begin to think it has been long since woven in the silvery and eternal wampum — belt after belt, string twisted around string — that you shall go to Catharines-town unscathed.

“Where she was born returns the rosy Forest Pigeon to her native tree for mating. White-Throat — White-Throat — your course is flown! For this is Amochol’s frontier; and by tomorrow night we enter Catharines-town — thou and I, little Lois — two Hidden Children — one hidden by the Western Gate, one by the Eastern Gate’s dark threshold, ‘hidden in the husks.’� How shall it be with us now, 0 little rosy spirit of the home-wood? My Indians will ask. What shall I say to them concerning you?”

“All laws break of themselves before us