be, she was even then, at that supreme moment, conscious of a sense of relief. Her head was full of whirling thoughts, and her heart was beating fast with fear and anguish, but the burden both had carried so long was gone. No matter what else might happen, her husband's father could not now die wilfully deceived by his only son. Married to you! And you here like a servant!' He spoke low and faintly, but she caught the sounds. Tell me all about it. Don't be afraid.' Then she told him, without moving from her kneeling attitude, without loosing his hand, but checking her tears, and speaking in the soft distinct voice which had been very pleasant to Reginald Clint for a long time now. She went back to the. death of her mother, and dwelt on Walter's conduct to her at that time; and then she told of the circumstances which had led to their hasty and imprudent marriage. Mr Clint seemed to understand her narrative perfectly, and to follow it with attention; she knew that he had in his mind the points of comparison between it and the story he had heard from Mrs Clewer. Only one thing she did not tell him-that she had been led to believe the separation between Walter and his father complete before she knew him. She would shield herself from no particle of blame, but him from all she could. 'We were both very young, sir,' she pleaded simply, and now with perfect composure, and very lonely, and we loved each other very much. I had no friend or protector except Walter, and he did this wrong thing for my sake. And then, when he had to leave me, because we were so poor, he wished to leave me near the only friends he had for, indeed, Walter always knew you would be good to me, if the truth came out, and, and—if he never came back. And this too was done hastily, and because we were in a kind of desperation; and it was my fault, because I was foolish, and afraid of being left quite alone. I know I don't deserve that you should forgive such a great deception, but you will forgive Walter-for it was all my fault?' No answer. But no withdrawal of the eyes, nor of the hand. 'When I came back here, and you began to be ill, and were so kind to me, I determined to deceive you no longer; but I could not tell you the truth without Walter's leave, and I wrote to him, and entreated him to let me tell you, and ask for your pardon for both of us. His letter must come to me soon, and I know what he will say in it, and how thankful he will be to know that I have besought you for him.' 'Who knows of this?' He spoke with difficulty, but her quick perception discerned the inflection of the old jealous pride in his tone. How many of those who lived in daily contact with him were aware of the trick that was played upon him? To how many had he been an object of ridicule? 'No one. Not a living soul but Miriam, and Walter, and myself. She has been the truest and the best of friends to me, and I sorely need her pardon too, for she did this for Walter's sake.' 'For whose sake have you been to me all that she never was, or could be, or Walter either?' In all his life Reginald Clint had never spoken with such dignity, or such softness, as in these few words, which held Florence spell-bound. When she replied, it was in the lowest whisper: For Walter's, sir, and for your own, because I love you.' Again there was a long pause, and then Reginald Clint turned restlessly, and with a moan of pain, and said: 'I believe you. There was one other woman in the world once who loved me-that is a long time ago-but no one else. Not Walter, and not Miriam, only their mother, and you.' He laid the hand he had drawn away from hers upon her bended head. I forgive him, for your sake; and I bless you, my child!' While Florence was still kneeling, speechless, and weak with many emotions, there came a knock at the door. She rose and noiselessly admitted the nurse, who said at once, on seeing her face: 'Is he worse?' "I think so,' whispered Florence. 'Come and see.' They stood together on the side of the bed nearest the door. His face was turned away, and he seemed to sleep. They interchanged looks, but no words. Florence resumed her former position, and there was profound stillness, until Mr Clint opened his eyes and said to her: Who is there?' 'Only the nurse. You do not mind her?' 'No; I don't mind her; but don't you leave me. Stay with me until the morning.' 'I will stay with you,' said Florence; and she drew her chair close to the bed, where his waking glance could fall upon her. The nurse sat within the shadow of the curtains on the other side, and thus the two women commenced their silent watch. It remained unbroken for some hours. It was many weeks since Reginald Clint had had so much sleep, or such freedom from pain. In the early morning, he muttered a few words, and Florence bent over him to catch them. He was not asking for anything, and the words had no meaning that she could discern. He was only saying: 'After all, I have done him no wrong!' He never spoke again, coherently. A few hours more, and his sleep had deepened into stupor, and, after two days, the stupor had sunk into death. CHAPTER XXVI.