15567	----	AN ACCOUNT OF THE CUSTOMS and MANNERS OF THE MICMAKIS and MARICHEETS SAVAGE NATIONS, Now Dependent on the Government of CAPE-BRETON. FROM An Original French Manuscript-Letter, Never Published, Written by a French Abbot, Who resided many Years, in quality of Missionary, amongst them. To which are annexed, Several Pieces, relative to the Savages, to Nova Scotia, and to North-America in general. * * * * * LONDON: Printed for S. Hooper and A. Morley at Gay's-Head, near Beaufort-Buildings in the Strand. MDCCLVIII. PREFACE. For the better understanding of the letter immediately following, it may not be unnecessary to give the reader some previous idea of the people who are the subject of it, as well of the letter-writer. The best account of the _Mickmakis_ I could find, and certainly the most authentic, is in a memorial furnished by the French ministry in April, 1751, from which the following paragraph is a translated extract: "The government of the savages dependent on Cape-Breton exacts a particular attention. All these savages go under the name of _Mickmakis_. Before the last war they could raise about six hundred fighting-men, according to an account given in to his most Christian majesty, and were distributed in several villages established on Cape-Breton island, island of St. John, on both the coasts of Acadia (Nova-Scotia) and on that of Canada. All, or most of the inhabitants of these villages have been instructed in the Christian religion, by missionaries which the king of France constantly maintains amongst them. It is customary to distribute every year to them presents, in the name of his majesty, which consist in arms, ammunition of war, victuals, cloathing, and utensils of various sorts. And these presents are regulated according to the circumstances of the time, and to the satisfaction that shall have been given to the government by the conduct of these savages. In the last war they behaved so as to deserve our approbation, and indeed have, on all occasions, given marks of their attachment and fidelity. Since the peace too, they have equally distinguished themselves in the disturbances that are on foot on the side of Acadia (Nova-Scotia)." The last part of this foregoing paragraph needs no comment. Every one knows by what sort of service these savages merit the encouragement of the French government, and by what acts of perfidy and cruelty exercised on the English, they are to earn their reward. The _Maricheets_, mentioned in the said letter form a distinct nation, chiefly settled at St. John's, and are often confounded with the _Abenaquis_, so as to pass for one nation with them, though there is certainly some distinction. They used, till lately, to be in a constant state of hostility with the Mickmakis. But, however, these nations may be at peace or variance with one another, in one point they agree, which is a thorough enmity to the English, cultivated, with great application by the missionaries, who add to the scandal of a conduct so contrary to their profession, the baseness of denying or evading the charge by the most pitiful equivocations. It is with the words peace, charity, and universal benevolence, for ever in their mouths, that these incendiaries, by instigations direct and indirect, inflame and excite the savages to commit the cruellest outrages of war, and the blackest acts of treachery. Poor Captain How! is well known to have paid with his life, infamously taken away by them, at a parley, the influence one of these missionaries (now a prisoner in the island of Jersey,) had over these misguided wretches, whose native innocence and simplicity are not proof against the corruption, and artful suggestions of those holy seducers. It would not, perhaps, be impossible for the English, if they were to apply proper means, and especially lenient ones, to recover the affections of these people, which, for many reasons, cannot be entirely rooted in the French interest. That great state-engine of theirs, religion, by which they have so strong a hold on the weak and credulous savages, might not, however, be an invincible bar to our success, if it was duly counter-worked by the offer of a much more pure and rational one of our own, joined to such temporal advantages as would shew them their situation capable of being much meliorated, in every respect; and especially that of freedom, which they cannot but be sensible, is daily decreasing under the insidious encroachments and blandishments of the French, who never cares but to enslave, nor hug but to stifle, whose pretences, in short, to superior humanity and politeness, are not amongst their least arts of conquest. As to the letter-writer, he is an abbot much respected in those parts, who has resided the greatest part of his life amongst the Mickmakis, and is perfectly acquainted with their language, in the composing of a Dictionary of which he has labored eighteen or twenty years; but I cannot learn that it is yet published, and probably for reasons of state, it never may. The letter, of which the translation is now given, exists only in a manuscript, having never been printed, being entirely written for the satisfaction of a friend's curiosity, in relation to the original manners and customs of the people of which it treats, and which, being those of savages in the primitive state of unpolished nature, may perhaps, to a philosophical enquirer, afford more amusement and instruction than those of the most refined societies. What man really is, appears at least plainer in the uncultivated savage, than in the civilized European. The account of Acadia (Nova-Scotia) will, it is to be hoped, appear not uncurious; allowance being made for its being only in form of a letter. A LETTER, &c. _Micmaki-Country_, March 27, 1755. SIR, I should long before now have satisfied you in those points of curiosity you expressed, concerning the savages amongst whom I have so long resided, if I could have found leisure for it. Literally true it is, that I have no spare time here, unless just in the evening, and that not always. This