part with promptitude in those regions.

Men out there are usually vigorous in taking advantage of the change; the McLeods were making the most of their time when the fur-trader approached.

“It should be getting near supper-time,” said the elder McLeod, looking at the sun.

“Not far from it,” said Kenneth, flinging down his axe and wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he glanced in the same direction, “what a comfort it is to have Flo to look after meals; it makes one feel—hallo! who come here?—see, two men, rounding the cliff just above the house.”

The elder McLeod made no reply, but waited until the strangers were sufficiently near to be addressed; then, touching his cap, he said, “Good evening,” heartily.

To this Reginald Redding replied, “Good evening,” stiffly, while his man bestowed a gaze of unmistakable scorn all round.

A little surprised, but not much alarmed, by their manner, McLeod said that it was an unusual pleasure to meet with strangers in such an out-of-the-way place; that he and his sons, having finished their day’s work, were about to return to their hut for supper, and that he would be more than delighted if they would take “pot-luck” with them.

Redding, who was by nature of a kindly sociable disposition, felt rather put out by this reception, especially when the invitation was pressed on him with much cordiality by Kenneth, as well as by Ian. Even the scorn on Le Rue’s lip began to melt away like the snow! But the fur-trader felt that the interests of his employers were at stake; besides, had he not said to others, had he not vowed to himself, that he would not give way an inch—no, not so much as a hair’s-breadth—to these long-legged interlopers, who, now that he beheld them, were evidently fur-traders in disguise,—men who made use of a so-called saw-mill as a mere blind to divert attention from the real object they had in view.

“Sir,” said Redding, with quiet dignity, “I am the Fur Company’s agent in this district, in charge of the Cliff Fort.”

Had Redding been in charge of the Rock of Gibraltar, with its mighty armament of heavy guns, he could not have assumed an air of greater importance.

“I am glad to hear it,” replied McLeod, more and more perplexed by the youth’s manner, “because I have been anxious for some days to consult you as to the exact boundary line of your Company’s reserve.”

“If you will accompany me to the creek,” replied Redding, pointing to the islet on which the McLeods had already marked off a portion of rock and planted a couple of stakes, “I will enlighten you on that point.”

“Willingly,” answered McLeod, preparing to follow with his two sons.

“Hah!” thought Redding, as he drew near the spot and observed the stakes, “not a doubt of it; inches indeed; they have encroached feet—feet—if not yards on our property.”

He gave no audible sound, however, to his thoughts, until the party had reached the islet, which was connected with the mainland by a plank, then he turned to McLeod with the air of a man who has resolved to wage war to the knife for his rights. Le Rue, seeing his master in this mood, drew himself up, compressed his lips, and darkened his frown.

“The line of demarcation,” said Redding slowly, but with much decision of tone and manner, “runs exactly down the centre of this stream and cuts precisely across the centre of this rock. Now, sir,” he turned abruptly here to look his adversary full in the face. In doing so his vision, passing over the shoulders of his enemy, encountered the bright face and astonished gaze of Flora McLeod, who had just come to let her father and brothers know that their evening meal awaited them.

Reginald Redding was struck dumb. Glancing round to see what had fascinated the gaze of the fur-trader, McLeod turned with a smile, and said:—

“My daughter Flora, Mister—ah!—I beg pardon—your name is, I think—”

“Redding,” murmured the fur-trader, with hesitation, for he had begun to doubt his own identity.

“Just so. Flo has come to tell us, Mr Redding, that supper is ready, so, if you will condescend to accept of our rough and ready hospitality, we shall be delighted. But, before going, pray let us finish this matter. You were about to say—”

“Oh, nothing,—nothing worth mentioning,” said Redding hurriedly, endeavouring to recover himself; “I merely—the fact is—that—a rock like this is so—so utterly insignificant that the idea of trespassing on it is quite absurd, quite out of—why, surely I cannot be mistaken,” he added, lifting his cap, “this must be the young lady whom I had the pleasure of meeting on the road hither at a time when—”

“When your presence and aid were most opportune,” interrupted Flora, as she held out her hand with a gracious smile and a blush.

Why Flora blushed is best known to herself. The same may be said in regard to the fact that Reginald Redding felt rather awkward—though not naturally an awkward man—and looked rather sheepish as he took the hand timidly. It is also worthy of record that the touch of Flora’s hand sent a galvanic stream up Redding’s arm, which curled round his head, ran down his spine, and passed out into the rock at the extremities of his ten toes!

