The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete

ncing a pleasure, and to give spirit to the gaiety that filled the old house. The occasion was a notable one for Pontiac. An address of congratulation and appreciation and

ands; he had forborne much; and by an act of noble forgiveness and generosity, had left Louis undisturbed in an honour which was not his, and the enjoyment of an estate to which he had no claim. He had given much, suffered much, and had had nothing in return save her measureless and voiceless gratitude. Friendship she could give him; but it was a silent friendship, an incompaniona

ts could be better exercised in applauding Madelinette and in show of welcome to the great men of the land, than in cultivating a dangerous patriotism under the leadership of Louis Racine. Temptations to conspiracy had been few since the day George Fournel, wounded and morose, left the Manor House secretly one night, and carried back to Quebec his resentment and his injuries. Treasonable gossip filtered no longer from doorway to doorw

smile; the angry to be coaxed by a humorous word; the evil to be reproved by a fearless friendliness; the spiteful to be hushed by a still, commanding presence. She never seemed to remember that she was the daughter of old Joe Lajeunesse the blacksmith, yet she never seeme

; to the outward world serene and happy, full of simplicity, charity, and good works. What it was in reality no one could know, not even herself. Since the day when Louis had tried to kill George Fournel, life had been a different thing for them both. On her part she had been deeply hurt; wounded beyond repair. He had failed her

uggested to him the sacrifices she had made. He knew them, still he did not know them in their fulness; he was grateful, but his gratitude did not compass the splendid self-effacing devotion with which she denied herself the glorious career that had lain before her. Morbid and self-centred, he could not understand. Since her return from Quebec she had sought to give a little t

idea of the torture it meant to her; no realisation of how she would be brought face to face with the life that she had given up for his sake. But neither he nor she was aware of one thin

ll she had lost, and the tyranny of the present bore down upon her with a cruel weight. It needed all her courage and all her innate strength to rule herself to composure. For an instant the people i

e out her thanks for the gift of silver and the greater gift of kind words; and said that in her quiet life, apart from that active world of the stage, where sorrow and sordid experience went hand in hand with song, where the delights of home were s

with dancing well begun, no one would have thought that the Manor of Pontiac was not the home of peace and joy. Even Louis himself, who had had his moments of torture and suspicion when the appeal was read, was now in a kind of happ

e had forgiven and forgotten? It was not like the man to either forgive or forget. What did it mean? He left the house buried in morbid speculation, and involuntarily made his way to a little hut of two rooms which he had built in the Seigneury grounds. Here it was he read and wrote, here he had spent moody hours alone, day

the astonished and suspicious Seigneur had chance

sieu'! Fine doing

here?" asked the Seigneur, scanning the face of the man c

right to be here

ere. You were dismissed your plac

mistress of

cine dismi

me Racine," answered

You forget that, as Seigneur, I have

reference to his physical disability. His fingers itched to take the creature by the throat, and c

ibbet if you could, wouldn't you? You with your rebellion and your tinpot honours! A

y Manor, Tardif," said the Seigneur with a dead

ugh. "Your Manor? You haven't any Manor. You ha

white, and the eyes shone fiery in his head. He felt some shameful me

u have taken wages from me, and eate

than you have. Pish! You were living then on another ma

ere was a strange light of suspicion in his

never lived on another man's fortune. If you mea

laughed hatefully. "There

e heard that fool

ife; she knows. Ask your

that, in his own ears, seemed to come from an infinite di

? The price is the same, and you keep your eyes shut and play th

vely on the embossed address he had been rolling and unrolling. A terror, a shame, a dreadful

e said. "You sha

or putting his feet in his shoes, and for that case at law, for nothing? Why should he? He hated you, and you hated him. His name's o

t his brain was like some great lens, refractin

as found?

u' Fournel. She followed. You remember when she went-eh? On business-and such business! she and Havel and the old slut Marie. You remember, eh; Louis?" he added with unnamable insolence. The Seigneur inc

what stuff they are both made of! He laughed at me, said I had lied; that there was no will; that I was a thief; and had me locked up in gaol. For a month I was in gaol without trial. Then one day I was let out without trial. His servant met me and brought me to his house. He gave me money a

Seigneur quietly. "You don

e for him and for her! And I'm even with you too-bah! Did you think she cared a fig for you? She's only waiting till you die. Then she'll go to her lover. He's a man of life and limb. Youpish! a hunchback, that

him across the floor, and, opening the door of the small inner room, pulled him inside. For a moment he stood beside the body, panting, then he went to the other room and, bringing a candle, looked at the dead thing in silence. Presently he stooped, held the candle to the wide-staring eyes, then felt the heart. "He is gone," he

er the trees by the window, but his mind was not concerned with

r and in the flush of this gaiety and excitement, there was something of that exhilarating air that greets the singer upon the stage. Her eyes were shining with a look, half-sorrowful, half-triumphant. Within the past hal

the piano as she sang-sang more touchingly and more humanly, if not more artistically, than she had ever done in her life. The old art was not so perfect, perhaps, but there was in the voice all that she had learned and loved and suffered and hoped. When she rose from the piano to a storm of applause, and saw the shining faces a

tunes you played on you

ture he made, made her way through the crowd to the hall-way, and followed him up the stairs, and to the little boudoir beside her bedroom. As she entered and shut the door, a low so

ted after him mechanically, staring a

d behind the pictu

and made a gesture o

Tardif stole it and

matter, dear! I cannot bear that look i

ollowed. And I have been living in an

no! Our money ha

adelinette!" H

make no difference. I did not want you to know-you loved the Seigneury so. I concealed the will; Tardif found it,

n's trouble, this man's peace, if she migh

e said that you-tha

k back in terror, then with a flush, straig

ld not care for a hunchback l

, in a voice of an

e said it, as I believe in you now when you stand

g how you loved the Seigneury-pleaded an

seemed listening to noises with out-"I see what you have done for me. I know how you have sacrificed all for me-all but honour-all but honour," he added, a wild fire in hi

. He snatched her to his breast, and kissed her twice in a very agony of joy, then let her

em? They are coming to take me; but they shall not have me. They shall not h

emed mad, a strange quiet sanity was in all he did. "What have you

e hut in the garden-dead! I was see

d into the hall, and locked it. She li

asped. "Louis! Louis!"

I could do, and I did it. He slander

the door, and a voice ca

me. I will not be dragged to gaol for crowds to jeer

room and flung it open. "If my

owards him, stretc

" was all that

ttle bath-room, and locked the door, as the door of the room she was in wa

ing, and white, and anguished, and her ears straine

e him. You shall not have him. Ah, don't you hear? He is dying-O God, O God!" she cr

muffled groaning. She trembled, but her arms were spread out before the door as though on a

thing. In the room men shrank back, for they knew that death was behind the l

them with a gesture of

not have

the Cure and George Fournel entered the room. The

he bath-room, and himself, bursting the door open, entered.

. Go. I had a warning from the man he killed. I knew there wo

of her dear mistress, and in another room, George Fournel, with the Avocat, kept watch beside the b

........

hen she died a quarter of a century ago. For thirty years he followed her from capital to capital of Europe and America to hear her sing; and to this day h

OMANCE OF P'

the household and kept there till he was well again. The night of his arrival, Louison, the sister, stood with a brother on either hand-Octave and Florian-and received him with a courtesy more stately than usual, an expression of the reserve and modesty of her single state. This maidenly dignity

g marriages and marriage-feasting; in the way they deferred to her on questions of etiquette (as, for instance, Should the eldest child be given the family name of the wife or a Christian n

, stirring the spoon in her cup, or benignly passing the bread and butter. She was quite aware o

yes, a curious quality in her carriage commanding respect. She had ruled these brothers, had been worshipped by them, for near half a century, and the romance they had kept alive had produced a grotesque sort of truth an

nd the spirit and lightness of their race. One night Florian-there were Florian and Octave and Felix and Isidore and Emile-the eldest, drew Medallion aside from the others, and they walked together by the river. Florian's air suggested confidence and mystery, and soon, with a voice of hushed suggestion

e keeps the ring-dear P'tite Lou

gacy in her will! Sweet P'

p admire her-P'tite Louison:" said Fe

s!" said Isidore, the humorous one of the family.

ied Emile, the youngest, the most sentimental. "Ah, Moliere!" he added, as if

le was after

treal. It is in the winter. P'tite Louison visit Montreal. She walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she slip on the snow and fall. Out from a door with

'selle,' he say, '

like a woman. P'tite Louison, she give him her hand, and they run away, and every one stop to look. It is a gran' sight. M'sieu' Hadrian laugh, and his teeth shine, and the ladies say things of him, and he tell P'tite Louison that she look ver' fine, and walk like a queen. I am there that day, and I see all, and I think it dam good. I say: 'That P'tite Louison, she beat them all'-I am only twelve year ol

le, they all sit and say bully-good to him all the time. Holy, what fine stories he tell! And he talk about P'tite Louison, and his eyes get wet, and Emile he say his prayers to him-bagosh! yes, I think. Well, at last, what you guess? M'sieu' he come and come, and at last one day, he say that he

d the Cure to fix the grape-vines on his wall. He show me and Emile how to play sword-sticks; and he pick flowers and fetch them to P'tite Louison, and teach her how to make an omelette and a salad like the chef of the Louis Quinze Hotel, so he say. Bagosh, what a good time we have! But first one, then another, he get a choke-throat when he think that P'tite Louison go to leave us, and the more

ick, 'Courage, P'tite Louison!' M'sieu' Hadrian then look at the priest and say: 'No, M'sieu', I w

rried, married till death. The Church cannot marr

eu' turn to her. 'What shall it be, Lo

say, 'and tell me good-by

'Kiss me once, Charles,'

he lips once, and he say, 'Louison, c

will wait as long as you will. Mother of God, how hard it is

devil take it all!' Then he nod and say to the Cure: 'We'll thrash this out at

and begin to cough a little-a queer sort of rattle. Florian give him big drink, and he toss it off-whiff! 'Thank you,' he say, and start again, and we see him walk away over the hill ver' slow-an' he n

e now?" ask

eyes religiously. "Waiting for Judgmen

said M

w l

nty

lowers-the

to be sent just the sam

as if a soul were passing from the world; but it

g?" he asked gently a

l her. And then he wish it so

h it so?" Isido

him. He was a great actor-

owly down to where P'tite Louison was

he said softly. And henceforth

LE BELL

e bap

d the Little Chemist, s

l Medallion, the English auctioneer,

's wife, shudderingly; for that was an oath not to

t the repulsion that possessed the Little Chemist's wife. They babbled, shook their heads

urse which was a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the name of God. Men who had used th

g now in a snarl like a dog's, his cap was on the ground, his hair was tumbled, his hands were twitching with passion, his foot was stamping with fury, and every time it struck the ground a little silver bell rang at his knee-a pretty sylvan sound, i

pushed through the crowd, and, standing in front of the man, waved the people back. It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life had been s

ve you done this? What

usually gentle face had become severe, hi

ly, and the little bell kept tinkling. He was g

motioned back Lacasse, the constable of the parish, who had sudd

oyageur did

Lajeunesse the black

Luc Pomfrette, with the little bell at his knee. Luc, he laugh the same as the rest, and they stand in the door, and the garcon bring out the brandy-just a little, but just enough too. I am

