“Mon Dieu—­it ees you, Mee-sair Philip,” cried Pierrot again, his face lighting up with pleasure.  “You come late.  You are hongree?”

“I’ve had supper,” replied Philip.  “I’ve just come from Lac Bain.  But what’s up, old man—?” He pointed to Pierrot’s hand, and looked questionably about the cabin again.

“Eh—­Iowla—­my wife—­she is at Churchill, over on the bay,” groaned Jacques.  “And so are the children.  What!  You did not hear at Lac Bain?  Iowla is taken seek—­ver’ seek—­with a strange thing which—­ugh!—­has to be fixed with a knife, Mee-sair Philip.  An’ so I take her to the doctor over at Churchill, an’ he fix her—­an’ she is growing well now, an’ will soon come home.  She keep the children with her.  She say they mak’ her think of Jacques, on his trap-line.  Eh—­it ees lonely—­dam’—­dam’ lonely, and I have been gone from my Iowla but two weeks to-morrow.”

“You have been with her at Fort Churchill?” asked Philip, taking off his pack and coat.

“Oui, M’sieur,” said Jacques, falling into his French.  “I have been there since November.  What!  They did not tell you at Lac Bain?”

“No—­they did not tell me.  But I was there but a few hours, Jacques.  Listen—­” He pulled out his pipe and began filling it, with his back to the stove.  “You saw people—­strangers—­at Fort Churchill, Jacques?  They came over on the London ship, and among them there was a woman—­”

Pierrot’s pale face flashed up with sudden animation.

“Ah—­zee angel!” he cried.  “That is what my Iowla called her, M’sieur.  See!” He pointed to his bandaged hand.  “Wan day that bete—­the Indian dog of mine—­did that, an’ w’en I jumped up from the snow in front of the company’s store, the blood running from me, I see her standing there, white an’ scared.  An’ then she run to me with a little scream, an’ tear something from her neck, an’ tie it round my hand.  Then she go with me to my cabin, and every day after that she come to see my Iowla an’ the children.  She wash little Pierre, an’ cut his hair.  She wash Jean an’ Mabelle.  She laugh an’ sing an’ hol’ the baby, an’ my Iowla laugh an’ sing; an’ she takes down my Iowla’s hair, which is so long that it falls to her knees, an’ does it up in a wonderful way an’ says she would give everything she got if she could have that hair.  An’ my Iowla laugh at her, because her hair is like an angel’s—­like fire w’en the sun is on it; an’ my Iowla tak’ hers down, all red an’ gold, an’ do it up in the Cree way.  And w’en she brings the man with her—­he laughs an’ plays with the kids, an’ says he knows the doctor and that there will be nothing to pay for all that he is done.  Ah—­she ees wan be-e-eautiful-l-l angel!  An’ this—­this is w’at she tied around my hand.”