Marie Gourdon / A Romance of the Lower St. Lawrence

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Canadia

is setting slowly, as if loath to leave this part of the world, and, as he departs, touches with his rays the gold a

f copper color and gold, parting every here and there,

of the New Jerusalem. A moment later and all is a deep vivid crimson, flooding the scene with its rich radiance and casting into shade even the tints of yon tall su

e waves against the rocks, or ever and anon the s

ut clear and distinct on a long neck of

y, carried on the evening breeze, and prese

hose of that old French Canadian song so famil

laire f

lant pr

uvé l'ea

me suis

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l, who was sitting under the shadow of a large boulder on the beach. She seemed about eighteen, though

er head she wore a large peaked straw hat, w

, untidy curls round her neck and shoulders. In her hand was a roll of music, which sh

ne, but that was not saying much. Her father was fairly well-to-do for that part of the world, and had sent her, at an early age, to the convent of Rimouski. There she was brought up under the

, or some of the large towns, finding the dullness of Father Point insupportable. Her father and brother had this summer been on long fishing expeditions, one taking them even so far as the Island of

ly. Her father and brother had come home early in the evening, but went off directly after supper to skin the seals

aying, "Good evening, Marie," made the girl turn

d exclaimed, with a certa

you? I am so plea

though you look as if you had seen

hink you need scarce

n doing, my dear one,

e to speak to, except for a week or two when Eugène Lacroix came home for his h

ne Lacroix. He is stupid,

m a genius. Eugène, too, is a most interesting companion,

existence. The same thing day after day, year after year; nothing new happens. Why did M. Bois-le-Duc teach me of an outer world beyond the bleak Gulf of St. Lawrence? Why did he teach me to read Virgil and Pl

h your talents, your learning, are thrown away here. But why no

w, Marie, if it were

s that,

do you n

ou do not wish to leave your mot

reason. My mother would let

stay. You would do much better i

I stay on in this place, smothering all my ambitions, my hopes of advancement. No, Marie, you

"you know, my dear one, that I do care very much, and

me angry, for, my darling, you must have seen that my love for you is deep, strong, migh

irl's pale face, but she did

yesterday, for I can never remember the time wh

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at is a long, long tim

ess tides have beaten, sure? Is the mighty Gulf sure of

not answer, a

do you care for m

up some loose pebbles and threw them into the

er me to-night; I mus

put both her hands in his, and lifting up her great brown eyes

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ne t'oub