was my case too in Louisbourg; and I do not doubt but you will be surprised at learning, that I enjoy as little rest here as there. Had you done me, Sir, the honor of passing with me but three days only, you would soon have seen what sort of a nation it is that I have to deal with. I am obliged to hold frequent and long parleys with them, and, at every occasion, to heap upon them the most fair and flattering promises. I must incessantly excite them to the practice of acts of religion, and labor to render them tractable, sociable, and loyal to the king (of France). But especially, I apply myself to make them live in good understanding with the French. With all this, I affect a grave and serious air, that awes and imposes upon them. I even take care of observing measure and cadence in the delivery of my words, and to make choice of those expressions the properest to strike their attention, and to hinder what I say from falling to the ground. If I cannot boast that my harangues have all the fruit and success that I could wish, they are not however wholly without effect. As nothing inchants those people more than a style of metaphors and allegories, in which even their common conversation abounds, I adapt myself to their taste, and never please them better than when I give what I say this turn, speaking to them in their own language. I borrow the most lively images from those objects of nature, with which they are so well acquainted; and am rather more regular than even themselves, in the arrangement of my phrases. I affect, above all, to rhime as they do, especially at each member of a period. This contributes to give them so great an idea of me, that they imagine this gift of speaking is rather an inspiration, than an acquisition by study and meditation. In truth, I may venture to say, without presumption, that I talk the _Micmaki_ language as fluently, and as elegantly, as the best of their women, who most excel in this point. Another of my occupations is to engage and spur them on to the making a copious chace, when the hunting-season comes in, that their debts to the dealers with them may be paid, their wives and children cloathed, and their credit supported. It is neither gaming nor debauchery that disable them from the payment of their debts, but their vanity, which is excessive, in the presents of peltry they make to other savages, who come either in quality of envoys from one country to another, or as friends or relations upon a visit to one another. Then it is, that a village is sure to exhaust itself in presents; it being a standing rule with them, on the arrival of such persons, to bring out every thing that they have acquired, during the winter and spring season, in order to give the best and most advantageous idea of themselves. Then it is chiefly they make feasts, which sometimes last several days; of the manner of which I should perhaps spare you the description, if the ceremony that attends them did not include the strongest attestation of the great stress they lay on hunting; the excelling wherein they commonly take for their text in their panegyrics on these occasions, and consequently enters, for a great deal, into the idea you are to conceive of the life and manners of the savages in these parts. The first thing I am to observe to you is, that one of the greatest dainties, and with which they crown their entertainments, is the flesh of dogs. For it is not till the envoys, friends, or relations, are on the point of departure, that, on the eve of that day, they make a considerable slaughter of dogs, which they slea, draw, and, with no other dressing, put whole into the kettle; from whence they take them half boiled, and carve out into as many pieces as there are guests to eat of them, in the cabbin of him who gives the treat. But every one, before entering the cabbin, takes care to bring with him his _Oorakin_, or bowl, made of bark of birch-tree, either polygone shaped, or quite round; and this is practised at all their entertainments. These pieces of dogs flesh are accompanied with a small _Oorakin_ full of the oil or fat of seal, or of elk's grease, if this feast is given at the melting-time of the snow. Every one has his own dish before him, in which he sops his flesh before he eats it. If the fat be hard, he cuts a small piece of it to every bit of flesh he puts into his mouth, which serves as bread with us. At the end of this fine regale, they drink as much of the oil as they can, and wipe their hands on their hair. Then come in the wives of the master and persons invited, who carry off their husbands plates, and retire together to a separate place, where they dispatch the remains. After grace being said by the oldest of the company, who also never fails of pronouncing it before the meal, the master of the treat appears as if buried in a profound contemplation, without speaking a word, for a full quarter of an hour; after which, waking as it were out of a deep sleep, he orders in the _Calumets_, or _Indian_ pipes, with tobacco. First he fills his own, lights it, and, after sucking in two or three whiffs, he presents it to the most considerable man in the company: after which, every one fills his pipe and smoaks. The calumets lighted, and the tobacco burning with a clear fire, are scarce half smoked out, before the man of note before mentioned (for the greatest honors being paid him) gets up, places himself in the midst of the cabbin, and pronounces a speech of thanksgiving. He praises the master of the feast, who has so well regaled him and all the company. He compares him to a tree, whose large and strong roots afford nourishment to a number of small shrubs; or to a salutary medicinal herb, found accidentally by such as frequent the lakes in their canoes. Some I have heard, who, in their winter-feasts, compared him to the turpentine-tree, that never fails of yielding its sap and gummy distillation in all seasons: others to those temperate and mild days, which are sometimes seen in the midst of the severest winter. They employ a thousand similies of this