gone--he was grave, almost melancholy; and, in his way, as notable as his
master. Their life in London had changed him much. A valet in St.
James's Street was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River. Often
when Jacques was left alone he stood at the window looking out on the gay
traffic, scarcely stirring; his eyes slow, brooding. Occasionally,
standing so, he would make the sacred gesture. One who heard him swear
now and then, in a calm, deliberate way,--at the cook and the porter,--
would have thought the matters in strange contrast. But his religion
was a central habit, followed as mechanically as his appetite or the
folding of his master's clothes. Besides, like most woodsmen, he was
superstitious. Gaston was kind with him, keeping, however, a firm hand
till his manner had become informed by the new duties. Jacques's
greatest pleasure was his early morning visits to the stables. Here were
Saracen and Jim the broncho-sleek, savage, playful. But he touched the
highest point of his London experience when they rode in the Park.

In this Gaston remained singular. He rode always with Jacques. Perhaps
he wished to preserve one possible relic of the old life, perhaps he
liked this touch of drama; or both. It created notice, criticism, but he
was superior to that. Time and again people asked him to ride, but he
always pleaded another engagement. He would then be seen with Jacques
plus Jacques's earrings and the wonderful hair, riding grandly in the
Row. Jacques's eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at
these times.

No figures in the Park were so striking. There was nothing bizarre, but
Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at their
waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a grave
distance. Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the hours
when he really was with the old life--lived it again--prairie, savannah,