“Indeed!” exclaimed McLeod senior, while a peculiar expression crossed his swarthy countenance as if a new idea had hit him; “then, Mr Redding, I am your debtor; but come, let us to supper before it cools. I suppose that no more need be said about the boundary line. I have not been guilty of trespassing, it seems, on your Company’s reserves?”

“Not in the least,” answered the fur-trader promptly, with a glance at his man.

“Vraiment, non, cer’nly not!” exclaimed Le Rue emphatically, not a trace of scorn being now visible on his benign countenance.

Matters being thus amicably disposed of, the party adjourned to the hut, where they sat down to a substantial repast, the foundation of which was boiled bacon and tea; the superstructure, biscuits and butter.

Here François Le Rue met with a profound disappointment. He had rightly judged that, where the mistress dwelt, the maid must necessarily abide; accordingly, on entering the hut, he had the extreme satisfaction of obtaining a glance of grateful recognition from Elise’s bright eyes. But the sanguine trader had also counted on the pleasure of her company at supper in the kitchen of the establishment, while his master should sup with the McLeods in the parlour. In this he was mistaken. In such an out-of-the-way region the young Canadian girl was counted as much a companion as a servant, and while she performed the duties of attendant at the table in the hall, she also sat modestly down at the same table to partake of the evening meal. François, on the other hand, was told to go to the kitchen and make himself comfortable.

The kitchen was a little out-house, not unlike a gigantic dog-kennel, separated by a space of six feet or so from the principal dwelling.

Opening its door, Le Rue entered with a heavy heart, supposing that he should have to eat his supper in dreary solitude, “not dat I cares moch for dat,” thought he, as he raised the latch, “for I’s accostomed to solitairness; but ah! ven I tinks of—”

“Hooroo!” shouted a gruff voice, scattering at once his thoughts and his “solitairness.”

Le Rue started as he encountered the surprised gaze of a man, but, being in a crusty humour, he only exclaimed— “Hah!” and returned the gaze.

“Sure it’s you or yer ghost,” exclaimed the identical driver whom the two fur-traders had so lately assisted out of difficulties. “Give us yer fist, young man. Ah, then, it’s good luck is yer portion, Rooney. Didn’t I think to sit down to me supper in solitood, whin in comes like a vision the frind as was a frind indade to me and the ladies the other day. Come in, come in, sit ye down there; an’ ait till yer fit to bust. Och! but it’s mesilf is glad this night. There, putt off yer capote; if yer at all like me ye’ll not be fit to taste a morsel till yer in yer shirt sleeves. Howld—I’ll hang it on the peg for ’ee. Now thin, go to work. Don’t spare it. Faix, there’s plinty more where that came from, though there ain’t much variety here. It’s pig for breakfast, pig for dinner, an’ pig for supper—wid a slice o’ cowld pig at odd times whin yer extra hungry. An’ then ye’ll have to pig-in wid myself at night, for there’s only wan bed in this coolinairy mansion, not bein’ room to howld more! That’s yer sort—the tae’s hot, anyhow.”

There was no withstanding such a welcome as this. François Le Rue thawed instantly, and thereafter warmed up to intense cordiality while he plied his knife and fork on the “pig,” and quaffed the steaming “tae,” talking between mouthfuls as his voluble friend gave him opportunity.

An abrupt check, however, was put to the pleasant flow of his spirits when Rooney, having occasion to refer to “the ladies,” remarked in an enthusiastic tone that Elise was “a angel—nothin’ more nor less—only widout wings.”

The demon jealousy instantly fired the soul of the Canadian.

“Vat you knows about she?” he demanded, with suppressed emotion.

“Knows about her!” exclaimed Rooney, with increased enthusiasm, while Le Rue’s spirit dilated with increasing jealousy, “what do I not know about her, is the question. Sure I’ve knowed her iver since she was a purty little curly-hided child; I’ve knowed her goodness to her parients till the day of their death, an’ her gentleness in the time of sorrow, an’ her jollity in the time of joy, an’ her faithfulness to her mistress in adversity, an’ her gin’ral goodness at all times, blissin’s on her!”

François ceased devouring “pig,” and played with his knife, while he mentally, almost unconsciously, measured the number of inches that lay between the outside of Rooney’s chest and the core of his heart.

“You’se verai fond of her, it seems,” he said, with deep sarcasm.