sort, which I omit. After this introduction, they proceed to make honorable mention of the lineage from which the matter of the feast is descended. "How great (will the oldest of them say) art thou, through thy great, great, great grand-father, whose memory is still recent, by tradition, amongst us, for the plentiful huntings he used to make! There was something of miraculous about him, when he assisted at the beating of the woods for elks, or other beasts of the fur. His dexterity at catching this game was not superior to our's; but there was some unaccountable secret he particularly possessed in his manner of seizing those creatures, by springing upon them, laying hold of their heads, and transfixing them at the same time with his hunting-spear, though thrice as strong and as nimble again as he was, and much more capable with their legs only, than we with our rackets [a sort of buskined shoes made purposely for the Indian travels over the snow], to make their way over mountains of snow: he would nevertheless follow them, dart them, without ever missing his aim, tire them out with his chace, bring them down, and mortally wound them. Then he would regale us with their blood, skin them, and deliver up the carcass to us to cut to pieces. But if thy great, great, great grand-father made such a figure in the chace, what has not thy great, great grand-father done with respect to the beavers, those animals almost men? whose industry he surpassed by his frequent watchings round their cabbins, by the repeated alarms he would give them several times in one evening, and oblige them thereby to return home, so that he might be sure of the number of those animals he had seen dispersed during the day, having a particular foresight of the spot to which they would come to load their tails with earth, cut down with their teeth such and such trees for the construction of their huts. He had a particular gift of knowing the favorite places of those animals for building them. But now let us rather speak of your great grand-father, who was so expert at making of snares for moose-deer, martins, and elks. He had particular secrets, absolutely unknown to any but himself, to compel these sort of creatures to run sooner into his snares than those of others; and he was accordingly always so well provided with furs, that he was never at a loss to oblige his friends. Now let us come to your grand-father, who has a thousand and a thousand times regaled the youth of his time with seals. How often in our young days have we greased our hair in his cabbin? How often have we been invited, and even compelled by his friendly violence, to go home with him, whenever we returned with our canoes empty, to be treated with seal, to drink the oil, and anoint ourselves with it? He even pushed his generosity so far, as to give us of the oil to take home with us. But now we are come to your father: there was a man for you! He used to signalize himself in every branch of chace; but especially in the art of shooting the game whether flying or sitting. He never missed his aim. He was particularly admirable for decoying of bustards by his artificial imitations. We are all of us tolerably expert at counterfeiting the cry of those birds; but as to him, he surpassed us in certain inflexions, of his voice, that made it impossible to distinguish his cry from that of the birds themselves. He had, besides, a particular way of motion with his body, that at a distance might be taken for the clapping of their wings, insomuch that he has often deceived ourselves, and put us to confusion, as he started out of his hiding-place. "As for thyself, I say nothing, I am too full of the good things thou hast feasted me with, to treat on that subject; but I thank thee, and take thee by the hand, leaving to my fellow-guests the care of acquitting themselves of that duty." After this, he sits down, and some other younger, and in course of less note, for they pay great respect to age, gets up, and makes a summary recapitulation of what the first speaker has said; commending his manner of singing the praises of the master of the feast's ancestors: to which he observes, there is nothing to be added; but that he has, however, left him one part of the task to be accomplished, which is, not to pass over in silence the feast to which he and the rest of his brethren are invited; neither to omit the merit and praises of him who has given the entertainment. Then quitting his place, and advancing in cadence, he takes the master of the treat by the hand, saying, "All the praises my tongue is about to utter, have thee for their object. All the steps I am going to take, as I dance lengthwise and breadthwise in thy cabbin, are to prove to thee the gaiety of my heart, and my gratitude. Courage! my friends, keep time with your motions and voice, to my song and dance." With this he begins, and proceeds in his _Netchkawet_, that is, advancing with his body strait erect, in measured steps, with his arms a-kimbo. Then he delivers his words, singing and trembling with his whole body, looking before and on each side of him with a steady countenance, sometimes moving with a slow grave pace, then again with a quick and brisk one. The syllables he articulates the most distinctly are, _Ywhannah, Owanna, Haywanna, yo! ha! yo! ha!_ and when he makes a pause he looks full at the company, as much as to demand their chorus to the word _Heh!_ which he pronounces with great emphasis. As he is singing and dancing they often repeat the word _Heh!_ fetched up from the depth of their throat; and when he makes his pause, they cry aloud in chorus, _Hah!