the Indian shook his head and passed on in the direction in which they told him he would be likely to meet Father Xavier.  The party halted and waited hour after hour for the priest, but he did not come.  Finally two went back in search, and found him lying upon the sod with upturned face—­the place where he had written last in his journal marked by a few drops of his heart’s blood, and the long shaft of an arrow protruding from his breast.  They drew it out, but the arrow-head had been attached as is the custom in some Indian tribes, by means of a soft wax, which is melted by the warmth of the body, and it remained in the heart.  Father Xavier had been dead some hours.  They buried him where they found him, and proceeded on their march.  Tontz recovered on the way.  They reached Michillimackinac in safety, where they were joined two months later by La Salle; and the world knows the result of his second expedition.

Little Marie learned by degrees to smile again, and in after years married another arrow-head maker, as swarthy and as shaggy as the Black Beaver.  There is no moral to my story except that of poetic justice.  Pere Francois Xavier had sown a plentiful crop of stratagems, and he learned in the lonely forest that “Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.”

Meanwhile to all but you, my readers, the Crevecoeur cameo remains as great a mystery as ever.

MISS EUNICE’S GLOVE

By Albert Webster.

I.

For a long time blithe and fragile Miss Eunice, demure, correct in deportment, and yet not wholly without enthusiasm, thought that day the unluckiest in her life on which she first took into her hands that unobtrusive yet dramatic book, “Miss Crofutt’s Missionary Labors in the English Prisons.”

It came to her notice by mere accident, not by favor of proselyting friends; and such was its singular material, that she at once devoured it with avidity.  As its title suggests, it was the history of the ameliorating endeavors of a woman in criminal society, and it contained, perforce, a large amount of tragic and pathetic incident.  But this last was so blended and involved with what Miss Eunice would have skipped as commonplace, that she was led to digest the whole volume—­statistics, philosophy, comments, and all.  She studied the analysis of the atmosphere of cells, the properties and waste of wheaten flour, the cost of clothing to the general government, the whys and wherefores of crime and evil-doing; and it was not long before there was generated within her bosom a fine and healthy ardor to emulate this practical and courageous pattern.