“That’s just what I am,” replied Rooney, stuffing an enormous piece of bacon into his no less enormous mouth. “It’s raison I have too,” he added thickly, but quite audibly, “for she nursed my poor wife through a long illness, an’ it’s my belaif she wouldn’t ha’ bin alive this day but for the care and attintion she got from Elise.”

The demon fled horrified out at the key-hole—the window being shut—and Le Rue, feeling the deepest regard for Rooney, relieved his feelings with a sigh and more “pig.”

While the Irishman and Canadian were entertaining each other thus in the kitchen, the Highlanders and Englishman were no less cordial and busy in the hall. Rough and ready the hospitality indeed was, for the board was not only uncovered but unplaned, and the dishes were cracked and dinted—according to their nature; but the heartiness of the welcome, the solidity of the simple viands, the strength of appetite, and, above all, the presence of bright eyes and gentle spirits threw a luxurious halo round the humble apartment, in the light of which Reginald Redding revelled.

Tea,—the cup which cheers but does not inebriate,—was used at that board as if it had been brandy and water. The men not only drank it during the progress of the meal, but afterwards sat long over it, and dallied with it, and urged each other to “have some more” of it, and quaffed it to the health of absent friends, and told stories, and cut jokes, and sang songs over it, and replenished it with hot water to such an extent that it gradually changed its nature and became that harmless beverage loved by Frenchmen, eau sucré.

That it cheered was evident, for laughter was often loud and sometimes long. That it did not inebriate was equally clear, for the talk of the party was frequently grave as well as gay.

It was especially grave when, towards the end of the evening, McLeod senior, in answer to some allusion of his guest as to the beauties of Partridge Bay, became confidential, and told how he had once dwelt in that settlement for many years, in a happy home which he had specially built for himself, or rather, as he said, with a kindly glance at his pretty daughter, which he had built specially for his wife and child. How it had pleased God to take from him his dear partner before they had been long in the new house; how the failure of a friend had involved him in ruin, and compelled him to sell off all he had possessed and begin life anew with the scanty remnants of his fortune; how he had taken the advice of another friend, and come to Jenkins Creek to set up a saw-mill, having previously invested nearly all his funds in an order for goods from England, for the purpose of setting up a general store, as it was highly probable the country would go on prospering, and the demand for such a store become great; how he had had letters from his youngest son, Roderick,—a lad of nineteen who had been educated in the “old country,”—telling him that the goods had been bought and shipped in the Betsy of Plymouth, and how that he, Roderick, intended to take passage in the same ship the week following, and join his father and brothers in their new sphere of labour; how that, sometimes, he felt depressed by the sudden reverse of fortune, but was always cheered and raised up again by his daughter Flo, who had a wonderful way—somewhat like her mother—of inducing him, when things looked darkest, to turn his eyes to the source of all light, and comfort, and hope, and prosperity.

You may be sure that Reginald Redding listened to all this with the deepest interest and sympathy, for as he glanced at Flora’s speaking countenance—and he did glance at it pretty frequently—he observed new beauty in her expression, and bright tear-drops in her eyes.

“Ah, Flo,” said her father, when he had finished, “no one has such good cause to regret the loss of our old home as yourself, for I don’t think Mr Gambart could have planned it without your aid.”

“What!” exclaimed Redding, with a look of sudden surprise, “what was the name of your place in Partridge Bay?”

“I gave it a Highland name,” said McLeod, with a sad smile, “after a place in Scotland that once belonged to my mother’s family,—Loch Dhu.”

For a moment or two the young fur-trader remained speechless. He looked first at Flora and then at her father, and after that at her brothers, without being able to make up his mind how to act. He now understood the reason of Gambart’s silence as to the former owners of Loch Dhu, and he would have given worlds at that moment if he had never seen or heard of the place, for it seemed such a heartless position to be placed in—the fortunate owner of the lovely spot, over the loss of which Flora and her family evidently mourned so deeply. He could not bear the thought of having to reveal the truth; still less could he bear the thought of concealing it. He was therefore about to make the disagreeable confession, when the thoughts of the whole party were suddenly diverted to another channel, by the opening of the door and the entrance of one of those gaunt sons of the forest who were wont to hang on the skirts of civilisation, as it advanced to wrest from them their native wilderness.

The Indian stalked into the room, handed a dirty piece of folded paper to McLeod, and sat down beside the fire, after the fashion of his race, in solemn silence.