was held on the spot where so many solemn contracts had been signed.  An odor of furs came from the packing-rooms around, mixed with gums and incense-like whiffs.  Added to this was the breath of the general store kept by the agency.  Tobacco and snuff, rum, chocolate, calico, blankets, wood and iron utensils, fire-arms, West India sugar and rice,—­all sifted their invisible essences on the air.  Unceiled joists showed heavy and brown overhead.  But there was no fireplace, for when the straits stood locked in ice and the island was deep in snow, no engage claimed admission here.  He would be a thousand miles away, toiling on snow-shoes with his pack of furs through the trees, or bargaining with trappers for his contribution to this month of enormous traffic.

Clean buckskin legs and brand-new belted hunting-shirts whirled on the floor, brightened by sashes of crimson or kerchiefs of orange.  Indians from the reservation on Round Island, who happened to be standing, like statues, in front of the building, turned and looked with lenient eye on the performance of their French brothers.  The fiddler was a nervous little Frenchman with eyes like a weasel, and he detected Jenieve Lalotte putting her head into the room.  She glanced from figure to figure of the dancers, searching through the twilight for what she could not find; but before he could call her she was off.  None of the men, except a few Scotch-French, were very tall, but they were a handsome, muscular race, fierce in enjoyment, yet with a languor which prolonged it, and gave grace to every picturesque pose.  Not one of them wanted to pain Lalotte’s girl, but, as they danced, a joyful fellow would here and there spring high above the floor and shout, “Good voyage to Michel Pensonneau and his new family!” They had forgotten the one who amused them yesterday, and remembered only the one who amused them to-day.

Jenieve struck on Jean Bati’ McClure’s door, and faced his wife, speechless, pointing to the schooner ploughing southward.

“Yes, she’s gone,” said Jean Bati’ McClure’s wife, “and the boys with her.”

The confidante came out on the step, and tried to lay her hand on Jenieve’s shoulder, but the girl moved backward from her.

“Now let me tell you, it is a good thing for you, Jenieve Lalotte.  You can make a fine match of your own to-morrow.  It is not natural for a girl to live as you have lived.  You are better off without them.”

“But my mother has left me!”

“Well, I am sorry for you; but you were hard on her.”

“I blame you, madame!”

“You might as well blame the priest, who thought it best not to let them go unmarried.  And she has taken a much worse man than Michel Pensonneau in her time.”

“My mother and my brothers have left me here alone,” repeated Jenieve; and she wrung her hands and put them over her face.  The trouble was so overwhelming that it broke her down before her enemy.