—‘AFTER ALL, I HAVE DONE HIM NO WRONG!' Immediately after it was made known in the village of Drington that Mr Clint was no more, Mr Standish presented himself at the Firs, and asked to see Mrs Dixon. The state of mind in which the event, ensuing so rapidly upon the disclosure she had made, had left Florence was exceedingly painful. She had an intimate, consoling conviction that her husband's father had not received her communication with displeasure, but this conviction was one which she could not impart to any one, and she suffered extremely from the dread lest the revelation she had been irresistibly impelled to make, should have in any degree, by the mere action of surprise, accelerated Mr Clint's death. The end had come so unexpectedly, it had almost stunned her; and her position of responsibility, unbacked by recognised authority, was quite agonising. In the very presence of the dead man, as she watched the bloated features settling into the calm which lends dignity to even such a wreck as Reginald Clint, the question would arise: What was she to do now? He was dead; not, indeed, as she had dreaded, until all her powers of feeling seemed engrossed by that one terrible fear, without forgiving Walter; but nothing, except in point of that sentiment, was altered. He had forgiven Walter, and blessed her; but, let the dispositions he had made, if there were any such, in the time of his fiercest anger, his most obstinate estrangement, be ever so hard and unjust, they must remain unchanged now. It had happened according to the desire of her heart, but it was all too late. There was something more appalling to Florence in this death than in any other which had ever signified anything to her. Here was the stillness, the solemnity, the decorum, the circumstance, the ceremonial of death-but no grief. A decent regret on the part of three or four persons, a formal gravity of demeanour observed by the dead man's servants, and tempered by much conjecture about their chances of mourning and gratuities. But grief there was none. No riven hearts, shrinking from the thought of a new day, to arise on their unwelcome life, yearning with horrid anguish over the least little remembrances of the one, so lately all-engrossing in action, as well as in thought, and suddenly become so terribly unreal. Could there be anything so dreary and dreadful, Florence thought, as a house of mourning wherein were no mourners? She had gone through the few sad formalities, and was resting, after having written briefly to Mr St Quentin, a request that he would communicate the fact of her father's death gently to Miriam; and had just decided that she would consult Mr Martin with respect to her own immediate movements, when she was told that Mr Standish wished to see her. She went to the study immediately, and there she found the lawyer and Mr Martin. Mr Standish was seated in the place which Mr Clint had habitually occupied, and the circumstance gave Florence's tender heart a stab. The place of him who lay there, up-stairs, white and silent, already knew him no more. Florence bowed to the two gentlemen, and Mr Martin placed a chair for her. 'You wished to see me, sir?' She addressed Mr Standish. 'Mrs Dixon?' She bent her head in assent. 'I received instructions from my late client, Mr Clint,' said the lawyer, with a formal civility which made Florence uncomfortable, 'to make the contents of this memorandum,' producing a paper as he spoke, 'known to you and Mr Martin as soon as possible after his decease. You will be so good as to take them into account in making the necessary melancholy arrangements.' Mr Martin made no reply, and Florence had nothing to say. Mr Standish then read the memorandum, which was signed by Mr Clint, and consisted merely of a few lines, directing that his funeral should be very private and very plain, and that, prior to it, his will, which he had placed in the custody of Mr Standish, should be read. 'When it suits you to have this done,' said Mr Standish, addressing Florence, 'I shall be happy to attend for the purpose.' It was evident that she was expected to act in the absence of any direct representative of Mr Clint. But she appealed to Mr Martin, who undertook to do all that was necessary; and it was finally arranged that the will should be read on the day before the funeral, by which time Mr and Mrs St Quentin would probably have arrived at the Firs. This agreed to, Florence rose and left the room, feeling a little curious, and disturbed by Mr Standish's manner, which was, with all its formality, not quite respectful. The hours dragged on, as they always do drag on while the dread presence of the dead is with the living, heavily and wearily. On the third morning, Miriam and her husband arrived. Mr St Quentin's sense of decorum did not fail him on an occasion in which there was no real sadness to him; he conducted himself with perfect propriety, but Florence was conscious of the displeasure with which he observed his wife's incautious greeting of her supposed maid. Mr St Quentin had a peculiar faculty of making his anger felt without transgressing good manners, by cold, ironical politeness and well-arranged contempt, which Florence remembered, and under which she had often cringed. She felt his anger in the slighting glance which passed over her, but never lighted on her; in the slighting tone of his bare acknowledgment of her; the How do you do, Dixon?' which made Miriam's face burn, and her eyes flash. When the sisters-in-law found themselves together, Miriam burst into a bitter complaint of Mr St Quentin's conduct towards her, even before she inquired of Florence the particulars of her father's death. 