for corroboration; Henri and o

hat's true. The

d man, pushing his way in beside the Cure. "It mus

oddest, in some ways the most foolis

excuse," s

nswered Parpon. His eyes were fixe

since you took the Blessed Sacrament. Last Easter day you were in a drunken sleep while Mass was being said; after the funeral of your own father you were drunk again. When you went away to the

mfrette, shaking with

roke from the crowd. The Cure'

evil name. I command you to come to Mass next Sunday, to rep

carried to it," was the sul

urned upon

ou would a plague. I command that no door be opened to him; that no one offer him comfort or friendship; that not even a bon jour or a bon soir pass between you. He has blasphemed against our Father in

r your souls' sake; see that you obey. Go to your homes. L

little bell?" asked L

ty, and his hand flying to the belt where his voyageur's case-knife hung. Th

ou, my children. Le

for nothing like this had ever occurred in Pontiac before, nor had they ever seen

tarted homewards from the Four Corners. One

' le Cure," said he. "I'll f

aid the dwarf; and turning on his heel, he trotted to where Pomfrette stood alone in

rth a little pad-a flat bag of silk, called an Agnus Dei, worn as a protection and a blessing by the pious, and threw it on the ground. Another little parcel he drew from his belt, and ground it into the dirt with his heel. It contained a woman's hair. Then, muttering, his hands still twitching with savage

nferred upon a voyageur by his fellows, the token of his prowess and his skill. This year Luc

the cottage which he shared with Henri Beauvin. Henri had removed himself and his belongings: already the ostracising had

suddenly shoved him away with a smothered oath, and going into the house, shut the door. He sat down in a chair in the middle of the room, and scarcely stirred for half an-hour. At last, with a pas

o the door, threw it open, and called. The dog sprang into the room, went straight to the fireplace, lay

t grasp the significance of the phenomenon. At last, worn out, Pomfrette threw himself on his bed, and fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, it was far into the morning. He lighted a fire in the kitchen, got a "spider," fried himself a piece of pork, and made som

d stood looking down into the road, with the pitcher in his hand. The milkman's little boy, Maxime, came running roun

an instant, and presently, turning round and looking at Pomf

ode away down the yard and into the road. On the way to his house he met Duclosse the mealman and Garotte the lime-burner. He wondered what they would do. He could see

, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse,

pped swiftly in front of the mealman. There was fury in his

ace became mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his fingers into his shirt and touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there

the contents pouring over his waistcoat from a loose corner. The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette laughed with a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he

of meal, and mechanically twisting tight the loo

llow once," answered Gar

" said Duclosse philosophically. "He was fit

folks love you; you can make them hate you in an hour. La! La! it

arishes, for the grocer's flighty wife called for the constable when he entered the bake-shop of Pontiac. He had to bake his own bread, and do his own cooking, washing, cleaning, and gardening. His hair grew long and his clothes became shabbi

g on the counter. The next morning he found the shilling, wrapped in a piece of paper, just inside his door; it had been pushed underneath. On the paper was written: "It is cursed." Presently his dog died, and the day afterwards he suddenly disappeared from Pontiac, and wandered on to Ste. Gabrielle, Ribeaux, and Ville Bambord. But his shame had gone before him, and people shunned him everywhere, even the roughest. No one who knew him would shelter hi

e once knew well, and had worked with, passed him in a sled on their way to the great shanty in the backwoods. They ha

ah, B

go

e wil

, Bab

back

aste

home

aste

e! Bab

ing in his ears long after the men had become a

had known, not the same Pontiac. S

e boy stood still and looked at him in wonder. Everything he saw maddened him. He turned sharp round and hurried to the Louis Quinze. Throwing open the door, he stepped insi

he said. "

r matter. Still, he was sorry for the man. In any case, it was not his cue to interfere; and Luc was being punished according to his bringing up and to the standards familiar to him. Medallion had never refused to s

h, Pomfrette turne

aid; "brandy,

d his shoulder, and

peated. Still t

d shrank back-shrank so far that he carried himself among t

and threw it on the counter. Then he reached over, caught up a brandy-bottle from the she

fire. He laughed aloud, a sardonic, wild, coarse laugh, and he sh

fe, eh? She die, but that is no matter-who was it? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Alphonse Durien, who was it drag you out of the bog at the Cote Chaudiere? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied for you to the Protestant girl at Faribeau? Just Luc Pomfrette. You two, Jean and Nicolas Mariban, who was it lent y

from his mouth not much more than half remained in the quart bottle. Blood wa

tiac for a little while that I not give evidence in court against him? Eh bien! you all walk by me now, as if I was the fath

t open with a bang, and strode out into the street, muttering a

e also walked out, and went to his office de

d half embedded in mud. With a shiver of misery Pomfrette raised the brandy to his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the bottle on the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. His foot slipped, and he tum

use. He rubbed the face and hands and ears of the unconscious man with snow till the whiteness disappeared, and, taking off the boots, did the same with the toes; after whic

Cure came also; but Pomfrette was in fever and delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre's presence, as it ever did, gave an air of calm and comfort to the place. Parpon's hands

o the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to him he answered nothing. At last the Cure left him

he had been and what doing no one asked, for he was mysterious in his movements, and always uncommunicative, and people did not car

must go to Mas

s carried there, and I mean it-

ike that-so damnable?"

ess. It doesn't matt

lied-the good M'sieu' F

d I'd say it again,

o Mass, and took y

d 'Very good, Luc,' and 'What a gay heart has Luc, the good fellow!' Ah, I know. They curse in the heart when the whole world g

ping his chin in his hand and his elbow on hi

he girl g

the stove and the hard breathing of the sick man. His eyes we

do you

yes and sense; but they haven't. What

her." His look

kiss her first

ecause there is no face like hers in the

o?" Pomfrette's

, and not for any one el

buy masses for your father's soul; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of the Church; she is to buy a little here, a little there, for the house you and she are going to liv

of weeping and anger and passionate denunciations-aga

held hi

hs went by; and the month

the Avocat, the Little Chemist, and Medallion, were more sorry than offended, they stood aloof till the man should in some manner redeem himself, and repent of his horrid blasph

ell him flour, and he had no money to buy it, nor would any one who knew him give him work. And after his return to Pontiac he never asked for it. His mood was defiant, morbid, stern. His woo

im. Parpon at last gave up hope; but one night, when he came back from the village, he saw, to his joy, old Mme. Degardy ("Crazy Joan" she was called) sitting by Pomfrette's bedside. He did not disturb her, for she had no love for him, and he waited till she had gone. When he came into the room aga

t without asking, and as a consequence Luc r

hout a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of the house. Pomfrette di

ll into the village. The bell in St. Saviour's had stop

frette made an ungainly burden. "Hand of a little devil, no!" cried Po

to Mass till you were car

struggled, but Parpon

must come; we've h

omfrette faintly. "Neve

bell in the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling passed through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he

veiled woman also looked down at Pomfrette,

to the chancel steps. "What is

'sieu' le Cure." Pomfre

ever come to Mass again,"

, M'sieu' le Cure-an

ill, and with a repentant heart,

no." Pomfrette's brown eyes m

od, and yet He has

died," answered t

been cast t

I've had a bad ti

and the little bell tinkled-the bell that had

knew your mother, and she was almost too weak to hold you when you were baptised, for you made a great to-do about coming into the world. She had a face like a saint-so sweet, so patient. Y

face, and his eyes were intense and burn

e," answered Pomfrette

her finger like this"-he made the gesture of benediction-"she said, 'Luc Michele, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' The

desk in front of her convulsively. Presently she arose and made her way down the stair, almost unnot

and held him, his shaking hands resting on their sho

I'll suffer till I die for cursing my baptism,

nterrupted, "say

and I'll confess to the Cure, and take my pen

frowned, and waved her back; but she came on. At the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a murmur

he said

Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him-then. He had loved me for years, and his father and my father wished it-as you know, M'sieu' le Cure. So after a while I said I would; but I begged him that he wouldn't say anything about it till

e, his eyes fixed painful

istened. He knew about Luc and about the money and all. Then he talked to me. I was all wild in the head, and things went round and round, and oh, how I hate

tle Chemist made him sit down, and he leaned

t he had Luc's money. It was awful. I went mad, and he got angry and left me alone, and didn't come back. A week afterwards he was killed, and I didn't know it for a long time. But I began to work, for I wanted to pay back Luc's money. It was very slow, and I worked hard. Will it never be finished, I say. At last Parpon find me, and I tell him all-all exce

nds. He took it dazedly, then dropped it, and the Little Chemist p

" she said, and she han

er repentance for her elopement and the sin of marrying a Protestant, and her good life.

xed, and a rare gent

uc once more struggled to h

Luc?" the Cure ask

n," she answered, a flu

" answered Luc. Then he raised his voice excitedly: "I love her, love her, love her-but what's the

," said Parpon, interrupting. "Luc Michee, you'

him; I only liked him. I was honest. We

"Not here," he said. "Your sins must first be considered. For penance-" He paused, looking at the two sa

her's sins. And now to God the Father-" He turned towa

rd the tinkling of the little bell of honour at the knee

F THE W

ife on Sunday after Mass, and because he was vain of his Englis

ike a wall, and five hunder' dollars and a horse and wagon. Bagosh, I say that time: 'Bargon he have put a belt round the world and buckle it tight to him-all right, ver' good.' I say to him: 'Bargon, what you do when you get ver' rich ou

through twelve parish, and the fiddles go all the time, and I am what you say 'best man' with Bargon. I go all the time, and Lucette Dargois, she go wit

a belle F

ons

belle F

ut se

ron l

ut se

ron l

r it is pretty good time, and Norinne's cheeks-ah, like an apple they. Bimeby a baby laugh up at Bargon from Norinne's lap. I am on the Souris at a saw-mill then, and on Sunday sometime I go up to see Bargon and Norinne. I

rly and late, and she get ver' thin and quiet. So I go up from the mill more times, and I bring fol-lols for that Marie, for you know I said I go to marry him some day. And when I see how Bargon shoulders stoop and his eye get dull, and there is noth

belle F

ons

belle F

e to m

n luret

mari

ron l

ar. It is the spring at Easter, and I go up to him and Norinne, for there is no Mass, and Pontiac is too far away off. We stan' at the door and look out, a

ive him a horn of old ry

and a good ha

grumble-bagosh! What purty eyes she have in her head! She have that Marie in her arms, and I say to Bargon it is

ugh, and I speak out to the prairie: 'Come along, good summer; come along, good crop; come two hunder' and fifty dollars for Gal Bargon.' Ver' quiet I give Norin

' houtside, and she say: 'If this summer go wrong, it will kill him. He work and work and f

pork and molass' and tabac, and sugar and tea, and I get a letter from Bargon bimeby, and he say that heverything go right, he t'in

six hunder' dollar for me.' I nod my head, and fetch out a horn, and he have one, his eyes all bright like a lime-kiln. He is thin and square, and his beard gr

f a hailstorm or a hot wind come, that i

that dam funny English song-'Here We Go to Banbury Cross.' An' I say: 'It will be all as happy as Marie

It is so beautiful, as you can guess-the wheat, the barley, the corn, the potatoes, the turnip, all green like sea-

his field with the horse-bridle in his hand. 'The air not feel right,' he say to me. I t'ink the same, but I say to him: 'Your head not feel

on. A month after it is no matter, for the grain is ripe then, but now, when it is green, it is sure death to it all. I turn sick in my st

and I find him, his hands all shut like that! and he shake them at the sky, and he say not a word, but his face, it go wild, and h

eetla more, and when we have look enough, there is no grain on that hunder' acre farm-only a dry-up prairie, all grey and limp. My skin is bake and rough, but when I look at Gal Bargon I know

