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the opposite side of the trunk, had pinned the man to it by the clasp of his heavy paw, whilst grasping the stock of his gun, from which all the shot had been discharged, the unfortunate Stephens, for he it was, was frantically endeavouring to beat off the hideous brute with the butt-end of the weapon. Evidently, however, his strength was becoming exhausted, and just as his rescuers appeared upon the scene, the bear succeeded in dragging his prey round the Then ensued a horrible struggle. Poor Stephens' ribs were heard to crash, as the grizzly threw his ponderous weight upon him, and man and beast rolled together upon the ground. To aim at the one without endangering the other was impossible, and for several seconds the men hesitated to shoot. Seeing, however, that this was their only chance, for the bear paid no heed to the frantic shouts with which they sought to disturb him, they at length fired. Greatly to their joy, they perceived that the shots had taken effect. The bear turned over mortally wounded. But alas, even in his death-struggle, he did not release his hold of the man, but, burying his fangs in his shoulder, tore savagely with his claws at the poor dislocated arm. When, eventually, the distressed hunters were able to liberate him from that ferocious embrace, they saw at once that the injuries he had received were of so serious a nature that they must of necessity prove fatal. This Stephens also felt. After murmuring something in his own tongue, he implored his companions to carry him home without delay. There were things, he declared, which he must say to Madame Vandeleur before his death, arrangements and directions which he must leave with her concerning his child. And so importunate had he proved on this score, that the kind-hearted men, leaving the valuable prize they had slain to the wolves, had hastened to construct the litter already referred to, and relieving each other by turns, had made what speed they could back through the woods.

But five miles of forest travelling, with a heavy burden, is not easily accomplished, and before the settlement was gained poor Stephens had ceased to urge them forward with each step, and, happily for them as well as himself, had sunk into temporary unconsciousness. Such, briefly repeated, was the story to which the women listened. But as they heard it (with much unnecessary detail and recapitulation on the men's part, and endless interruption for sympathetic comment and inquiry on their own) the story was not brief.

Long ere it was ended the twilight had deepened into the early summer night. A glorious moon, however, had risen, and although the air began to feel chilly, the peasants did not yet attempt to

disperse. They stood there, with their dark eyes, olive complexions, and quaint dress, making a picturesque group in the moonlight.

All around them nature had grown silent, save for such sounds as made that silence felt-the faint rippling of the lake against its banks and the sighing of a vagrant wind amidst the tops of the pinetrees. In the mystic effulgence which now bathed it, the wood-girt solitude, with its dotting habitations and still corn-fields, seemed, too, to have acquired a new beauty, a strange solemnity.

The spirit of the scene and the hour settled gradually upon the minds and senses of the unsophisticated and emotional people, who felt, although they could not analyse it. Voices softened, and then sank to a whisper, till, by-and-by, the whole group stood gazing in almost total silence towards the light from the oil lamp, which still shone behind Madame Vandeleur's uncurtained window. And even whilst they gazed, the angel of death was already descending on dark, invisible wings into. that still, tranquil-looking abode.

CHAPTER IV.

66 MILLIONS OF DOLLARS."

MEANWHILE, having dismissed her guests and sought for a treasured flask of brandy, kept only as medicine, Madame Vandeieur passed into her lodger's chamber. To her surprise, she found the dying man sitting up in bed, propped against her husband's sturdy shoulder, and endeavouring, with his uninjured right hand, to transcribe some lines upon a sheet of paper which Paul held in front of him. The effort, however, was evidently costing him excruciating agony. Huge drops of perspiration, bursting from his brow, kept rolling down his pallid face, whilst every now and then the compressed lips were opened to emit an involuntary grɔan.

"Don't speak! don't speak!" he implored, in answer to Marie's earnest remonstrance. "I have nearly done. Let me finish!" But, even as he uttered this prayer, the letters he was forming ran into one another, and the pencil slipped from his nerveless grasp.

Mistaking the fainting fit for death, Paul, whose mild blue eyes were blinded by sympathetic tears, began to give vent to loud. expressions of grief. But silencing him with a word, Madame Vandeleur stooped to administer the brandy, and in a few minutes the patient revived.

His first action was to take the pencil again in hand, and,

after begging Paul to fold the paper, to write on the back of it an address.

"Can you read that?" he asked Madame Vandeleur. "Is it plain ?"

For answer she took the note and repeated the direction aloud. It was that of a "Miss Estcourt," with the name of a house and a street which madame knew to be in the most fashionable quarter of Quebec.

"Right, quite right!" sighed the poor young Englishman-suffering himself to be laid back upon his pillows. "Now, I want you to promise me, Paul, that you will take that letter yourself to Miss Estcourt, and deliver it into her own hands. Promise it on your solemn word of honour! Oh, madame, I entreat you, as a dying man, allow him to promise it!"

"Monsieur," protested the tender-hearted giant, without awaiting his wife's permission, "I promise-I will take the letter."

"Yes, he shall take it," assented Marie. "But" (she hesitated a moment, then curiosity got the better of more creditable sentiments) "who is Miss Estcourt?"