'I do really believe he is mad,' she said, 'though there isn't much consolation in thinking so, since I cannot get rid of him by the conviction: he certainly is the most hateful and persecuting old man in existence. Do you notice how his bad heart and odious, suspicious temper are telling on him, Rose? He is shrivelling up into such an ugly old man; I am sure he looks many years older than poor papa did.' Florence was silently thankful that Miriam was never to know what her father had looked like in the last days of his life. The face had been hidden away for ever before his daughter's arrival; and there was nothing to disturb that merciful process, to which the very best among us must owe so much one day, by which death blots out the memory of faults, and fixes the memory of every claim which the departed had to urge upon the affection and regret of his fellows. 'He is looking old.' 'Yes; and wicked, downright wicked. Ah, Rose, how wise and right you were when you warned me, in this very room' (she glanced around it forlornly), 'that the way of escape I seized upon so eagerly might not be a way to happiness!' If Miriam had but known that the tyrant she had been so anxious to flee from had only a short time to live, how much might have been spared her! She did not think out this thought, but no doubt it was there, lurking in her mind; and Reginald Clint was, in this respect, reaping what he had sown. Miriam heard Florence's account of her revelation to Mr Clint with great interest and emotion, and without any participation in the misgivings from which she was suffering. To Miriam's mind, the few words which her father had spoken were satisfactory and conclusive. Making the fullest allowance for his state at the time, and the near approach of his death, Miriam was not to be convinced that if her father had felt anger he would have concealed it, or been induced by any sentiment of gratitude to, or consideration for Florence to express any other feeling than anger. The last coherent words he had uttered-'After all, I have done him no wrong!'-duly reported to Miriam, were as inexplicable to her as to her sisterin-law. If they alluded to the rumours he had before him, and broke the seal of a large blue envelope. It was evident that Mr Clint's will was no voluminous document; and the reading of it, after the accustomed preamble, did not occupy five minutes. heard about Walter and Florence Reeve, they were not to be understood, unless he had actually believed that a marriage had taken place; and any other meaning they might have had was completely out of the reach of the two young women. They might have been merely rambling, semi-conscious words, but Florence could not regard them as such; faint though their tone, their manner was purpose-like. There was no conclusion to be arrived at; they had to close their discussion where they commenced it. The whole of this day Miriam passed in seclusion in her own rooms. She had left Bianca in Paris, and Mrs Dixon seemed to resume her former functions naturally.ested services he had confidence, and to whom he It was agreed between the sisters-in-law that the truth respecting Florence should be told to Mr St Quentin after the funeral. Miriam was much distressed by the necessity for the disclosure, but she had no choice. Florence was now houseless and unprotected, and Miriam must provide for her in some way, let the terms of Reginald Clint's will be what they might, until her brother's return. That Mr St Quentin would not permit her to fill her former position in his house, Miriam felt assured, and she expected her to prove still more obnoxious as Walter's wife. The night closed around hearts full of anxiety and disturbed by heavy care, in the house where lay the dead man for the last time but one. ‘I am particularly directed, by the terms of this memorandum, to request Mrs Dixon's presence at the reading of the will,' said Mr Standish, when, on the following day, he met Mr and Mrs St Quentin, Mr Cooke, and Mr Martin, in the diningroom at the Firs, for this pre-arranged purpose. At this announcement, Miriam looked surprised, and Mr St Quentin looked angry and aggrieved. 'A most extraordinary direction, I must say,' he objected, turning himself about pompously in the huge red-leather chair, which he had assumed with a president-of-council kind of air. 'What can she have to do with the matter?' 'That may perhaps be explained,' said Mr Standish. With your permission, Mrs St Quentin, I will send for Mrs Dixon.' He stretched his hand towards the bell, but Mr Martin prevented his ringing it. 'Stay!' he said; 'I will go and fetch her,' and left the room for the purpose, with an odd look of sudden intelligence in his face. He found Florence in the ante-room to that in which the coffin was awaiting removal, and told her his errand, adding: There may be something agitating and painful for you in this, my dear; but you will, I am sure, be as you always are, patient and strong, and self-possessed.' Florence glanced at him, as the unusual appellation, in so unusual a tone, passed his lips, but she said nothing; she merely rose, walked down the stairs by his side, and, obedient to his gesture, passed into the dining-room in advance of him. Miriam, who was extremely pale, greeted her entrance with a faint smile, Mr Standish bowed, and Mr St Quentin said with disdain: You can sit down, Dixon. You are required, it seems, to hear Mr Clint's will read.' Mr Martin placed Florence between himself and Miriam, and, with a queer