David went in.  An Indian woman stood with her back to him, bending over a table.  She was as slim as a reed, and had the longest and sleekest black hair he had ever seen, done in two heavy braids that hung down her back.  In another moment she had turned her round, brown face, and her teeth and eyes were shining, but she spoke no word.  Thoreau did not introduce his wild-flower wife.  He had opened his cabin door, and had let David enter before him, which was accepting him as a friend in his home, and therefore, in his understanding of things, an introduction was unnecessary and out of place.  Father Roland chuckled, rubbed his hands briskly, and said something to the woman in her own language that made her giggle shyly.  It was contagious.  David smiled.  Father Roland’s face was crinkled with little lines of joy.  The Frenchman’s teeth gleamed.  In the big cook-stove the fire snapped and crackled and popped.  Marie opened the stove door to put in more wood and her face shone rosy and her teeth were like milk in the fire-flash.  Thoreau went to her and laid his big, heavy hand fondly on her sleek head, and said something in soft Cree that brought another giggle into Marie’s throat, like the curious note of a bird.

In David there was a slow and wonderful awakening.  Every fibre of him was stirred by the cheer of this cabin builded from logs rough-hewn out of the forest; his body, weakened by the months of mental and physical anguish which had been his burden, seemed filled with a new strength.  Unconsciously he was smiling and his soul was rising out of its dark prison as he saw Thoreau’s big hand stroking Marie’s shining hair.  He was watching Thoreau when, at a word from Marie, the Frenchman suddenly swung open the oven door and pulled forth a huge roasting pan.

At sight of the pan Father Roland gave a joyous cry, and he rubbed his hands raspingly together.  The rich aroma of that pan!  A delicious whiff of it had struck their nostrils even before the cabin door had opened—­that and a perfume of coffee; but not until now did the fragrance of the oven and the pan smite them with all its potency.

“Mallards fattened on wild rice, and a rabbit—­my favourite—­a rabbit roasted with an onion where his heart was, and well peppered,” gloated the Little Missioner.  “Dear Heaven! was there ever such a mess to put strength into a man’s gizzard, David?  And coffee—­this coffee of Marie’s!  It is more than ambrosia.  It is an elixir which transforms a cup into a fountain of youth.  Take off your coat, David; take off your coat and make yourself at home!”

As David stripped off his coat, and followed that with his collar and tie, he thought of his steamer trunk with its Tuxedo and dress-coat, its pique shirts and poke collars, its suede gloves and kid-topped patent leathers, and he felt the tips of his ears beginning to burn.  He was sorry now that he had given the Missioner the check to that trunk.