"She is . . . . No, I will not break my word! You will learn from herself, perhaps. Tell her all about my death, Paul. She will pay the expense of your journey. And, madame, she will take charge of the child-of my boy. But keep him with you until you hear from her, until she sends you directions about him. And, dear madame, be good to him-for God's sake, be good to him!"

"My poor friend, rest satisfied on that score. The child shall be to me as iny own," affirmed Marie, in cordial good faith.

A grateful smile lit up the dying man's face. It was a face strangely out of harmony with his surroundings, bearing on it, as it did, the marks of culture and refinement no less than of patrician lineage.

"Thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my heart!" he murmured, putting out his hand to clasp hers. "But I have more to say-the most important thing of all. In that chest" (he loosened his fingers to point to a rough wooden box of his own construction)" at the bottom of that chest you will find a small leathern case. The key of the case is here." He raised his hand, and began to fumble about his breast, but desisted through weakness. "You can look for it afterwards," he subjoined pathetically. "That case and the key must be taken to Miss Estcourt along with my note. It is of the utmost importance-Remember, the case is of the utmost importance. It contains only papers; but, listen! . . . . VOL. CCLVIII. NO. 1849.

(Madame Vandeleur bent her ear to catch the failing utterance which was every moment growing more feeble), "those papers are worth more than I can explain. They are worth to my boy millions of dollars-millions of dollars!"

An astonished ejaculation rose to Marie's lips; but checking the expression of it, she laid her hand on his arm.

"My poor friend," she repeated, "I comprehend well. All that you have said shall be done. Rest satisfied of it."

"I do. I will. Madame, I trust you! And now I can die. . . Only let me see him once more ..."

"The good father? Yes, yes!" cried Paul, whose simple piety and faith in priestly efficacy bordered on superstition.

"Paul, sit still. Thou art a goose," commanded the more astute wife; and hastily quitting the room, she caught up the sleeping Claude and returned with him in her arms.

A faint movement of the head and another flickering smile thanked her. Marie held the child down to him, in order that the poor young father (Hubert Stephens was not yet twenty-seven) might embrace him.

But already the lips that pressed that soft baby cheek were cold. and clammy, and the little fellow, moaning impatiently in his sleep, shrank back and turned to nestle against Marie's breast.

"Ah! pardon him," begged the latter soothingly. "The poor innocent, he knows not what he does. See, I will sit where you can see him!" And motioning Paul away, she placed herself close by his side, turning the boy's face to his dying father's gaze.

Poor Stephens regarded him with a lingering look of deep. affection.

"My child, my child!" he faltered in English, but almost inaudibly. "No, he knows not! But it is better for him that I should die. Now they can forgive, and he will get his rights. . . . Poor Claudia, too, perhaps . . . perhaps when she knows. . . Ah, my life has not been a success. . . . Let the wreck go down . . I . . I do not regret it. . . ."

An hour later, the last rites had been performed. The crushed and mangled body had been decently shrouded; the Curé and Annette Jalbert had joined the waiting peasants outside, and were relating to them how the end had come-how he who had been amongst them as a stranger, had left them as a stranger, with the secrets of his history, whatever they might be, unrevealed. Of this, which was certainly the truth, if not the entire truth, Madame Vandeleur had assured them. For the little woman had kept back, and

had bidden her husband keep back, whatever could be learned or guessed through that death-bed conference.

"And now, my Paul, go thou to rest," said Marie, directly they were left alone, "and I will place the children in their cot by thy side. As for me, I could not sleep; I shall remain here and watch."

Expostulation against this decision upon Paul's part ended (as any attempt to shake an expressed resolution of his wife's usually did) in failure. Quietly, but persistently, madame stuck to her point; and, obliged to give way, Paul retired, vowing, however, that he could not sleep himself so long as he knew her to be sitting

up.

This protestation notwithstanding, the good fellow had scarcely laid his head upon his pillow before his deep and sonorous breathing attested to the fact of profound slumber. Through the half-closed door, that sound reached Madame Vandeleur, where she sat in the adjoining room, her arms folded upon the table before her-thinking. Strange thoughts they were that passed through the little woman's mind-kindling her dark eyes until they shone in the ill-lighted room like lambent stars, and blanching into more striking pallor her already pale face.

And by-and-by, those thoughts became something more than thoughts. Imperceptibly they formulated themselves into a temptation a temptation at first weak and formless, but which grew with each moment more explicit and more fierce.

Ever since they had been breathed into her bent ear-her ear alone (for Paul, she had ascertained, had not caught them)-three words spoken by the dead man had been ringing incessant changes, like tormenting bells, in Marie Vandeleur's brain. "Millions of dollars! millions of dollars"!

Dollars! millions of dollars! What did the words mean? What did the thing they represented mean? Rather, what did it not mean for the happy possessor? How much would it mean for Marie her

self were she the possessor?

It might mean it would mean-in the first place, escape from this solitary spot, and from the rigorous inclemency of another Canadian winter. Yes, it would mean a warmer climate, a wider world, more congenial associates. It would mean novel and, at present, incalculable experiences. It would mean power-power of various kinds dear to Marie's heart. Within herself, the little woman felt that she was born for eminence and distinction. With such a craving as she possessed for these things, it was out of nature that

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