glance at Mr St Quentin, said to Mr Standish that they were all ready and attentive. The lawyer then untied the outer cover of a parcel of no great size, which lay on the table The will was as clear as it was concise. The testator bequeathed all the property, of every kind whatsoever, of which he died possessed, with an exception hereafter to be mentioned, to the best, kindest, truest woman it had ever been his fortune to meet; to her who had alleviated the last months of his life, when both his children had forsaken him; to the only person in the world in whose disinternow tendered this acknowledgment; to the young woman known as Rose Dixon, formerly in the service of Mrs St Quentin, the testator's daughter.' The will appointed Mrs Dixon sole executrix, and Walter Clint's name had no mention in it. Miriam's had a place, but an inconsiderable one. Mr Clint bequeathed to his daughter the sum of one thousand pounds, and certain jewels which had belonged to her mother, with the agreeable proviso, which Mr Standish read out with an irrepressible twinkle of satisfaction in his keen gray eyes, that the money was to be allotted to her sole use and benefit, as the testator did not wish any advantage to accrue from him to the 'wealthy cheat' his daughter had married. Florence did not faint. She could not stand, or see, or speak, but she was conscious-conscious that Mr Martin had taken firm hold of her-that Miriam, with a cry of 'Oh, my darling!' had thrown herself on her knees beside her, and was clasping her round the waist and crying wildly-conscious that Mr St Quentin had struck the table violently, and declared, with a great oath, that the will was an unparalleled infamy, too bad for even the drunken madman who had made it, and that Walter Clint should break it-conscious that Mr Cooke and Mr Standish were profoundly silent. Presently the room becomes steady, it ceases to swim before her eyes, and she finds Miriam, rudely grasped by Mr St Quentin, and forced up from her kneeling attitude beside her; but Mr Martin does not loose his hold of her. 'How dare you disgrace yourself in this way? said Mr St Quentin to his wife, in a voice halfsuffocated with anger. 'What do you mean by calling this woman endearing names, by putting yourself on a level with a vile schemer, who practised on your mad and drunken father, and has done her best to rob yourself and your brother? A woman of whom I always had the worst opinion, and would have turned out of my house, if she had not gone, for her own purposes. What do you mean by it, I say?' 'Mr St Quentin,' said Mr Martin quietly, if you are not conscious of the extreme indecorum of your conduct on the present occasion, and of the impropriety of your language, it becomes necessary for me to remind you that we who are present cannot permit you to behave in this manner. You must not apply such language to Mrs Dixon.' 'And who the devil are you, sir, that you should dictate to me?' 'I am Mr Clint's oldest friend, and one of the witnesses to his will.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself to acknowledge it.' 'I had no knowledge whatever of its provisions. I am not prepared to say that I approve of them; but I am prepared to say that the description which Mr Clint has given of Mrs Dixon is as correct, as the epithets you have applied to her are unmerited.' Indeed! My wife's servant seems to have made an extraordinary impression. I believe you are a bachelor, and have money to leave away from your relatives. You and these gentlemen'-indicating Mr Cooke and Mr Standish, with a sneer- are, of course, at liberty to think and act in this matter as you please. As for me, I consider this house no fit place for my wife, and I shall remove her from it forthwith.' Hush, my dear; keep quiet,' whispered Mr Martin to Florence, who, shrinking into the recesses of her chair, and trembling, seemed to be trying to speak.-'I conclude you do not mean that Mrs St Quentin is to leave her father's house before his funeral?' he added coldly. 'I do mean it; I will not attend the funeral of the disreputable old drunkard, who was such a fool and such a scoundrel as to be led by the nose by a woman in this way? He turned suddenly on Miriam: You will get ready to leave this house in half an hour, and during that time I forbid you to have any conversation with this person.' During this angry dialogue, Miriam had stood quite still beside Florence's chair, not touching her, not looking at her, but following every gesture of Mr St Quentin with her great golden eyes, filled with anger, disdain, and a terrible dislike. After he had pulled her up from her knees, she had shaken his hand from her arm, with a loathing shudder, as if a toad had touched her; and, even in that moment, he had been conscious of the action, and of the disgust which it betrayed. Miriam had never been so completely off her guard before; he noted the fact, understood it, and never forgot it. When he uttered this peremptory order, she made one step forward, and confronted him, her face entirely colourless, her lips set, her eyes gleaming. 'I will not leave this house,' she said, in a low, harsh voice, uttering every syllable with deliberate will; either now, or at any other time, in obedience to you. Your detestable behaviour has broken down every barrier of restraint which would have prevented my speaking openly before these gentlemen, my father's friends and my own. I will remain here, and I will see as much as I please of her' (she touched Florence's hair with a caressing hand), whom my father loved, who was more to him than I ever was, or would have known how to be; whom he has rewarded, to the best of his ability, and whom he appreciated at her proper value.