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“O, O, the winter wind, the North wind,
My snow-bird, where art thou gone?
O, O, the wailing wind the night wind,
The cold nest; I am alone.
O, O, my snow-bird!

“O, O, the waving sky, the white sky,
My snow-bird thou fliest far;
O, O, the eagle’s cry, the wild cry,
My lost love, my lonely star.
O, O, my snow-bird!”

He was about to start briskly forward to join Malbrouck and his Indians, who were already on their way, when he heard his name called, and, turning, he saw Margaret in the doorway, her fingers held to the tips of her ears, as yet unused to the frost. He ran back to where she stood, and held out his hand. “I was afraid,” he bluntly said, “that you wouldn’t forsake your morning sleep to say good-bye to me.”

“It isn’t always the custom, is it,” she replied, “for ladies to send the very early hunter away with a tally-ho? But since you have the grace to be afraid of anything, I can excuse myself to myself for fleeing the pleasantest dreams to speed you on your warlike path.”

At this he brightened very much, but she, as if repenting she had given him so much pleasure, added: “I wanted to say good-bye to my father, you know; and–” she paused.

“And”? he added.

“And to tell him that you have fond relatives in the old land who would mourn your early taking off; and, therefore, to beg him, for their sakes, to keep you safe from any outrageous moose that mightn’t know how the world needed you.”

“But there you are mistaken,” he said; “I haven’t anyone who would really care, worse luck! except the dowager; and she, perhaps, would be consoled to know that I had died in battle,–even with a moose,–and was clear of the possibility of hanging another lost reputation on the family tree, to say nothing of suspension from any other kind of tree. But, if it should be the other way; if I should see your father in the path of an outrageous moose–what then?”

“My father is a hunter born,” she responded; “he is a great man,” she proudly added.

“Of course, of course,” he replied. “Good-bye. I’ll take him your love.–Good-bye!” and he turned away.

“Good-bye,” she gaily replied; and yet, one looking closely would have seen that this stalwart fellow was pleasant to her eyes, and as she closed the door to his hand waving farewell to her from the pines, she said, reflecting on his words:

“You’ll take him my love, will you? But, Master Gregory, you carry a freight of which you do not know the measure; and, perhaps, you never shall, though you are very brave and honest, and not so impudent as you used to be,–and I’m not so sure that I like you so much better for that either, Monsieur Gregory.”

Then she went and laid her cheek against her mother’s, and said: “They’ve gone away for big game, mother dear; what shall be our quarry?”

“My child,” the mother replied, “the story of our lives since last you were with me is my only quarry. I want to know from your own lips all that you have been in that life which once was mine also, but far away from me now, even though you come from it, bringing its memories without its messages.”

“Dear, do you think that life there was so sweet to me? It meant as little to your daughter as to you. She was always a child of the wild woods. What rustle of pretty gowns is pleasant as the silken shiver of the maple leaves in summer at this door? The happiest time in that life was when we got away to Holwood or Marchurst, with the balls and calls all over.”

Mrs. Malbrouck smoothed her daughter’s hand gently and smiled approvingly.