Let us go back to Pontiac. What is the good for

us go back.' But all at once she sit down with Marie in he

ilent, silent, and he not sleep at night. One night he walk away on the prairie, and when he come back he have a great pain. So he lie down,

h a little laugh. I think he have a wheel in his head. But

h: "Poor Norinne! Poor Norinne! And so, Rachette, you are going to ma

's Day," he said. "Bagosh, poor Norinne!" said Medallion, in a queer sort of

no better friend. He talks to her much o

KER I

forty years. Picking up the hammer and chisel which the old man had dropped when he fell dead at the end of a long hot day's labour, he finished the half-carved tombstone, and gave t

tones they ordered. They themselves, in most cases, knew none, and they asked Francois to supply them-as though he kept them in stock like marble and sand-paper. He had no collection of suitable epitaphs, and, besides, he did not know whether it was right to use them. Like all his race in New France he was jealous of any inroads of Protestantism, or what the Lit

ut presently all that was changed, and the Cure one day had laid before him three epitaphs, each of which left his hand unrevised and unt

worker in stone was about to put the paper back in his

ancoi

is, aged seven

by the English, and cut down just in time to save him-an innocent man

ois r

a sparr

saved li

he death-

a light

o my Fath

is head. "Go on;

hn, aged tw

f John's grandfather a gold cup and a hundred pounds. The girl loved, but would not marry,

thed out the

ile I saw th

rway that I

of water, an

esus, where I

I bid the wo

o on," he said sadly. "Chief John

ri R

ng as the morning. For man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he for

ancois

l; nothing h

aught to men

nothing; now

or pain,

my brai

I shall then b

feet and put a hand on

know, you have the true thing in you. Come often to

field of battle. Long ago something would have been done to commemorate them but that three of them were Protestants, and difficulties had been raised by the bigoted. But Francois thought only of the young men in their common grave at St.

eople came to Mass it was there. All night had Francois and his men worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered shaft set firmly in its place. Francois was a happy man. All else that he had done had been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after rule and measur

ance and a warning to our souls. In the name of race and for their love they sinned. But yet they sinned; and this monument, the gift and wor

rd. Pray that this be. And pray for the young and the daring and the foolish. And pray also that he who has given us here a good gift ma

Francois Lagarre; and so beg

t just arrived, and she was feeling that first homesickness which succeeds transplanting. The face of the young worker in stone interested her; the idea of it all was romantic; the possibilities of

d about the church steps who did read it, whose heart beat furiously, whose foot tapped the ground angrily-a black-haired, brown-eyed farmer's daughter, who i

, she did not open her lips, when otherwise she would have spoken her mind with a vengeance; for Jeanne Marchand had a reputation for spirit and temper, and she spared no one when her blood was u

monument; "it's like a timber of cheese st

with one eye on Jeanne, "any fool coul

ncois has a rattle in his capote. He'd spend hi

bear this-the greasy

s Lagarre made his brother's tombstone, and charged him nothing for the verses he wrote for it, nor for the Agnus Dei he carved on it! No, Caroche d

the crowd turned to him and asked him to say the verses. At first he would not; but when Caroche said that it was only his fun, that he meant

he white shaft of the Pa

truck, and blow

fallen, and I'v

I've

good bone

, though fightin

ath st

he pric

e his; and though

e my eyes, and I s

a'tiste," said Duc

crowd dispersed. Jeanne was very happy for a few hours, but in the evening she was unhappy, for she saw Francois going towards t

dy at the Seigneury was upon him, and he himself believed it was for his salvation. She had told him of great pieces of sculpture she had seen, had sent and got from Quebec City, where he had never been, pictures of some of the world's maste

ip said that the figure was that of the young lady at the Seigneury. Francois saw no more of Jeanne Marchand; he thought of her sometimes, but that was all. A fever of work was on him. Twice she came to the shed where he laboured, and knocked at the

hat very hour she had heard again the story of the nude stone woman in the shed, and her heart was full of jealousy, fury, and suspicion. He was very quiet, he s

Yes, there were the outlines of the figure.

and snatched at the covering. He swi

see it,"

day," he

vas. A naked foot and ankle showed. He pinioned her wrists with one h

, you liar

st! beas

Good-bye!" With that she was gone. The following day was Sunday. Francois did not attend Mass, and such strange scandalous reports had reached the Cure that he was both di

The chief witness against Francois had been Jeanne Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cur

he new workshop, Francois led the way. The crowd pushed after, and presently the place was full. A hundre

what the Cure should say, what denunciation should come from his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be removed was the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its supreme height in Pontiac that

t, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted. He had

he Cure sternly. Stubbornness and resentmen

Church?" said the Cure, still mo

my stone, and the labour of my

jeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas. There

e made the sign of the cross upon his breast and forehead, and every other man, woman

bout his waist: the very truth and semblance of a man. The type was strong and yet delicate;

red. 'All we like sheep have gone astray; we have followed each after his own way

and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their feet again. Among them was a g

ready to susp

r le Cure-to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked up here to what I might do in

gly, and stooped and kissed the feet. Then, without

bridge that led into another parish-and into another world: f

eaters of flax come in the autumn, through which the woodsmen pass in winter a

and to the day of his death he always prayed for him. He was wont

l support him, but a wou

C COMEDY

summer, and at the little church of St. Saviour's they would settle everything and get the Cure's blessing. Almost anybody would have believed in Benoit. He had the brightest scarf, the merriest laugh, the quickest eyes, and the blackest head in Pontiac; and no one among the river drivers could sing like him. That was, he said gaily, because his ea

her by abusing him; and when she pleaded for him they said things which had an edge. They ended by offering to marry her to Farette, the old miller, to whom they owed money for flour. They brought Farette to the house at last, and she was patient whil

est of the t

so free, an

sun and swing

d, my gay l

lover, don, do

r is done I wil

swinging und

and over and

my snow-bird

rover, don, don

pale face showing defiance, and her big brown eyes flicking anger. She walked up to the miller and said: "You are old and ugly and a fool. But I do not ha

ens, and went to the door. "Where are you go

M'sieu' Medal

dding, the pieces of linen, and the pile of yarn which had been made ready so long against Benoit's coming. Medallion had said he could sell them at once, and he gave her the money that night; but this was after he had had a talk with the Cure, to whom Annette had t

e her a receipt, grossly mis-spelled, and, as she was about to go, brought his fist heavily down on his leg and said: "Mon Dieu, it is brave-it is grand-it is an angel." Then he chuckled

e had sold. It had been a hard trial to her to sell them. But for the kind-hearted Cure she would have repined. The worst thing happened, however, when the ring Benoit had given her dropped from her thin finger into the water where she was fishing. Then a shadow descended on her, and she grew almost unearthly in the anx

back to her, a cripple from a timber accident. She believed what he

IAGE OF

d. "See," said Medallion, "Annette wouldn't have you-and quite right-and she

chuckled and rubbed his hands. "That's nothing; he has the gir

ed yoursel

of Medallion, who dared not tell the Cure of his complicity, though he was without compunction. He had a sense of humour, and knew there could be no tragedy in the thing-for Julie. But the miller was a careful man and original in his methods. He still possessed the wardrobe of the first wife, thoughtfully preserved by his sister, even to the wonderful grey watered-poplin which had been her wedding-dress. These he had taken out, shaken free of cayenne, camphor, and lavender, and se

then, imitating Farette's manner-though Farette could

on the brown paper. M'sieu', you go to Mass, and all your teeth are sound; you have a d

l keep the brown paper, and the grey poplin, and the

unday evening and smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she arranged the de

, the eye, the good

when she died he paid for an extra Mass and twelve very fine candles. He called upon Parpon to endorse his words, and Parpon nodded to all he said, but, catching Julie's eye, went off into gurgles of laughter, which he pretended were tears, by smothering his face in his capote. "Ma'm'selle," said the miller, "I have thought. Some men go to the Avocat or the Cure with great things; but I have been a pilgrimage, I have sat on the grand jury. There, Ma'm'selle!" His chest swelled, he blew out his cheeks, he p

nted; but when he had gone she sat and laughed till she cried, and for the hundredth

Farette's first marriage, and the Cure faltered in the exhortation when he saw that Farette was dressed in complete mourning, even to the crape hat-streamers, as he said, out of respect for the memory of his first wife, an

falling in showers on his mourning garments; and hi

learned that he had his one true inspiration

TH

a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say their prayers in the intervals of their work; and i

thurin, I wipe m

y, for I saw that she would despise me if I showed ignorance of Mathurin's story. Her sympath

r, it is all some grey, and it blow about him head. He is clean to de face, no beard-no, nosing like dat. But his eye-la, M'sieu', his eye! It is like a coal which you blow in your hand, whew!-all bright. My gran'mudder, she say,

is why everybody pray for him-only one bad ting. Sapristi!-if I have only one ting to say God-have-mercy for, I tink dat ver' good; I do my penance happy. Well, dat Mathurin him use to teach de school. De Cure he ver' fond of him. All de leetla children, boys and girls, dey all say: 'C'est bon Mathurin!' He is n

candy in his pocket. He never forget once de age of every leetla child dat call him godfadder. He have a brain dat work like a clock. My gran'fadder

o Mathurin: 'Merci mille fois, m'sieu'; you are ver' polite. I tank you. I will keep your verses to tell me dat my French subjects are all loyal like M. Mathurin.' Dat is ver' nice, but Mathurin is not proud-non. He

de King of Englan'-like dat. Ver' well, dere was twenty men in Pontiac, ver' nice men-you will find de names cut in a stone on de church; and den, three times as big, you will find Mathurin's name. Ah, dat is de ting! You see, dat rebellion you English call it, we call it de War of de Patriot-de first War of de Patriot, not de second-well, call it what you

dem dead. When dey come, de Cure he is not in Pontiac-non, not dat day; he is gone to anudder village. De English soldier he has de ten men drew up before de church. All de children and

he say: 'I have a hunder sins all on my mind; dey are on my heart like a hill. Bring to me de priest,'-he groan like dat. Nobody speak at first; den somebody say de priest is not here. 'Find me a priest,' say de colonel; 'find me a priest.' For he tink de priest will not come, becos' he go to kill de patriots. 'Bring me a priest,' he say again, 'and all de ten shall go fre

ur sins, and to have de office of de Church. But first, as you have promise just now, you must give up dese poor men, who have fight for what dey tink is right. You will let dem go

de men.' Den de men are unloose, and dey al

before I die.' He is in ver' great pain, so Mathurin he turn roun' to everybody dat stan' by, and tell dem to say de prayers for de sick. Everybody get him down on his knees and say de prayer. Everybody say: 'Lord have mercy. Spare him, O Lord; deliver him, O Lord, from Thy wrath!' And Mathurin he pray all de same as a p

t Quebec he hear de truth, he say it is all right. Also de English soldier die in peace and happy, becos' he tink his sins ar

, and he work on de blackboar' and he write on de slate; but dere is no child come, becos' de Cure has forbid any one to speak to Mathurin.