-Gentlemen!' Miriam made a gesture with her hand which directed their attention from herself to Florence-'in a short time you must have known the truth, which Mr St Quentin's intemperate language obliges me to disclose before we had intended it to be proclaimed. How false every word he has uttered is, you are all aware; you need nothing to strengthen your conviction of that; but even he will be ashamed of himself when he learns that this lady, my beloved friend, called here Rose Dixon, is Florence Clint-my brother's wife-and that before my father died, he knew it.' neither did he attend the funeral of Reginald Clint. He had been somewhat hotly pursued of late by a much-dreaded enemy, fatal to his most cherished pretensions to youthful energy and fascinationgout. Aided by the stormy emotions, to which he gave their passionate way, it came up with him, and dealt him a hard blow. He found himself condemned to the double humiliation of being Florence's guest and Mr Martin's patient. When the wonder and excitement of these events had somewhat subsided, Florence and Miriam, comparing notes of their feelings, found that in the case of each the first conscious impression made by the reading of the will had been its elucidation of Mr Clint's mysterious words, its explanation of how indeed, after all, he had done his son no wrong.' THE QUEEN CHARLOTTE ISLANDS. IN 1776, Captain Cook landed on the northernmost shore of a portion of land in the North Pacific Ocean, which he was unable to define as an island, or as forming part of the American continent. He did not claim the country for the British crown, nor did he name it; but, in 1787, Captain Dixon ascertained that the discovery consisted of an extensive insular group, of which he took possession in the name of King George, and called it Queen Charlotte Islands. Eighty-five years have elapsed since then, and though these islands are healthy, picturesque, and rich in natural resources, no serious attempt has been made to colonise them. There they lie, waste, fallow, and yet marvellously productive, as we are told by Mr Francis Poole, civil and mining engineer, the only educated Englishman who has ever lived on Queen Charlotte Islands.* The group consists of two large islands, called Graham and Moresby, which, with two smaller islands, measure 180 English miles by 60 at its greatest width. There are numerous islets, among which one called Skincuttle is prominent, and there Mr Poole fixed his head-quarters, when he arrived there, after six days' sail from Vancouver, with the purpose he thus describes: "I was convinced, from observations and calculations I had made on the mainland, almost opposite Queen Charlotte Islands, there was copper to be found in the group of islands which lie out from the coast to the north of Vancouver. This opinion received a singular confirmation from the fact of a native of those islands having brought down a sample of copper ore to Victoria, under the impression that it was gold. In a short time the nucleus of a company was got together, and entitled the Queen Charlotte Mining Company, and I undertook to go and sink the requisite shafts.' Mr Poole mentions this very simply, but it was a hazardous undertaking, considering that he had no 'government' protection, and that the hostility of the natives of the islands was well known at Vancouver. But it happened just then that a savage named Kitguen, who claimed the head chieftainship of the islands, was at Victoria, and Mr Poole brought him before the governor, and induced him to promise that his tribe should not molest the party, and that he * Queen Charlotte Islands; a Narrative of Discovery and Adventure in the North Pacific. By Francis Poole, Mr St Quentin did not leave the Firs; but C.E. Edited by John W. Lyndon. Hurst and Blackett. would protect them from any other tribe disposed to contest their landing or interfere with their explorations. Kitguen proved docile and propitious, and Mr Poole gave him a free passage to his home on board the schooner Rebecca (20 tons), which was partially chartered to deliver the party and their implements at Queen Charlotte Islands, on her way to the Stickeen River gold mines. The voyage was very stormy, and when off Cape St James, the travellers encountered a novel kind of shower-bath, consisting of a sprinkling of seawater, which swept in a perfect tempest from the surface of the waves, and was driven like vapour before the wind. The British Columbians call it the spoondrift, and it is peculiar to those seas. The coast of Skincuttle is very beautiful, low-lying, and timber-clad. Cedars, huge and venerable; pines, stalwart, and yet everlastingly young, crowd almost every available spot of ground. The day after the mining-party landed, the schooner sailed again, and then came a sense of great solitude. The first rain which had fallen for months came down in torrents the next day, and the natives, who had been suffering much from drought, imputed this happy occurrence to the strangers, so that their safety and popularity were at once secured. Mr Poole came upon a copper lode almost immediately, and the shaft-sinking was at once