driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the floor's puncheons. They sat down side by side, Father Beret fingering the letter in an absent-minded way. 

 "There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville remarked, "a roaring time." 

 "Why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded. 

 "The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be done. The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and are as thirsty as sand. They are making ready to enjoy themselves down at the river house." 

 "Ah, the poor souls!" sighed Father Beret, speaking as one whose thoughts were wandering far away. 

 "Why don't you read your letter, Father?" Rene added. 

 The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his hand, then thrust it inside his robe. 

 "It can wait," he said. Then, changing his voice; "the squirrels you gave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you to think of me," he added, laying his hand on Rene's arm. 

 "Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are so kind to me always, and to everybody. When I killed the squirrels I said to myself: 'These are young, juicy and tender, Father Beret must have these,' so I brought them along." 

 The young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that Father Beret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer to be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again. 

 "Stay a while," he said, "I have not had a talk with you for some time." 

 Rene looked a trifle uneasy. 

 "You will not drink any to-night, my son," Father Beret added. "You must not; do you hear?" 

 The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen expression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious; but it was hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved, as did every soul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and gentle, yet positive to a degree. Rene did not say a word. 

 "Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night," Father Beret went on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly; "promise me, my son, promise me." 

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