n. If it was two hunderd years ago

did it to save de fadders of de children and de husbands of de wives. I

glish soldier-to whom you say de words of a priest of God, he is forgive. De Spirit of God it was upon him when he die, becos' you speak in de name

ure say: 'Not yet are you forgive.' At de end of de year Mathurin he look so thin, so white, you can blow through him. Every day he go to him school and write on de blackboar', and mark on de slate, and call

eak to walk on his knees. De Cure he stan' at de altar, and he read a letter from de Pope, which say dat Mathurin his penance is over, and he is forgive; dat de Pope himself pray for Mathurin, to save his soul. So Mathurin, all at once he stan' up, and his face it smile and smile, and he stretch out h

lve Apostles pray for me!' Den he ask: 'Class in geography-how far is it roun' de world?' And dey answer: 'Twenty-four t'ousand miles.'

e Sign upon him, he kiss his face and say:

l, for whom the women and the children pray in the parish of Pontiac

OF THE L

is own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry in his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well placed. Behind the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and beyond these the verdant hills, all converging to Dalgrothe Mountain. In front of it was the river, with its banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, always troubled and sportive. On the farther side of the river lay peaceful areas of meadow and corn land, and low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one larger than the rest, having a wind-mill and a flag-

n had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely ankles. Yet no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at first. An old servant kept house for them and cared for them in her honest way, bot

. That gave him a cue to his future and to Fabian's. After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank in the taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish; for, wild as he was, he had a gay temper, a humorous mind,

s also an excellent servant, could do as much as any two women in any house, and was capable of more airy diablerie than any ten of her sex in Pontiac. When Fabian had said to her in Montreal that he would come to see her again, he told her where he lived. She came to see him instead, for she wrote to the landl

with a laugh and with snapping eyes: "Go

ed through his hair: "You!" and then was go

e was not the most perfect of servants, and also no one could say that her life in Pontiac had not been exemplary. Yet wise people had made up their minds that she was determined to marry Fabian, and the wisest declared that she would do so in spite of everything-religion (she was a Protestant), character,

d, went to Montreal, got proof of her career, came back, and m

r, and when Fabian got in, he drove on without a word.

, Henri. Come al

g, and Henri joined in with him heartily, for

as a lit

olish

ra

unto t

idges th

ra

Car

Car

ng to brea

ely Gu

another verse when Hen

to break your

Henri?" wa

ard, and you don't

e company I want, so what I c

ri laid his freeha

day, they ought to call it. Holy! the empty jars that day." Henri sighed. "That's the drink, Fabia

the devil

y, was the company

n her? Bosh! I'm going

said Henri, eagerly clu

st-looking, wittiest girl I ever sa

ins isn't ever

h? Isn't it? Tie

odness." Henri'

hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that the touch of her fingers

ther she was

he loves you she'll travel straight for your

all ab

ut it! You're

es

a minute. "Godam!" he said.

mpany?" he aske

as you keep-vo

" asked Fabian, in a

irst. I'd think of you; of our people that have been here for two hu

"Holy heaven, and you've g

Fabian, at Montreal I found out

me, do as I do, go where I go, play the devil when I play it, and never squeal, never hang back, I'll give her up. But I've got to have you-got to have you all the time,

s before they came to the bridge to cross the river to their home. The light of the fire shone in their faces as

ark set, and then Fabian li

ptied the flask, and threw it over the bank into the burning lime, and

unting expedition, and the following

brothers were always together, and never from first to last did Henri lose his temper, or openly lament that ruin was coming surely on them. What money Fabian wanted he got. The Cure's admonitions availed nothing, for Fabian would go his gait. The end came on the

succeeded the old lime-burner at his post, drank no m

STORY OF THE GR

singly, before he replied to Medallion. "Yes, m'sieu', I knew the White Chief, as they called him: this was his"-holding up

urged; "for there are many tales, a

He paused a moment, looking out on the river where the hot sun was playing with all its might, then t

wist the neck of the great fighting man of the tribe, so that it go with a snap, and that ends it, and he was made a chief, for, you see, in their hearts they all hated their strong man. Well, one winter there come down to Fort o' God two Esquimaux, and they say that three white men are wintering by the Copp

eart and clamp it-Mon Dieu, how it clamp! We crawl under the snow and lay in our bags of fur and wool, and the dogs hug close to us. We were sorry for the dogs; and one died, and then another, and there is nothing so dreadful as to hear the dogs howl in the long night-it is like ghosts crying in an empty

t a minute," he said. Then he poured out coffee f

ory," said Medall

ll hard like stone and crusted with frost. I thought he would never stir again, he look so long. I think he was puzzle. Then he turn and say to me: 'So quiet, so awful, Galloir!' and got up. Well, but it was cold then, and my head seemed big and running about like a ball of air. But I l

was in the cloud, and he said through it: "No, he did not strike. He get to his feet and spoke: 'God forgive her!' like that, and come and take

s a brave man, but the rest-the rest!'-then under his breath almost: 'She was so young-but a child.' I not understand that. We start away soon, leavi

devil as I try to drive Death away by calling in his ear. He wake all at once; but his eyes seem asleep. He tell me to take the book to a great man in Montreal-he give me the name. Then he

t the book?" M

e had he!-and told him all. He whip out a scarf, and blow his nose loud, and say very angry: 'So, sh

LE

but it pleased me that he

tery eyes, which, to me, were always hung with an intangible veil of mystery-though that, maybe, was my boyish fancy. Added to all this he was so very deaf that you had to speak clear and loud into his ear; and many people he could not hear at all, if their words were not sharp-cut, no matter how loud. A silent, withdrawn man he was, living close to Mother Earth, twin-brother of Labour, to whom Morning and Daytime were sounding-boards for his axe, scythe, saw, flail, and milking-pail, and Night a round hollow of dark

d twice been mortgaged to put the eldest son through college as a doctor, they faced the bitter fact that the farm had passed from them to Rodney, the second son, who had come at last to keep a hotel in a town fifty miles away. Generous-hearted people would think that these grown-up sons and daughters should have returned the old people's long

bedroom off it, with the one feather-bed of the house bountifully piled up with coarse home-made blankets, topped by a silk patchwork quilt, the artistic labour of the old wife's evening hours while Uncle Jim peeled apples and strung them to dry from the rafters. There was a room, dining-room in summer, and kitchen dining-room in winter, as clean as aged hands could scrub and dust it, hung about with stray pictures from illustrated papers, and a good old clock in the corner "ticking" life, and youth, and hope away. There was the buttery off that, with its meagre china and crockery, its window looking out on the field of rye, the little orchard of winter apples, and the hedge of cranb

the little house had to her a glory of its own, because of those who had come and gone-the firstlings of her flock, the roses of her little garden of love, blooming now in a rougher air than ranged over the little house on the hill. She had looked out upon the pine woods to

ts of a home where seven times the Angel of Death had hovered over a birth-bed. She looked int

p-board house, and no ceilings u

ld have tucked up her dress, and tied on an apron to help. But no, she sat and preened herself with the tissue-paper sort of pride of a vain milliner, or nervously shifted about, lifting up this and that, curiously supercilious, her tongue rattling on to her husband and to his mother in a shallow, foolish way. She couldn't say,

the stable-yard. He and Rodney greeted outside warmly enough, but there was some trepidation too in Uncle Jim's face-he felt trouble brewing; and there is no trouble like that which comes between parent and child. Silent as he was, however, he had a large and cheerful heart, and nodding his head he laughed the deep, quaint laugh which Rodney himself of all his sons had-and he was fonder of Rodney than any. He washed his hands in the little basin outside the wood-house door, combed out his white beard, rubbed his red, watery eyes, tied a clean handker

in the old home; but he had to face this and all coming dilemmas as best he might. With a kind of shamefacedness, yet with an attempt to carry the thing off lightly, he told Uncle Jim, while, insi

b," said Rodney. "Farming's a bet

od," answered Uncle Ji

asy. "But won't it be b

slow answer, "m

, she's getting too old

ong," answered the old man

p her, and we'll ha

brooding answer; "the plac

up, I'll put more under barley. All the thing wants is wor

down the hillside, he had travelled with the cradle and the scythe, putting all

e, me

gue replies, and said: "But darn it a

ce you were born, Rod. I've blundered along, somehow, just boggling my way through. I ain't got anything more to say. The farm ain't mine any mo

n't going to be any different for you and mothe

f course, there can't be two women rulin' one

to the house the grey look in his mother's face told him more than her words ever told. Before they left th

ut with that unchanging sweetness of face, and a body withering about a fretted soul. She had no bitterness, only a miserable distress. But every slight that was put upon her, every change, every new-fangled idea, from the white sugar to the scented soap and the yellow buggy, rankled in the old man's heart. He had resentment both for the old wife and himself, and he hated the pink milliner for the humiliation that she heaped upon them both. Rodney did not see one-fifth of it, and what

sacred trouble came before its time. And on that day there fell such a storm as had not been seen for many a year. The concession road was blocked before day had well set in; no horse could go ten yards in it. The nearest doctor was miles away at Pontiac, and for any man to face the journey was to connive with death. The old mother ca

, or in the drive-shed sharpening his axe. But the day went on and the old mother forgot all the wrongs that she had suffered, and yearned over the trivial woman who was hurrying out into the Great Space. Her hours seemed numbered at noon, her moments measured as it came t

m the doctor's door. They brought him to, he told his story, and, with the abating of the storm, the doctor and the villagers drove down to

the old mother came out to where the old man sat, bun

softly. The old man twisted in his chair, and

id not speak, and she did not ask him what he meant; but ther

WITH THE

ly person on terms of intimacy with its owner, the old Seigneur, who for many years had never stirred beyond the limits of his little gard

houses, the vines appeared to ooze on the walls, and at one end, where the window-shutters were always closed and barred, a

ome, penetrative, brooding, and made indescribably sorrowful by the dark skin around them. There were those in Pontiac, such as the Cure, who remembered when the Seigneur was constantly to be seen in

ious habitants came to know that the young man had gone, and after a few years his having once lived there had become a mere memory. But whenever the Little Chemist set foot inside the tall porch he remembered; the Avocat was kept in mind by papers which he was called upon to read and alter from time to time; the Cure never forgot, bec

me rapping at Medallion's door, and s

and again rising to feel the sick man's pulse or to prepare a cordial. The housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, and

his wrist, his dark eyes rested on

of that look. "Eight hours, perhaps, sir," th

, and his hand grasped his handkerchief tightly

s and shrunken; but still there was a strange little curl of pride-or disdain-on his lips. At last he drew up his head, his shoulders came erect, heavily, to the

he beat of rain upon the windows, and the deep breathing of the Seigneur. Pre

a voice,"

y master," said

oice withou

ittle Chemist, "it was

painfully eager an

"I hear a voice i

ing a hand respectfully on

g energy, he got to his feet. "It is the voice

ut he was not t

mosphere of that Brink where man strips himself to the soul

re a supper such as we used to have. When it is ready I will come. But, listen, and ob

he woman wept over him and at last set him at the loaded, well-lighted table. Then the Seigneur came in, leaning his arm very lightly on that of Medallion with a kind of kingly air; and, greeting his son before them all, as if they had

s passed over his face. He drank off the wine, and as he

mist!" he said, and s

N THE

a droll dwarf, and, in his way, had good times in the world. He turned the misery of the world into a game, and grinned at it from his hi

