"You are seeck!" he exclaimed, seeing Ambrose's face.
Though life loses all its savor, it must be carried on with a good air.
"_Mal de tete_!" said Ambrose, making light of it.

"It will soon pass." Tole accepted the explanation.

He told Ambrose that he had come that morning and found him gone.

He had come back to tell him what the white man already knew--that, though Gaviller had been laid low by a mysterious stroke, he had sent word from his sick-bed that he would pay no more than one-fifty for wheat.
"The men are moch mad," Tole went on in his matter-of-fact way.

"They not listen to my fat'er no more.