“And all this for a mere boy!” she said, superbly.

Miss Lois stopped crying from sheer astonishment.  “And pray, may I ask, what are you?” she demanded.

“A girl; and about on a line with the boy referred to,” replied Miss Tita, composedly. “Anne is much too old.”

The boys gave a laugh of scorn. Tita turned and looked at them, and they took to the woods for the day. Miss Lois cried no more, but began to sew; there was a vague dread in her heart as to what the winter would be with Tita in the church-house. “If I could only cut off her hair!” she thought, with a remembrance of Samson. “Never was such hair seen on any child before.”

As Tita sat on her low bench, the two long thick braids of her black hair certainly did touch the floor; and most New England women, who, whether from the nipping climate or their Roundhead origin, have, as a class, rather scanty locks, would have agreed with Miss Lois that “such a mane” was unnatural on a girl of that age—indeed, intolerable.

Amid much sewing, planning, and busy labor, time flew on.  Dr. Gaston did not pretend to do anything else now save come down early in the morning to the Agency, and remain nearly all day, sitting in an arm-chair, sometimes with a book before him, but hardly turning a page. His dear young pupil, his almost child, was going away. He tried not to think how lonely he should be without her. Père Michaux came frequently; he spoke to Tita with a new severity, and often with a slight shade of sarcasm in his voice.  “Are you not a little too severe with her?”  Asked Miss Lois one day, really fearing lest Tita, in revenge, might go out on some dark night and set fire to the house.

“He is my priest, isn’t he, and not yours? He shall order me to do what he pleases, And I shall do it,” answered the small person whom she had intended to defend.

And now every day more and more beautiful grew the hues on the trees; it was a last intensity of color before the long, cold, dead-white winter. All the maple and oak leaves were now scarlet, orange, or crimson, each hew vivid; they died in a glory to which no tropical leaf ever attains.  The air was warm, hazy, and still—the true air of Indian summer; and as if to justify the term, the Indians on the mainland and islands were busy bringing potatoes and game to the village to sell, fishing, cutting wood, and begging, full of a tardy activity before the approach of winter. Anne watched them crossing in their canoes, and when occasionally the submissive, gentle- eyed squaws, carrying their little pappooses, came to the kitchen door to beg, she herself went out to see them, and bade the servant give them something. They were Chippewas, dark-skinned and silent, wearing short calico skirts, and a blanket drawn over their heads. Patient and uncomplaining by nature, they performed almost all the labor on their small farms, cooked for their lords and masters, and took care of the children, the husbands being warriors, and above common toil. Anne knew some of these Chippewa women personally, and could talk to them in their own tongue; but it was not old acquaintance, which made her go out and see them now. It was the feeling that they belonged to the island, to the life, which she must soon leave behind. She felt herself clinging to everything—to the trees, to the white cliffs, to the very sunshine—like a person dragged along against his will, who catches at every straw.

The day came at last; the eastern-bound steamer was at the pier; Anne must go. Dr. Gaston’s eyes were wet; with choked utterance he gave her his benediction. Miss Lois was depressed; but her depression had little opportunity to make itself felt, on account of the clamor and wild behavior of the boys, which demanded her constant attention. The clamor, however, was not so alarming as the velvety goodness of Tita. What could the child be planning? Père Michaux was in excellent spirits, and kept them all in order.  He calmed the boys, encouraged Anne, cheered the old chaplain and Miss Lois, led them on board the boat, then back on the pier again, where they could see Anne standing on the high deck above them. He shook the boys when they howled in their grief too loudly, and as the steamer moved out into the stream he gave his arm to Miss Lois, who, for the moment forgetting everything save that the dear little baby was going away, burst into convulsive tears. Tita sat on the edge of the pier, and watched the boat silently.  She did not speak or wave her handkerchief; she shed no tears. But long after the others had gone home, when the steamer was a mere speck low down on the eastern horizon, she sat there still.

Yes, Anne was gone.