Julie. She led him a pretty travel. He had started a

re, of the House with the Tall Porch, to quarrel with his so

chest of drawers, with his head cocked and his eyes blinking, she knew that he read the truth. But she did not know all that was in his head; so she said sharp things to him, as she did to everybody, for she had a very poor opinion of the world, and thought all as flippant as herself. She took nothing seriously; she was too vain. E

er fine looks; but then, Annette's life was a thing for a book, and she had a beautiful child. You cann

sed, and he did not come. When she saw Armand at the funeral-a tall man with a dark beard and a grave face, not like the Armand she had known, he seemed a great distance from her, though she could almost have touched him once as he turned from the grave. She would have liked to throw herself into

s, and she felt her romance askew. She stood before the mirror, rubbing her face with oatmeal and

table in the corner, his legs drawn up

arm. He caught the basin as it came, but the meal covered him. He blew it

re will need tw

, standing angry in t

! See what it is to have

sly round the room

r," answered Parpon

t him. He caught her wrists with his great hand

e flume at the mill, or go over the dam at the Bois Noir; or, there is Farette's m

g it back, and the marks of small-pox showed. The contrast with her smooth cheeks gave her a weird look. Parpon got quickly on the table again and sat like a Turk, with a furtive

ed her white teeth wit

hat he killed. Then he got pretty mad, and said I couldn't eat my own head. Holy! that was funny for Farette. Then I told

could not define it. Presently she got to her fe

arms, with a swift motion as of climbing, laughed, and added: "Madame Julie, Farette has poor eyes; he c

ing it out; "he is a child and a coward. He should

with a sly gurgle: "Farette keeps at that gun. What is the good! Th

doorstep. She was ripe for a quarrel, and she would say something hateful to Annette; for she never forgot that Far

nnette," she

lie," was the

you co

ill for flax-seed. B

Julie, with a mean

er voice was always sweet. One would never

from my own. Then it will cost yo

lie, but I wou

t's a few pounds of meal to the wife of Faret

the basin, and the poker. She wished she had not asked Annette in. But in some things she had a quick wit, an

ing, hoping that the flax-seed would be got at once. But when she saw that Julie expected an answer, she said: "Cecilia, my little girl, h

and frankly, but her

did not believe that cats sucked the life from children's lungs, and she replied calmly: "I am not afraid; the good God keeps m

self-she could not play a part so well as she wished. She had not before felt the thing that gave a new pulse to her body and a joyful pain at her breasts. Her eyes got thickly blurred so that she could not see Annette, and, without a word, she hurried to get the meal. She was silent when she came b

s Benoit, an

There was again a sly ring to Julie's voice,

ust only be

e funeral to-da

confession. No one was there except M'sieu' Medallion, the Little Chemist,

you know?"

no one comes to me except the Littl

did sh

ch,' he said. They thought he was dreaming. But he said other things, and cried again that he heard his son's voice in the Porch. They went and found M'sieu' Armand. Then a great supper

Julie had heard. Sh

Armand were good friends

ui

mand and Julie. She was confused. She wished she cou

funeral?" she add

ody was

fine and strange after his long trave

lie, in her old vain manner. "You should have seen the women look a

Suddenly she turned, and laid a hand on Julie's arm. "Come and

what a pity it was th

d the black cat? V

anced at the mill; and there, high up in the dormer window, sat Parpon, his yello

gainst his head, and not seeming the least afraid of falling, though i

e, go and have your whiskey-wine, and then to bed,' he would sneak away. But he has heard something. Some fool, perhaps that Benoit-no, he is sick-perhaps the herb-woman has been talking, and he

Cure himself did not know. He had a beautiful voice. Even in speaking it was pleasant to hear, though he roughened it in a way. It pleased him th

erched there in a tree, sang away-a man, shaped something

d between man and the spirits. But it was all pleasant to hear, even when, at times, there ran a weird, dark thre

e smoke blows th

blue wolf

st

rf laughs in the

vil comes b

st

iment, its head thrust into his thick black hair. From where Parpon sat he could see the

with his foot, or twist the branch of a shrub thoughtfully as he walked. At last ano

n give them back. As Parpon the dwarf said-you remember him, a wise little man, that Parpon-as

But I cannot forgive myself; he was so fine a man: tall, with a grand lo

shrugging his shoulders a little. The priest took off his hat and made the sacred g

ce of a good

no rites of the Church; he

he had a

eyebrows. "They

e Angel of

without a word. At last the Cu

et me. Nor do I know what I have of this,"-he waved his hands towards th

Have you not

er than his grave,"

n in silence. At last the Cure said: "You w

young man, smiling. "Whoever lives

e here. See, there is Monsieur Ga

Armand went forward to the gate. Like most people, he found

at you might know how things are; and Monsieur Medallion came because he is a witness to the wil

he curtains, and rang the bell. The old housekeeper appeared, a sorrowful joy in her fa

," she said; "none has bee

ly to Armand: "I asked Parpon the dwarf

n surprise. "Very good," he

at the Louis

and, and gave the message to Sy

re was silence for a moment, for all were wondering w

looking for a strayed horse. I got tired, and lay down in the shade of the Rock of Red Pigeons-you know it. I fell asleep. Something waked me. I got up and heard the finest singing you can guess:

cat took off his glasses and tapped hi

in the toad's head. The clever imp hid it al

ling. Then, gravely: "It is strang

it's an angel?

rpon do any harm?

kind to the poor,"

nable sin." He sent a quizzical look at the Cure. "Do

se not easy to understand,

u the i

plied Medallion serious

king at the Avocat. The Avocat drew the deed from his pocket. He looked up

read to that point where the Seigneur bequeathed all his property to his son, should

inching his hands before him on the table-"about a woman; and years of misery came. I was to blame in not obeying him. I ought not to have given any cause for gossip. Whatever the co

: "That Farette the miller should have a deed of the land on which his mill was built, with the dam of the mill-provided that Armand should never so much as by a word again addres

k the will from the Avocat; but instantly, without looking at it, handed it back. "Th

y son Armand the house known as the House with the Tall Porch, and the land, according to the deed thereof; and the residue of my property-w

case, Parpon should have in fee simple the lan

y took the will, and read it through carefully. When he had finished he looked inqui

that moment Sylvie announced Parpon. Armand asked that he sho

Armand put a stool on the table. "Sit here, Parpon," he said. Med

awk comes back to its nest," he said. "Well, w

iest, but the priest nodded back again. Then Medallion said: "You and I know the Rock of Red Pigeons, Parpon. It is a go

xedly at Medallion. Presently he turned towards th

Cure kindly. Turning sharply on Medalli

look, so that its ugliness was almost beautiful. All at once he slid from the stool and crouched on his knees. Then he sent out a low long note, like the toll of th

ive phrases: their noiseless wanderings; their sojourning with the eagle, the wolf, and the deer; their triumph over the winds, the whirlpools, and the spirits of evil fame. It filled the room with the cry

boat was overturned in a whirlpool, and was saved by a little brown diver. And the e

e brown diver he tells the grain... And the grand Seigneur h

they were hardly conscious of the story he was telling. But when he sang of

up, and standing by the table, said: "P

did not

son?" said the Cure, risi

ur asks you a question, Parpo

I said, 'No, I am not fit. I will never go to you at the House with the Tall Porch.' And I made him promise that he would never

u the Bois Noir for your own. So the hills and the Rock of Re

t, then broke out: "Oh, my grand Seigneur-my grand Seigneur!" and

houlder. "Parpon!" B

rstand it, gentlemen. Parpon does not lik

, gentlemen, I will fulfil its conditions; though I swear, were I otherwise minded regarding the w

oured out, and they drank it off in silence. P

drink," said Medallio

, put it into Armand's hand, and then, jumping down fro

e. Sitting on some bags of meal was Parpon, with a fierce twinkle in his eye. Monsieur Garon told Far

"tell me all about i

to tell: he left

ur," cried Farette,

ornfully in the doo

nd throws away the gun! Brag and coward, mill

r, and got her hat. At first she thought she would go to the House with the Tall Porch, but she changed her mind, and went t

Bois Noir. All at once, in the shade of a great

ace. What a fool I

and lifted her hands towards him.

er feet to her pitted forehead, then

re was a sudden burst of tears, and t

hrill, wild laugh. She looked up frightened

, and he touched her shoulder. This was

ile; but she noticed that his voice was not as usual. "Listen," he urged

gain,"

replied; and he sang a little more. "He cannot sing like tha

flung it back again as

" she cried;

l on me any more, or ca

rpon,"

r, and said: "See, we are even now, poor Julie!" Then he laughed, holding his little sides wit

e forward, in the dust

d the limits of the endurable; her sordid little hopes had split into fragments. But when a human soul faces upon its past, and sees a gargoyle at every milestone whe

r mean vanity was lost behind the pale sincerity of her face-she was sincere at last. The trivial commonness was gone from her coquettin

tree, looking into the sunlight. Slowly her eyes shifted from the Rock to the great ravine, to whose farther side the sun was giving bastions of gold. She was quiet. Presently she stepped into the light and came softly to the Rock. She walked slowly round it as though looking for some one. At the lowest s

d again, and once more withdrew. She gazed round, and then made another tour of the hill, searching. She returned to the precipice. As she did so she heard a voice. She looked and saw Parpon seated upon a ledge of rock not far

t see or hear them fall. He looked up, and saw the stone creeping upon the edge. Like a flash he was on his feet, and, springing into the air to the right, caught a tree steadfast

t Julie's body as it was churned from life to death: and then he fought. There was a demon in the whirlpool, but God and demon were working in the man. Nothing on earth could have unloosed that long, br

, climbed the rough wall, on, on, up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. He bore her t

peered into her face. The eyes had the film which veils Here from Hereafter. On the lips was a mocking smile. He stooped as if

dead-the woman whom an impish fate had put

RE HARD

ness of her barns and the best cattle of her fields. She gave her all; she was frank in giving, hid nothing; and when her own trouble came there was no voice calling on her behalf. And Pontiac would rather starve than beg. So, as the winter went on, she starved in silence, and no one had more than sour

, with a calm, sad voice, told the people that, for "the dear children's sake," they must sink their pride and ask help from without. He would write first to the Bishop of Quebec; "for," said he, "Mother Church will help us; she will give us food, and money to buy seed in the spring; and, please God, we will pay al

many faces meanwhile turned instinctively to M.

is a bitter journey, but our pride must n

ch other, waiting and sorrowful, and the Avocat's fingers fluttered to the seat in front of him,

le for a moment, and then went round an alm

ed, but the Cure raised his hand to command silence, and his eyes gazed steadily at the dwarf. It might seem that he was noting the huge head, the shaggy hair, the overhanging brows, the weird face of this distorti

en and the sick, and the Cure and the Avocat and their little coterie respected him. Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when he had sung in the Mass, the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette the miller, for whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut by the Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most wonderful

to the Bishop, Parp

eir seats, for they saw that t

quietly and caught the arm of the Cure

and he raised his hand over Parpon's head in benediction and said: "

is hands, he tried to speak, but only said: "O Lord,

h tearful eyes, he p

darkness, and the darkne

.......

moment's delay lessened their chances of getting a stand in the market-place. Butchers and milkmen loitered, regardless of waiting customers; a little company of soldiers caught up the chorus, and, to avoid involuntary revolt, their sergeant halted them, that they might listen.

