the road and entered a schoolhouse not far from the church, where the host was placed in a little tabernacle of green boughs while the service was continued. Then the procession re-formed and went back to the church.

After they had disbanded, the Indians scattered to their houses to prepare for the various other events of the day. Mr. and Mrs. Merrithew and the children were carried off by the priest (whom Mr. Merrithew knew well) to have dinner with him in his house near the chapel. The children stood a little in awe of him at first, but he was so companionable and kind that they were soon quite at their ease. His mother, who kept house for him, was evidently very proud of her son, and did her best to entertain his visitors worthily. The house was rather bare, but clean as wax and the perfection of neatness, while the repast, spread on the whitest of linen, was excellent, and not without some rather unusual dainties,—such as candied fruits of many colours for the children, and guava jelly brought out especially in Mrs. Merrithew's honour.

After dinner the good father offered to show them through the village, and they set out together on a tour of inspection. All the full-grown Indians, the priest told them, were holding a pow-wow in the schoolhouse, for the purpose of electing a chief. "There is no need of my being there this afternoon," he said, in answer to Mr. Merrithew's inquiry; "but this evening, when they have their feast and their games,—ah, then I will keep my eye on them!"

Evidently this priest held very parental relations toward his people. The visitors noticed that some boys playing baseball on the green eagerly referred their disputes to him and accepted his word as final. He took them into several of the little wooden houses, all of which, probably in honour of the day, were in splendid order. In one they found twin papooses, brown as autumn beech-leaves, sleeping side by side in a basket of their mother's making. In another a wrinkled old squaw had most dainty moccasins to sell, the Milicete slipper-moccasins, with velvet toe-pieces beautifully beaded. Mr. Merrithew bought a pair for each of his party (himself excepted), letting them choose their own. Mrs. Merrithew promptly selected a pair with yellow velvet on the toes; Dora's choice had crimson, and Marjorie's blue, while Jackie's tiny pair was adorned with the same colour as his mother's.

"You see, mother dear," he said quite seriously, "yours are a little larger, so we won't be mixing them up!"

Then, being in a gift-making mood, Mr. Merrithew bought them each a quaint and pretty basket, besides a big substantial scrap-basket for his own study, and handkerchief-cases, gorgeous in pink and green, for Susan and Debby. The small baskets all had broad bands of the fragrant "sweet hay" which grows on many islands of the St. John, but which very few white people can find. Dora was much interested in the Milicete women, with their soft voices and kind, quiet faces. She tried to learn some of their words, and won their hearts by singing two or three songs in French, a language which they all understood, though they spoke it in a peculiar patois of their own.

The bright summer afternoon went all too quickly. Mrs. Merrithew was anxious to reach home before too late an hour, so at five o'clock, after tea and cakes, they "reembarked" for the return trip. The horses were fresh, the roads good, the children just pleasantly tired. As they drove on and on through magic sunset light and fragrant summer dusk, Dora thought drowsily that this was a day she would always remember, even if she lived to be as old as the dame who ate the innumerable apples.

"I will have such lovely things to write to father and mother about," she murmured, in sleepy tones,—and those were the last words she said till the carriage stopped at the door of "the Big Brick House," and she and Jackie were tenderly lifted out and half led, half carried up the steps. Then she opened her eyes very wide and looked about her in wonder.

"Why, I believe I nearly went to sleep for a moment," she said.

And even Jackie woke up enough to laugh at that!

CHAPTER IV.

The day before they left for camp, Dora received a letter from her mother, telling something of their surroundings and of the beauties of the Western land. As the others were keenly interested, she read them many extracts, which even Jackie enjoyed.

"We are now," her mother wrote, after describing the journey by the great Canadian Pacific Railway, and speaking encouragingly of the invalid's condition, "comfortably settled in Victoria—which, as of course you know, dear, is the capital city of British Columbia. It is a truly beautiful spot, and the climate is delightful. There are great varieties of climate, we hear, in this maritime province of the West; Victoria is supposed to enjoy a very mild and even one, with roses and geraniums blooming outdoors in December, and the cold weather confined almost entirely to parts of January and February. There is another delightful part of the country which we may visit later; it is in one of the valleys which cut across the Coast Range of mountains. These deep valleys are entirely shut off from the north winds, and freely admit the warm breezes from the coast, while the rays of the sun are concentrated on their steep sides, helping to make, at times, almost tropical weather. We may spend part of next winter there, as it is even drier than Victoria, and that is very important for your father. Some of our new acquaintances have recommended the southern part of Alberta, where the winter is shortened and made almost balmy by the wonderful chinook winds—so named from the Chinook Indians, who used to occupy that part of the country from which they blow. These west winds, coming from the mountains across the plains, are warm and particularly drying. When they melt the light and infrequent snowfalls of the winter, they also dry the ground almost immediately, so that even the hollows and ravines are free from dampness. Your father is greatly interested in these 'warm chinooks,' and we are almost sure to try their effect later. Another pleasure to which we look forward, when he grows a little stronger, is a trip by boat along the coast. The fiords of British Columbia are said to resemble those of Norway, and the whole coast, with its wooded shores, snowy mountain-peaks, and flashing cataracts, is marvellously beautiful."

Dora went to sleep that night with her mother's letter under her pillow, and dreamt that they were camping out on the shore of a British Columbian fiord, when a warm wind came and blew all the tents into little boats, in which they went sailing away to some wonderful country, where no one would ever be sick, and where no winds blew but balmy west ones. She had nearly reached the land, when a soft touch woke her, and she found Marjorie's happy face bending over her.

"Hurry up, dear! Hurrah for camp! We want to start by ten at the latest, and it is seven now, and such a perfect day. Mother says we can take Kitty with us; won't that be fun?"

And Marjorie was off without waiting for an answer. Dora heard her singing, laughing, chatting, as she flashed here and there, helping and hindering in about equal proportions.

The whole house was filled with the pleasant bustle of preparation. Mr. Merrithew was as much of a boy, in the matter of high spirits, as the youngest of the party. Mrs. Merrithew,