of this good man to a wanderer rebounding from a family that disowned the pretender.  He was my welcome back to America.  The breath of eastern pines, and the resinous sweetness of western plains I had not yet seen, but which drew me so that I could scarcely wait to land, came to me with that man.  Before the voyage ended I had told him my whole history as far as I knew it, except the story of Madame de Ferrier; and the beginning of it was by no means new to him.  The New England Williamses kept a prayerful eye on that branch descending through the Iroquois.  This transplanted Briton, returning from his one memorable visit to the England of his forefathers, despised my Bourbon claims, and even the French contraction of my name.

“What are you going to do now, Eleazar?” he inquired.

Hugging my old dream to myself, feeling my heart leap toward that western empire which must fascinate a young man as long as there remain any western lands to possess, I told him I intended to educate our Iroquois as soon as I could prepare myself to do it, and settle them where they could grow into a greater nation.

The man of God kindled in the face.  He was a dark-eyed, square-browed, serious man, with black hair falling below his white band.  His mouth had a sweet benign expression, even when he quizzed me about my dauphinhood.  A New England pastor was a flame that burned for the enlightenment of the nations.  From that hour it was settled that I should be his pupil, and go with him to Longmeadow to finish my education.

When we landed he helped me to sell my Babylonish clothes, except the white court dress, to which I clung with tenacity displeasing to him, and garb myself in more befitting raiment.  By Skenedonk’s hand I sent some of the remaining gold coins to my mother Marianne and the chief, when he rejoined the tribe and went to pass the winter at St. Regis.  And by no means did I forget to tell him to bring me letters from De Chaumont’s manor in the spring, if any arrived there for me.

How near to heaven the New England village seemed, with Mount Tom on the horizon glorious as Mount Zion, the mighty sweep of meadow land, the Connecticut river flowing in great peace, the broad street of elms like some gigantic cathedral nave, and in its very midst a shrine—­the meetinghouse, double-decked with fan-topped windows.

Religion and education were the mainsprings of its life.  Pastor Storrs worked in his study nearly nine hours a day, and spent the remaining hours in what he called visitation of his flock.

This being lifted out of Paris and plunged into Longmeadow was the pouring of white hot metal into chill moulds.  It cast me.  With a seething and a roar of loosened forces, the boy passed to the man.

Nearly every night during all those years of changing, for even faithfulness has its tides, I put the snuffbox under my pillow, and Madame de Ferrier’s key spoke to my ear.  I would say to myself:  “The one I love gave me this key.  Did I ever sit beside her on a ledge of stone overlooking a sunken garden?—­so near that I might have touched her!  Does she ever think of the dauphin Louis?  Where is she?  Does she know that Lazarre has become Eleazar Williams?”