The young Indian girl had a long and almost
unpronounceable name. Pere Ignace had baptized her Marie, and the new
name had gradually taken the place of the old.
One day, as she was silently but dexterously putting to order the large
upper room, which served Pere Francis Xavier as study and dormitory, she
paused before his collection of agates and minerals, and stroking the
stones, said in her soft French and Indian patois, "Pretty, pretty."
Father Xavier was seated at the great open window, looking over the top
of his book away across the breezy lake. He heard the words, and knew
that she was looking at him from the corner of her eye, but his only
reply was a deeper scowl and a lowering of his glance to the printed
page. The silly smile which he felt sure was upon her face faded out,
but the girl spoke again, and this time more resolutely, determined to
attract his attention. "Pretty stones. Marie's father many more, much
prettier--much."
Father Xavier laid down his book. He was all attention. "Where did your
father get them?" he asked.
"In the mountains climb, in the mines dig, in the lake dive, he seek
them all the time summer."
"What does he do with them?"
"Cuts them like _mon pere_," and Marie imitated in pantomime the use of
the hammer and chisel. "Cut them all time winter, very many."
"What does he do that for?" asked the priest, surprised.
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