grey f

s your

our daught

an who comes

lt down at

Gabrielle's

igh, and, coming over, quickly took Parpon's cap from his h

hood, and he who used to sing it to her was in her sight no more. In vain the gentlemen would hav

omforter about his neck-but this comforter he took off when he began to sing. Old France and New France, and the loves and hates and joys and sorrows of all lands, met that night in the soul of this dwarf with the divine voice, who did not give t

e last words of the Mass, he entered the Church of St. Saviour's at Pontiac. Going up to the chancel steps

nd put it in his hands, and beckonin

scription and thanksgiving, then he turned to Parpon again, but

ought us two thousand dollars: we shall have food to eat, and there shall be more money against seed-time

s went on; but none save the Cure and the Avoc

LION'

petulance and dejection, Medallion was the only person who had an inspiriting effect upon him. The Little Chemis

to know what's the matter with him?

said the Little Chemis

mean the want of a w

He has an excellent cook, and his bed and jackets ar

these innocent folk; but himself went twice a

, is what he needs. Every man-out of holy orders"-this in deference to his good friend the Cure-"arrives at the time when his youth must be renewed or he becomes as dry bones-like an empty ho

ong fingers at his lips and blowing gently through them, but

ittle Chemist, shaking his head and looking

l provide the finest essences for the feast-no more pills. And we shall dine with our Avo

, abrupt, an ejaculation of satisfaction,

gment was shrewd in most things, and he would be silent and wait. But he shrank from any new phase of life likely to alter the condit

a poetry (his English was not perfect, and at times he mixed it

l is the l

use by the wi

ughter has

he littl

e come from t

s and ey

e laughter

e littl

ng stream an

on, di ron,

ital. The Cure looked calm and kind, and drawn away as if in thought; but Medallion p

me idea in our heads. I've put it hard fact, you've pu

great distance, so meditative was his v

n in the hills-fulfilling your verses, gentle apothecary. She must bring what is fresh-he must feel that

e a great man," said

k in the kind priest's eyes. The Avo

n took u

the Little Chemist. "To our

ed. The two that were left sh

and put a steaming bowl before him, and laid a pipe and matches beside the bowl. She was a very little, thin old woman, quick and quiet and watchful-his housekeeper. The Avocat took no notice of her. She looked at him several times anxiously, and passed backwards and forwards behind him as a hen moves upon the flank of her brood. All at once she stopped. Her small, white fingers, with their large rheumatic knuckles, lay flat on her lips as she stood for an instant musing; then she trotted lightly to a bureau, got pen and paper and ink, reached down a bunch of keys from the mantel, and came and put them all beside the bowl and the pipe. Still the Avocat did not stir, or show that he recognised her. Sh

ened it quietly and entered. In the dark he felt his way along the wall to the

n! Pipes for two." A change came slowly over the Avocat. His eyes drew away from

said mechanically. Then, presen

ailed to inspire whom he chose to inspire with Something of his own life and cheerfulness. In a few moments both the Avocat and himself were smoking, and the contents of the steaming bowl were divided between them. Medallion talked on many things. The little old housekeeper came in, chirped a soft good-evening, flashed a small thankful smile at Medallion, and, after renewin

one in the head, but singing as he used to do before he married-or got drunk! P

t Medallion earnestly no

ear. You've heard the words of th

e like to the

its nest in

weetest you e

e, it is h

is here, it mu

from shor

orth and br

and clos

row along h

fastened again on that avenue between the candles leading out into the immortal part of him-his past; he wa

ion we

e like to the

om the li

s brighter a

and it shi

t shines, it mu

from shor

orth and br

it withi

ow along hom

raised his glass and said: "Gar

y as he did so. He caught up a glass and, lifting it, said: "I drink to home and-" a little cold burst of laught

-worn note-book which looked like a diary. He seemed to have forgotten Medallion's presence, but it was not so; he had reached the moment of disclosure which comes to every man

ed the soft-travelling moon in the gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, we danced. There was an artist with us. I saw him catch Lulie about the waist, and kiss her on the neck. She was angry, but I did not think of that; I was mad with wine. I quarrelled with her, and said to her a shameful thing. Then I rushed away. We were not married the next day; I could not find her. One night, soon after, there was a revolution of st

lips. Medallion, amused, yet with a hushed kind of feeling through all his nerves, pushed the Avocat's tumbler till it touched his fingers. The thin fingers twined round it, and once more he came to his feet. He raised the glass. "To-" for a minute he got no further-"To the wedding-eve!" he said, and sipped the hot wine. Presently he pushed the little well-worn book over to Medallion. "I have known you fifteen years-read!" he said. He gave Medallion a meaning look out of hi

. It is one year since. I s

the last page in the book which he had just written, and said defiantly,

passed from his wrinkled lips, and he sat down again; but now with an air a

met, of hearing him talk of the Cure, the Little Chemist, and the Avocat; and in the Avocat she seemed to take the most interest, making countless inquiries-countless when spread over many conversations-upon his life during the time Medallion had known him. He knew also that she came to Pontiac, occasionally, but only in the evening; and once of

nd was quite unlike his old, shrewd, kindly self. By this time he was almost prepared to see her turn pale and her fingers flutter at the knitting-needles she held. She made an excuse to leave the room for a moment. He saw a little book lying near the chair from which she had risen. Perhaps it had dropped from her pocket. He picked it up. It was a book of French songs-Beranger's and others less notable. On

ed anxiously at him. He pointed to the book

r fingers laced and interlaced nervously in her lap.

ly. "We were more than frie

wife?" said Me

s here. We were to be married, but on the eve of our wedding-day the

speak no more; only, she said at last before

ew many secrets and kept them; which is

the end of the long romance. He came once more to the house of Madame L

rds him. "He is w

ll. He needs you; come alo

the evening before. Without a word further she prepared to go.

e replied timidly, but w

id. "I thought perhaps yo

llion entered on him and called to him cheerily: "We are coming to see you to-

in a shrinking, pained voice: "No, no, not to-night,

by both arms gently. "We shall see," he s

f all his nerves had been laid bare. But Medallion turned, opened the door,

and, with supper in his mind, went into the kitchen to see the house

re come from

s and ey

e laughter

e littl

PRIS

r a great fire seemed to burn beneath the tin of the roof, for a quivering hot air rose from them, and the pigeons never alighted on them, save in the early morning or in the evening. Just over the peak could

s of the lead pipes. He studied them much, but he loved them more. His prison was less a prison because of them, and during those long five years he found himself more in touch with them than with the wardens of the prison or with any of his fellow-prisoners. To the fo

the others had left; that they had begun gaming and drinking and quarrelling again-and then everything was blurre

w beside him, and the body of Jean Gama

ght them to the death, had it not been for his friend, tall Medallion the auctioneer, who laid a stron

obbery? He shrugged his shoulders at that, he insisted that his lawyer should not reply to the foolish and insulting suggestion. But the evidence went to show that Gamache had all the winnings when the other members of the party retired, and this very money had been found in Blaze's pocket. There was only Blaze's word that they had played cards again. Anger? Po

himself, shaken and pale, left the court-room hurriedly, f

uarely in the eyes, and when the judge stopped, he

'm innocent-how will you feel when the truth comes out? You've known me more or less these twenty years, and you've said, with evidently no mo

with a strange, wild expression. At the moment he saw no more than an excited, bewildered face, but a

the guards. It was the Little Chemist's wife, who, years before, had been h

Blaze!" she said, clas

ead. He had no contact, wished no contact with the outer world, but lived his hard, lonely life by himself, silent, studious-for now books were a pleasu

ted him so that at last it became a part of his real life, lived largely at

ith misery often, so that he rocked to and fro as he sat on his bed, an

k!" And again: "That hour-the memory of t

onsieur Turgeon, you are free. The Governor

them, and he stepped into the open world alone at dawn the next morning, and looked out upon a still sleeping village. Suddenly there stood before hi

him so anxiously and sorrowfully in the court-

sorry f

t is no

me," she whispered, wit

He looked at her keenly, almost fiercely,

er head and

's wo

n him and be punished for it," she sai

tle child,"

who was punis

e in the wor

face was afire. He shut his eyes, and wh

now," he said.

g at me that night! Who was

plied. "He ruined me a

is death!" he said

lives?" he asked. She nodded again. "Well, let it be so

he cried, tears streaming down her cheeks

," he said sighing, and

give me?" she

e me back thos

e I would give my life," she

ace made him sorry; h

answered gently. "Tak

is face that had rested there five years. Once he turned to look back. The woman was

ame to his own house, where the summer morning was already entering the

ne when he went condemned to prison. Then he passed on to his own room, and entering, sat down before the open wind

PSET

of the spring had gone from his walk, the quick light of his eyes had given place to a dark, dreamy expression, his skin became a little dulled, and his talk slower, though not less musical or pleasant. Indeed, his conversation had distinctly improved. Previously there was an undercurrent of self-consciousness; it was all gone now. He talked as one knowing his audience. His office became again, as it had been before, a rendezvous for the few interesting me

d in the Lancet; and he was offered a responsible post in a medical college, and, at the same time, the good-will of a valuable practice. He declined both, to the lasting astonishment, yet personal joy, of the Cure and the Avocat; but, as time went on, not so much to the surprise of the Little Chemist and Medallion. After three years, the sleepy Little Chemis

tical flavour to the thought. The change had come so gradually that only Medallion and the wife had a real conception of how great it was. Medallion had studied Secord from every stand-point. At the very first he wondered if there was a woman in it. Much thinking on a woman, whose influence on his life was evil or disturbing, might account somewhat for the change in Secord. But, seeing how fond the man was of his wife, Medallion gave up that idea. It was not liquor, for Secord never touch

ys carried his medicine-phials in a pocket-case. She got the case, and saw that none was missing. She noticed that the cork of the phial was well worn. She took it out and smelled the liquid. Then she understood. She waited and watched. She saw him after he waked lo

instinct. She was a woman of more impulse and constitutional good-nature than depth. It is probable that he knew that, and refrained from letting her into the knowledge of this vice, contracted in the war when, seriously ill, he was able to drag himself about from patient to patient only by the help of opium. He was alive t

cord. But the Little Chemist was greatly concerned-for had not Secord saved his beloved wife by a clever operation? and was it not her custom to devote a certain hour every week to the welfare of Secord's soul and body, before the shrine of the Virgin? Her husband told her now tha

ir absent host; but the Little Chemist and Medallion remained. For a time Mrs. Secord remained with them, then retired, begging them to await her husband, who, she knew, would be grateful if they stayed. The Little Chemist, with timid cour

that

z ca-wel

rds the door, fingered with his tumbler, and at last hearing the sound of sleigh-bells, suddenly came to his feet, and sa

d certainly Medallion's eyes were red when he rapped up the Little Chemist at dawn, caught him by the shoulders, turned him round several times, thumped him on the back, and ca

or it, Lesley, a big fight; but you must be patient, for I expect I'll be a devil sometimes without it. Why, I've eaten a drachm a day

im. The necessary effort of the will gave a kind of hard coldness to his face, and he used to walk his garden for hours at night in conflict with his enemy. His nerves were uncertain, but, strange to say, when (it was not often) any serious case of illness came under his hands, he was somehow able to pull himself

l at once. He was tender with her, but he wished often that she could understand him without explanation on his part. Many a time he took out the little bottle with a reckless hand, but conquered himself. He got most help, perhaps, from the honest, cheerful eye of Medallion and the stumbling timorous affection of the Little Chemist. They were perfectly disinterested friends-his wife at times made him aware that he had done her a wrong, for he had married her with thus

h. He muffled his mouth in his long silken beard as if to smother w

got up, went out in his garden, drew in the fresh, sweet air with a great gulp, picked some lovely crab-apple blossoms, and, with a strange glowing look in his eyes, came in to his wife, put them into her hands, and kissed her. It was th

whispered, "we wi

nd came back better. He was not so happy as he hoped to be; yet he would not whi

ident in his great mill. Secord told his wife. A peculiar troubled look came into his face as he glan

ould hear her; he wished she would make no sound at all. Unless this operation was performed successfully the sufferer would die-he might die anyhow. Secord tried to gather himself up to his task, but he felt it was of no use. A month lat

ainfully inquiring. "Can you save him?" she said.

