Before the coming of his assistant, Father Ignatius had managed his own simple housekeeping in all its most humble details.  Now they had the services of an Indian maid of all work, who had been brought up under the eyes of Father Ignatius, and whom the old man regarded rather as a daughter than as a servant.  Her moccasined feet fell as silently as those of spirits as she glided about their lodge.  She never sang at her work, and rarely spoke, but she smiled often with a smile so childlike as to be almost silly in expression.  Father Ignatius loved the silent smile, and a word from him was always sure to bring it; but it angered Father Francis Xavier more than many a more repulsive thing would have done.  It seemed so utterly imbecile and babyish to him, he had got so far away from innocence and smiles and childhood himself, that the sight of them irritated him.  The young Indian girl had a long and almost unpronounceable name.  Pere Ignace had baptized her Marie, and the new name had gradually taken the place of the old.

One day, as she was silently but dexterously putting to order the large upper room, which served Pere Francis Xavier as study and dormitory, she paused before his collection of agates and minerals, and stroking the stones, said in her soft French and Indian patois, “Pretty, pretty.”  Father Xavier was seated at the great open window, looking over the top of his book away across the breezy lake.  He heard the words, and knew that she was looking at him from the corner of her eye, but his only reply was a deeper scowl and a lowering of his glance to the printed page.  The silly smile which he felt sure was upon her face faded out, but the girl spoke again, and this time more resolutely, determined to attract his attention.  “Pretty stones.  Marie’s father many more, much prettier—­much.”

Father Xavier laid down his book.  He was all attention.  “Where did your father get them?” he asked.

“In the mountains climb, in the mines dig, in the lake dive, he seek them all the time summer.”

“What does he do with them?”

“Cuts them like mon pere,” and Marie imitated in pantomime the use of the hammer and chisel.  “Cut them all time winter, very many.”

“What does he do that for?” asked the priest, surprised.

“All the same you,” replied the girl—­“make arrow-heads.”

“Oh! he makes arrow-heads, does he?  Mine are not arrow-heads, but I should like to see what your father does.  Does he live far from here?”

“Marie take you to-night in canoe.”

“Very well, after supper.”