the old associations of the island, which is dear to both of us.'

The four looked at me with distrust; they saw nothing dear about the
island, unless it was the price of fresh meat; and as to old
associations, they held themselves above such nonsense. So, one and
all, they, took beef and enjoyed a season of well-regulated
conversation, leaving me to silence and my broiled white-fish; as it
was Friday, no doubt they thought the latter a rag of popery.

Very good rags.

But my hostess, a gentle little woman, stole away from these bulwarks
of Protestantism in the late afternoon, and sought me in my room, or
rather series of rooms, since there were five opening one out of the
other, the last three unfurnished, and all the doorless doorways
staring at me like so many fixed eyes, until, oppressed by their
silent watchfulness, I hung a shawl over the first opening and shut
out the whole gazing suite.

'You must not think, Mrs. Corlyne, that we islanders do not appreciate
Father Piret,' said the little woman, who belonged to one of the old
island families, descendants of a chief factor of the fur trade.
'There has been some feeling lately against the Catholics--'

'Roman Catholics, my dear,' I said with Anglican particularity.

'But we all love and respect the dear old man as a father.'

'When I was living at the fort, fifteen years ago, I heard
occasionally of Father Piret,' I said, 'but he seemed to be almost a