“Look at your mother, Josephine,” he commanded in a hoarse whisper, meant for all to hear.  “I said the forests would do more than a thousand doctors in Montreal!”

“You do look splendid, Mikawe,” said Josephine, slipping an arm about her mother’s waist.

Adare had turned into a sudden volley of greetings to the feasting dogs, and for another moment Philip’s eyes were on mother and daughter.  Josephine was the taller of the two by half a head.  She was more like her father.  He noted that the colour had not returned fully into her cheeks, while the flush in Miriam’s face had deepened.  There was something forced in Josephine’s laugh, a note that was unreal and make-believe, as she turned to Philip.

“Isn’t my mother wonderful, Philip?  I call her Mikawe because that means a little more than Mother in Cree—­something that is almost undying and spirit-like.  You will never grow old, my little mother!”

“Ponce de Leon made a great mistake when he didn’t search in these forests for his fountain of eternal youth,” said Adare, laying a hand on Philip’s shoulder.  “Would you guess that it was twenty-two years ago a month from to-day that she came to be mistress of Adare House?  And you, Ma Cheri,” added Adare tenderly, taking his wife by the hand, “Do you remember that it was over this same trail that we took our first walk—­from home?  We went to the Chasm.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And here—­where we stand—­the wood violets were so thick they left perfume on our boots.”

“And you made me a wreath of them—­with the red bakneesh,” said Miriam softly.

“And braided it in your hair.”

“Yes.”

She was breathing a little more quickly.  For a moment it seemed as if these two had forgotten Philip and Josephine.  Their eyes had turned to each other.

“Twenty-two years ago—­A month from to-day!” repeated Josephine.

It seemed as if she had spoken the words that Philip might catch their hidden meaning.

Adare straightened with a sudden idea: 

“On that day we shall have a great anniversary feast,” he declared.  “We will ask every soul—­red and white—­for a hundred miles about, with the exception of the rogues over at Thoreau’s Place!  What do you say, Philip?”

“Splendid!” cried Philip, catching triumphantly at this straw in the face of Josephine’s plans for him.  He looked straight into her eyes as he spoke.  “A month from to-day these forests shall ring with our joy.  And there will be a reason for it—­more than one!”

She could not misunderstand that!  And Philip’s heart beat joyously as Josephine turned quickly to her mother, the colour flooding to the tips of her ears.

The dogs had eaten their fish and were crowding about them.  For the first time Adare seemed to notice Metoosin, who had stood motionless twenty paces behind them.