I never yet have worn them more than to fit them on and take them off.”

“Why?” I asked vaguely.

“I save them for my journey.”

“What journey?”

“The long trail through the Long House — straight through it, Euan, to the Western Door. That is the trail I dream of.”

“Who leaves these strange moccasins at your threshold every year?”

“I do not know.”

“From where do you suppose they come?” I asked, amazed.

“From Catharines-town.”

“Do you believe your mother sends them?”