roken; I can't perform the operation as I

strong? You have a will. Will you not try

out a phial of laudanum. "This is the way. I can pull myself together

"Oh, my dear father, wil

s lips. "But there is danger to me in

cruel!" She rocked herself to and fro. "If it wil

I tell

ing!" She was mad with grief;

vered, drew himself up with a start, gave a sigh as if some huge struggle was over, and we

ickness, and the door closed after her, standing where she had lef

pset

at night he might have been seen feeling about the grass in a moon-lit garden. At last he put something in

MENT O

en from him the woman he loved. Both had wronged the woman, b

of St. Sebastian. Both were quiet, and bot

able. Then from two bottles he poured out what looked like red wine, two g

s. "Two of the glasses have poison in them, two have good red wine only.

e other with contract

ame with me?" he asked

rt-as one would take a run at a crevasse and clear it, or fall. If we both fall, we are in go

the answer. "But

e of the fire, the barrel of a gun glistened soberly along a rafter, and the long, wiry hair of an otter-skin in the corner sent out little needles of light. Upon the fire a pot was simmering, and

he little pile of otter-skins, and lay watching V

them on a shelf against the wall, then began to put the table

in the hands and feet where the nails should be driven in. There was a painful humour in the association. He smiled, then

m the shelf and placed them in the middle o

of the wapiti, though red wine faced them on the table. Each ate heartily; as though a long day were before them and not the shadow of the Long Night. There was no speech sa

airs towards the fire. There was no other light in the room, an

at last. "Not yet,"

n apple from my brother's plate," s

my firs

the sweetest fru

alty of the lie, bu

ere was

d, after an hour had

me to t

d Dubarre. "I do not know the

. I will turn my back, and do

e on the wall. As he did so it began to strik

striking both men were

e," said

. Dubarre took one also. Without a wo

" said

," responde

lliard picked up the other. Raising their glas

elve, and stopped i

ce in their eyes, the tragedy of a great stake in their clinched hands;

sitive upper lip. Each man watched the other for knowledge of his own fa

. He grasped the table with both hands, twitching and trembling. His eyes stared wildly at

unk both glasse

le towards the dying man, he added: "You let her die-

s look wandered vaguely

cause-because it was the greatest man could play. And I,

along the wall. The sweat of death was on h

re fixed on the jewelled crucifix. Dubarre snatched it from the wall, and hastening to him held it to his lips:

him!" he said, gazing c

door and opened it, for

e wooded heights an

Dubarre again with a half-cynical gentleness as

THAT DIE

cotch as McGregor. Kilquhanity was a retired soldier, on pension, and Pontiac was a place of peace and poverty. The only gentr

nds of the simple folk at Pontiac; for they were French, and poor, and laborious, and Kilquhanity drew his pension from the headquar

tering of French, which he turned off with oily brusqueness; he was not close-mouthed, he talked freely of events in his past life; and he told some really wonderful tales of his experiences in the British army. H

story was in the house of

thin' to ate but a lump of bread, no bigger than a dickybird's skull; nothin' to drink but wather. Turrible, turrible, and for clothes to wear-Mother of Moses! that was a bad day for clothes! We got betune

ays he. 'Faith, an' by the Liffey I wish I was this moment'-Liffey's in ould Ireland, Frenchies! 'But, Kilquhanity,'

for the poor b'ys that were fightin' hard an' gettin' little for it. Bitther cowld it was, aw, bitt

s Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick, and the bit av a b'y, that had nothin' to eat all day, throws down his gun and turns round to run. Eighteen years old he was, only eighteen-just a straight slip of a lad from Malahide. 'Hould on! Teddie,' says I, 'hould on! How'll yer face yer mother if yer turn yer back on the inimy of yer counthry?' The b'y looks me in the eyes long enough to wink three times, picks up his gun, an' shtood loike a rock, he did, till the Roosians charged us, roared on us, an' I saw me slip of a b'y go down under the sabre of a damned Cossack. 'Mother!' I heard him say, 'Mother!' an' that's all I heard him say-and the mother waitin' away aff there by the Liffey soide. Aw, wurra, wurra, the b'ys go down to battle and the mothers wait at home! Some of the b'ys come back, but the most of

and roarin' kept dwindlin' and dwindlin', and I dropped all into a foine shlape, so quiet, so aisy. An' I thought that slip av a lad from the Liffey soide was houlding me hand, and sayin' 'Mother! Mother!' and we both wint ashlape; an' the b'ys of the rigimint when Alma was over, they said

-there was no strength in me. An' they threw another man on, an' I kicked again, and the Sergeant-Major he sees it, an' shouts out. 'Kilquhan ity's leg is kickin'!' says

I winked at him, and Captain Mas

me fur not lettin' it go. An' the Sergeant-Major says to me: 'I ha

am; an' a foine thirsty, he

ty a drink, for even the best story-teller of

r went to Confession or took the Blessed Sacrament. The Cure spoke to Kilquhanity's wife about it, and she said she could do nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke freely, and what she said was little to the cr

nded over the receipt prepared beforehand by Kilquhanity, she replied to M. Garon's inquiry concerning her husband in these words: "Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is-enough to break the heart of anny woman. And the timper

he do, Madame?" ask

token of the bad heart in him! It's a wicked could he has, an' how did he come by it? I'll tell ye, Misther Garon. So wild was he, yesterday it was a week, so black mad wid somethin' I'd said to him and somethin' that shlipped from me hand at his head, that he turns his bac

ers of his hands tapping together, but he did not speak: he

ot shtandin' there in the snow cursin' the wide wurruld. Ah, Misthe

of some battle or victory, dear to Kilquhanity's heart. It looked peaceful enough, the little house lying there in the waste of snow, banked up with earth, and sheltered on the northwest b

your husband. You have not seen the matter in

hanity was alone in the house. His wife had gone to the village for the Little Ch

eat came to him in waves, buffeting his face. Dining, sitting, and drawing-room, it was also a sort of winter kitchen; and side by side with relics of Kilquhanity's soldi

at knocked gently at the door. "May I come in, Sergeant?" he asked, and entered. There was no light in the room, but the fire i

aid Kilquhanity, with difficu

his, held it for a moment, and pressed it tw

uhanity's flesh had dropped away from him, leaving him but a bundle of bones, on which the skin quivered with fever. Every word the sick man tried to speak cut his chest like a knife, and his eye

trained, whispering voice-"I d

d the candle to the bowl. Kilquhanity smiled, drew a long breath, and blew out a cloud of thick smoke. For a moment he puffed vigorously, then, all at once, the pleasure of it seemed to die away,

e came through the door: "Shmokin', shmokin', are ye, Kilquhanity? As soon as

aid, "I thought it was only Kilquhanity he

ne side of his head in the pillow, that he

r Garon," said the wife presently, and she began to fuss

lquhanity, tossing. Her officiousness seemed

g the Sergeant's hand he left the house and went straight to the house of

as a woman, between forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to her feet

id. "Mary Muddock that was

London. The Avocat was completely taken aback. He blew nervously through his pale fingers, raised himself up and down on his toes, and grew pa

hard look in her face and a h

he had left her for ever, as he thought. In the flush of his criminal freedom he had married again-with the woman who shared his home on the little hillside, behind the Parish Church, she believing him a widower. Mary Muddock, with the stupidity of her class, had never gone to the right quarters to discover his whereabouts until a year before

ay? You pay his pension-next time you'll pay it to me. I'll te

st blow that was possible from the opposite side of the case. "Madame," sa

nner, but her whine did not ring true. "The poor darlin', and only t

e, and all that he had, belonged to this woman who had spoiled th

at's upon the arm of the second. The two women were glaring eye to eye, having just finished as fine a torrent of abuse of each other and of Kilquhanity as can be imagined. Kilquhanity himself, with the sorrow of death upon him, though he knew it not, had listen

eted them at last, and the Cure

r a dying man. Let him go in peace-let him go in peace! If I hear one word more," he added ste

m. The Little Chemist sat by the bedside, and Kilquhanity lay as still as a babe upon the bed. Hi

quhanity's arm: "My son," said he, "look up. You h

nodded his head. Kilquhanity's eyes closed and opened again. "They're gone, thin! Oh, the foine of it, the

again. "My son," said he, "look up. Do you tho

ale o' noise-there's been a dale o' noise in the wurruld, fat

e. "Oh, the foine of it!

into a noi

ON OF B

s. It had a chapel and a gallows. Its baron, he had the power of life and death, and the right of the seigneur-you understand?-w

o had spent months in the seigneur's company, stalki

sh very well-his

tale as he knew it. He was a great scholar-there is none greater. He had found papers in the wall of the house, and from the Gover'ment chest he got more. Then there were the tales handed down, and the records of the Church-for she knows t

a foe-so the Abbe said. Well, Beaugard was no longer young. He had built the Manor House, he had put up his gallows, he had his vassals, he had been made a lord. He had quarrelled

d the girl herself was not set for the man, for she was of finer stuff than the peasants about her, and showed it. But her father and mother had a

spoke in his throat, reined up his horse, and got down. He fastened his eyes on the girl's. A strange look passed between them-he had never seen her before, but she had seen him often, and when he was gone had helped the housekeeper with his rooms. She had carri

our name?' he said. 'Garoche, M'sieu' le Baron,' was the reply. 'Garoche, Garoche,' he said, eyeing him up and down. 'You have been a soldier?' 'Yes, M'sieu' le Baron.' 'You have served with me?' 'Against you, M'sieu' le Baron... when Bigot came fightin

e Baron-I with five others captured the relief-party sent from your cousin the Seigneur of Vadrome.' 'Oh,' said the Baron, looking sharp, 'you were in that, were you? Then you know what happened to the young Marmette?' Garoche trembled a little, but drew himself up a

at Falise steadily. Who can tell what was working in his mind! 'War is war,' he went on, 'and Bigot was your master, Garoche; but the man pays for his master's sins this way or that. Yet I would not have it different, no, not a jot.' Then he turned round to the crowd, raised his hat to the Cure, who stood on the chapel step

he people at Beaugard soon had the tables heavy with food and drink. It was just at the time of candle-lighting the Baron came in and gave a toast. 'To the dwellers in Eden to-night,' he said-'Eden against the time of the Angel and the Sword.' I do not think that any except the Cure

ber. Coming in, he shut the door on them. Then he turned to Garoche. 'You will accept the roof and bed of Beaugard to-night, my man,' he said, 'and come to me here at nine tomorrow morning.' Garoche stared hard for an instant. 'Stay here!' said Garoche, 'Falise and me stay here in the