commenced by eight workmen, whose services he had secured by very high wages, rendered imperative by the competition in the Victorian market. While they worked, Mr Poole-taking one assistant, his gun, and his hammer-explored some of the islets of the group, finding them very beautiful and full of variety, and speedily ascertaining the presence of bears and eagles amid their peaceful, luxuriant scenery. He frequently watched the eagles fishcatching. Their practice,' he says, 'is to perch themselves on a high tree, on the verge of some promontory. From thence they come down in one fell swoop upon the unsuspecting fish, sometimes devouring them, sometimes carrying them away as food for their young. Sometimes the seagull will try the same manœuvre, though, of course, on a very limited scale. Upon that, the ever-watchful eagle, uttering a ferocious shriek, darts instantly after him in pursuit. The bald or white-headed eagle may be seen in every part of these islands.' Kitguen was true to his promise, and the white party were well received among the kindly islanders, among whom he made a formal progress. They are a curious kind of savages, given to thieving and liquor, but not devoid of intelligence, and fond of forms and ceremonies. The proceedings, on the occasion of the Englishman's first visit, were very formal. Kitguen accompanied him to Laskech, where the chiefs were assembled in council, and, after a long complimentary harangue, they requested a written testimonial from him, which he gave. They have an extraordinary veneration for writing; any old bundle of waste-paper, if only there are written characters upon it, is precious and sacred in their eyes. After the expedition to Laskech, Mr Poole accepted an invitation to sleep at the patrimonial mansion of Kitguen, whose title was Chief Klue. His house was a largish one, built in the usual Indian way, of wood laid horizontally in light logs, and slightly elevated above the ground upon a platform. Despite the sheen of the moon, I looked in vain for the entrance, and was beginning to think there must be some Indian dodge in its concealment, with a view to providing against sudden attacks, when a Klootchman (native woman) came to my assistance. Approaching a big hole, three feet in circumference, and three feet from the platform's base in the front of the house, she very unceremoniously thrust first one leg through, evidently without touching the bottom on the other side; secondly, her head and arms; and finally, by means of a dexterous jerk, dragged the rest of her body after her. This was the door, then. I tried to get into the house as the pretty Klootchman had done, and succeeded at the second attempt. The inside of the house was one large room, with a fire smouldering in the centre, but no window or outlet for the smoke. The only rays of light came through the big hole in the wall. Cedar-bark mats were spread upon the floor, and upon these we all lay down together, with our feet firewards, and our heads outwards, like the spokes of a wheel. I tossed about nearly all night, and as the smallhours advanced, found my head knocking against an upright pole, which served no architectural or ornamental purpose. An impulse seized me to get up and examine it; but, as that would have looked like a betrayal of fear, I lay still. Presently, an accidental kick from one of the Indians caused the fire to flare long enough to reveal to my horrified senses at least a hundred scalps, fastened round the top of the pole, right above me! Need I say that I made my escape as soon as I could prudently do so?' These savages, though they live more in their canoes than on land, were quite astonished when they saw the white men swim; they had no notion of the art, in which they differ from all other coloured races. When the shaft had been sunk, and a comfortable log-house built, when Mr Poole had made many pleasant exploratory excursions, a fleet of strange canoes made its appearance, and Chief Klue announced the arrival of an inimical tribe bent on war and plunder. They began by pretending that they wanted to trade, but they omitted to produce any article of traffic, so they were kept out of the loghut, and the men were ordered to look to their firearms. That evening, Klue disappeared, it was supposed in search of reinforcements; and the next day, the weather being squally, the menacing canoes also departed. Mr Poole, thinking there was an end of the affair, went off to the south-west of Skincuttle, where he discovered a magnificent harbour, but had not time to enter and prospect it. As the exploring party steered into their own little harbour on their return, they beheld it crammed with canoes. Each canoe had in it a large crew of Indians, bedaubed from head to foot with warpaint, whilst the clearance around the log-house was crowded with yelling and dancing savages. Of course, Mr Poole concluded that his men had all been murdered, and that the enemy, in full possession of the islet, were merely whiling away the time until he and his companion should arrive to be disposed of in like manner. Under this conviction, he says: "I resolved to put a bold front on the matter, and venture into the midst of them; so headed direct for the landing. In another moment we were ashore, and in amongst the savages, who had swarmed down to the beach. I dashed through the crowd, a revolver in each hand, right to the log-house. It was completely in their |