hall untie what she has tied to-day!' At that Falise fainted, and the Baron caught her as she fell. He laid her on a couch, keeping an eye on Garoche the while. 'Loose her gown,' he said, 'while I get brandy.' Then he turned to a cupboard, poured liquor, and came over. Garoche had her dress open at the neck and bosom,

ould have killed her then, when he saw her shudder from him, as if afraid, over towards the Baron, who held the glove in his hand, and said: 'See, Garoche, you had better go. In the next room they wil

man following him, for there was a devil in his eye. In the other room there were men waiting, a

e Baron and Falise

on's glove in her bosom. What should Beaugard do? But no, ah no, m'sieu', not as you think, not quite! Wild, with the bit in his teeth, yes; but at heart-well, here was the one woman for him. He knew it all in a minute, and he would have her once and for all, and till death should come their way. And so he said to her, as he raised her, she drawing back afraid

f any price-you would not steal my happiness?' He looked at her steadily in the eyes, and said: 'Will it make you happy to go to Garoche?' She raised her hands and wrung them. 'God knows, God knows, I am his wife,' she said helplessly,

man; for love, not the feeding on; for the Manor

go. I was wicked to wear your glove-wicked, wicked.' 'But no,' was his reply, 'I shall not forgive you so good a deed, and you shall not go. And what the Church did for you this day she shall undo-by all

n of Beaugard never broke his word.' What should be her reply? Does not a woman when she truly loves always believe? That is the great sign. She slid to her knees and dropped her head into the holl

nd let the world break over us when it must. We are for Maying now, my rose of all the world!' It was as if he meant more than he

away, 'as you see, the lady made her choice-and for ever. You and she have said your last farewell in this world-for the wife of the Baron of Beaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the soldier.' At that Garoche snarled out, 'The wife of the Baron of Beaugard, that is a lie to shame all hell.' The Baron wound the lash of a riding-whip round and round h

-to fight you? No, my churl, you know that's impossible. You may shoot me from behind a tree or a rock, but swording with you-come, come, a pretty gossip for the Court! Then, why wish a fight? Where would you be, as you stood before me-you!' The Baron stretched himself up, and

wolf, a snake. Such men as you come lower than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall pay all one day. I do

behind the Baron said: 'Ah no, no, not again!' There stood Falise. Both men looked at her. 'I have heard Garoche,' she said. 'He does not judge me right. My heart is no filthy ditch of shame; but it was b

or for her to pass out. She looked back sadly at Garoche, standing for a minute very still. Then Garoche said: 'I command you, come with me; you are my wife.' She did not reply, but shook her head at him. Then he spoke out high and fierce: 'May no child be bo

then go; and go so far you cannot see the sky that covers Beaugard. We are even now-we can cry quits. But that I have a little injured you, you should be done for instantly. But hear me: if I ever see you again, my gal

it, and without a word left the room, and the house, and the par

le who thought her vile. Yet truly, at heart, she was not so-not at all. Then it was said that there was to be a new marriage; that the Church would let it be so, doing and undoing, and doing again. But the weeks and the months went by, and it was never done. For, powerful as the Baron was, Bigot the Intendant was powerful also, and fought the thing with all his might. The Baron went to Quebec to see the Bishop and the Governor, and though promises were made, nothing was done. It must go to the King and then to the Pope, and from the Pope to the Kin

gentleman, and when Bigot's men resisted, shot them down. Then Bigot sent against Beaugard a company of artillery and some soldiers of the line. The guns were placed on a hill looking down on the Manor House acr

d be at peace here.' 'Ah, no, no!' said she. 'Never. Life to me is only possible with you. I have had nothing but you-none of those things which give peace to other women-none. But I have been happy-yes, very happy. And, God forgive me, Eugene, I cannot regret, and I never have! But it

aid good-night, and he lay down in his clothes; and after a few moments she was sleeping like a child. But he could not sleep, for he lay thinking of her and of her life-how she had come from humble things and fitted in with the highest. At last, at break of day, he arose and went outside. He looked up at the hill where Bigot's two guns were. Men were already stirring there. One man was standing bes

down, not ten feet in front of the gun, moved with horrible swiftness upon the river, filled its bed, turned it from its course, and, sweeping on, swallowed th

And when at last their prison was opened by the hands of Bigot's men,

un, the dying gunner, Garoche, lifted up his head, saw the loose travelling hill, a

after that perhaps the great Go

McGILVE

have the same sort of freckles on their faces as had their ancestor, the bandmaster of Anstruther's regiment, and some of them have h

ing verse in English as a tribute of admiration for an heroic deed of his a

m! ka-zoon

way of the

ips are sa

m! kazoon

al light his

us, we ar

make the

say zoon

e corunet c

the man,

m! kazoon

McGilveray the bandmaste

s; the English fleet in the basin opposite the town, since June of that great year, attacking and retreating, bombarding and besieging, to no great p

Previous to that, McGilveray's career had been chequered. No man had received so many punishments in the whole army, none had risen so superior to them as had he, none had ever been shielded from wrath present and

hould see. When intoxicated, his tongue rapped out fun and fury like a triphammer. Alert-minded drunk or sober, drunk, he was lightning-tongued, and he could play as well drunk as sober, too; but more than once a sympathetic officer alter

fed at in the non-com mess. He stuck to it, however, and then the cause was searched for-and not found. He had not turned religious, he was not fanatical, he was of sound mind-what was it

was a

aving been told by a sentry at Montmorenci where Anstruther's regiment was camped, that a French gi

s'en va t'

l this daughter of Gaul, if per

But the truth was that many of these pickets on both sides were in no wise unfriendly to each other, and more than once exchanged tobacco and liquor across the stream. As it chanced, however, no sentry saw McGilveray, and presently, safely landed, he made his way down the stream.

thus rushing into danger, the foolishness of pursuing a woman whom he had never seen, and a French woman at

n presently, as if in defiance of his

s'en va t'

e saw the futility of crying out, so he played the eel, and tried to slip from the grasp of his captors. But though he gave the trio an awkward five minutes he was at last entirely overcome, and was carried away in triumph through th

d after. The room was empty save for a bench, some shelves, a table, on which a lantern burned, and a rude crucifix on the wall. McGilveray s

French corporal who had learned English fr

ck, I'd die wid pride," said McGilveray, spitt

what the bandmaster had said. One of them gri

vous t

said the big soldier i

said McGilveray, winking at the big fellow, and spitting on the ground before

sed English soldier,"

id McGilveray. "What does he

go," answered the corporal. McGilveray knew by the corporal's voice th

n', me bloody beauty!"

he'll send across and get the tobacco,"

for a spy," said Johnny Crapaud, turning on h

ds, and, as they went out,

" he roared, and he spat on the ground again in

cco doesn't come. You tell him so," he added, jer

others went out, and, in brok

n' his gory shroud is ro

"You like a chew tabac?" said he, pu

trousies pocket," said he, "which is fur me frinds for iver." McGilveray had now hopes of getting free, but if he had not taken a fancy to "me baby

work upon the Frenchman's bonhomie that the corporal promised he should escape. He explained how McGilveray should be freed-that at midnight some one would come and release him, while he, the corporal, wa

, and what with whistling, and what with winking and talking to the lantern on t

lock turned in the door and pr

rre," said she, and nodded

into all this trouble. At first he was inclined to say so, but s

in'," said McGilveray, not thi

own," she answered

ou learn it?" he asked, for he h

e a naughty boy," she added, with a little gurgle of laughter in her throat. "Yo

in. Music's me game. An' the band

on a drum?" she as

u," he said, in his softest brogue. "You

les. As she did so he leaned over as if to

he said, and she stopped

d up. "I will not," she said, pointing to the shackl

fly our flag yander," pointing towa

is comme ca!" She held out her hand. Then she burst into a soft laug

our hands after," and she stooped, to

veray stood up and threw out his chest. But, try as he wou

ng in the night, the mumbling of the quiet cascade in their ears, the shifting moon playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. They came out on the bank a distance above where McGil

current gently, and, holding

ow me over?" he as

t in," s

l a step will I go. Let me that sowed the stor

me here for?" she

ockin' bird in yer

he said. "You come for m

y down the stream, and came quickly to that point on the shore where an English picket was placed. They ha

sently he was on the bank saluting the

he girl again with a gay insolence, an

nit, me darlin',

omise," came

back wan

" said th

" said the girl to the

Irishman?" she ad

ze front door of ze city," said she, and a couple of quick strokes sent her

e foine av her-the tip-top las

ere'll be trouble from

t from the other shore when he showed himself in the moonlight; and from that hour all

d that was why no man knew wherefore it was that McGilvera

cGilveray's last state was worse than his first, and that was the evening before the day Quebec was taken. A dozen prisoners had been captured in a sortie fro

nation belongs to the end of the story. In any case, McGilveray "got shameful drunk," and "was going large" through the camp. The end of it was his arrest for assisting a prisoner to escape and for being drunk and disorderly. The band of Anstruther's regiment boarded

p, he saw McGilveray, who was waiting under guard to be taken to Major Hardy's post

veray," he said, "but I did not think y

luted, and di

man," said the General, his eyes flashing. "M

ted again, but

al waved off the officers and men nea

a prisoner to escape. Come, man, we may both be dead to-morrow, and I'd

prisoner, yer Excillincy, an'-an', yer E

traitor at heart, but a fool I always was! Yer Excillincy, court-martial and death's no matter to me; but I'd like to play wan toon agin, to lead the byes

s face relax

Gilveray should proceed at once aboard the flag-ship, from

or the motions of the vessels of war, could not be seen from the French encampment or the citadel. They neared the flag-ship, and the Ge

from the side of the ship, said sharply

near the ship, from which presently c

organ, sir,"

the current by French sailors, the fuse had been lighted, and it was headed to drift towards the British ships. The fleet was now in motion, and apart from the havoc which the bursting fire-organ might make, the light from the explosion would reveal the fact that the English men-o'-war were now moving t

ip's side, understood his daring purpose. In the shadow, they saw him near it, they saw him throw a boat-hook and catch it, and then attach a rope; they saw him sit down, and, taking the oars, laboriously row up-stream toward the opposite shore, the fuse burning soft

d and listened. Presently nothing could be seen,

sign of any ship; but, strangely tall in the red glare, stood McGilveray in his boat. An instant he stood so, then he fell, and presently darkness covered the scene. The fur

ead"-the General took off his hat "we will, please

the flag-ship, safe and sober. The General praised him for his cou

Gilveray," said Wolfe. "W

who wanted wan toon more, yer

ware women," answ

taken, and McGilveray went in at the head of his men playing "The Men of Harlech," he met in the

aid, and he tried to l

romise?" she said, ha

set your husband free-afther he tould me you was his wife. We're aven now, decaver!

exclaimed, "who

ning corporal

id, her face darkening, "and, bes

," replied McGi

y a liar," s

hin?" asked McGilveray

t her lips, tears suddenly ran down her cheeks, and without a word she turned and hurr

hey said are of any moment here. "We'll lave the past behind us," h

ore?" she asked, putting

chies take Quebec

ITOR'S B

soon! Ah, le

hurt s

ed spirit w

k that she was givin

she might never hav

of ideas, the v

le, moody, chival

l ruled him with

ove in which

ory, I'll shoe their

les in hollo

do with ugliness o

by what he suffers,

, or anywhere, gets a

for its

in one way and

conscience a

sic of death a

e the pas

were so read