_ After this prelude, the person who had sung and danced recovers his breath and spirits a little, and begins his harangue in praise of the maker of the feast. He flatters him greatly, in attributing to him a thousand good qualities he never had, and appeals to all the company for the truth of what he says, who are sure not to contradict him, being in the same circumstance as himself of being treated, and answer him by the word _Heh_, which is as much as to say, _Yes_, or _Surely_. Then he takes them all by the hand, and begins his dance again: and sometimes this first dance is carried to a pitch of madness. At the end of it he kisses his hand, by way of salute to all the company; after which he goes quietly to his place again. Then another gets up to acquit himself of the same duty, and so do successively all the others in the cabbin, to the very last man inclusively. This ceremony of thanksgiving being over by the men, the girls and women come in, with the oldest at the head of them, who carries in her left hand a great piece of birch-bark of the hardest, upon which she strikes as it were a drum; and to that dull sound which the bark returns, they all dance, spinning round on their heels, quivering, with one hand lifted, the other down: other notes they have none, but a guttural loud aspiration of the word Heh! Heh! Heh! as often as the old female savage strikes her bark-drum. As soon as she ceases striking, they set up a general cry, expressed by Yah! Then, if their dance is approved, they begin it again; and when weariness obliges the old woman to withdraw, she first pronounces her thanksgiving in the name of all the girls and women there. The introduction of which is too curious to omit, as it so strongly characterises the sentiments of the savages of that sex, and confirms the general observation, that where their bosom once harbours cruelty, they carry it greater lengths than even the men, whom frequently they instigate to it. "You men! who look on me as of an infirm and weak sex, and consequently of all necessity subordinate to you, know that in what I am, the Creator has given to my share, talents and properties at least of as much worth as your's, I have had the faculty of bringing into the world warriors, great hunters, and admirable managers of canoes. This hand, withered as you see it now, whose veins represent the root of a tree, has more than once struck a knife into the hearts of the prisoners, who were given up to me for my sport. Let the river-sides, I say, for I call them to witness for me, as well as the woods of such a country, attest their having seen me more than once tear out the heart, entrails, and tongue, of those delivered up to me, without changing color, roast pieces of their flesh, yet palpitating and warm with life, and cram them down the throats of others, whom the like fate awaited. With how many scalps have not I seen my head adorned, as well as those of my daughters! With what pathetic exhortations have not I, upon occasion, rouzed up the spirit of our young men, to go in quest of the like trophies, that they might atchieve the reward, honor, and renown annexed to the acquisition of them: but it is not in these points alone that I have signalized myself. I have often brought about alliances, which there was no room to think could ever be made; and I have been so fortunate, that all the couples whose marriages I have procured, have been prolific, and furnished our nation with supports, defenders, and subjects, to eternize our race, and to protect us from the insults of our enemies. These old firs, these antient spruce-trees, full of knots from the top to the root, whose bark is falling off with age, and who yet preserve their gum and powers of life, do not amiss resemble me. I am no longer what I was; all my skin is wrinkled and furrowed, my bones are almost every where starting through it. As to my outward form, I may well be reckoned amongst the things, fit for nothing but to be totally neglected and thrown aside; but I have still within me wherewithal to attract the attention of those who know me." After this introduction follow the thanksgiving and encomiums, much in the same taste as the first haranguer's amongst the guests. This is what is practised in all the more solemn entertainments, both on the men and women's side. Nor can you imagine, how great an influence such praises have over them, derived as they are from the merit of hunting, and how greatly they contribute to inflame their passion for it. Nor is it surprising, considering how much almost the whole of their livelihood depends upon the game of all sorts that is the object of their chace. They have also a kind of feasts, which may be termed war-feasts, since they are never held but in time of war, declared, commenced, or resolved. The forms of these are far different from those of pacific and friendly entertainments. There is a mixture of devotion and ferocity in them, which at the same time that it surprises, proves that they consider war in a very solemn light, and as not to be begun without the greatest reason and justice; which motives, once established, or, which is the same thing, appearing to them established, there is nothing they do not think themselves permitted against their enemy, from whom they, on the other hand, expect no better quarter than they themselves give. To give you an idea of their preparatory ceremony for a declaration of war, I shall here select for you a recent example, in the one that broke out not long ago between the Micmaquis, and Maricheets. These last had put a cruel affront on the former, the nature of which you will see in the course of the following description: but I shall call the Micmaquis the aggressors, because the first acts of hostility in the field began from them. Those who mean to begin the war, detach a certain number of men to make incursions on the territories of their enemies, to ravage the country, to destroy the game on it, and ruin all the beaver-huts they can find on their rivers and lakes, whether entirely, or only half-built. From this expedition they return laden with game and peltry; upon which the whole nation assembles to feast on the meat, in a manner that has more of the carnivorous brute in it than of the human creature. Whilst they are eating, or rather devouring, all of them, young and old, great and little, engage themselves by the sun, the moon, and the name of their ancestors, to do as much by the enemy-nation. When they have taken care to bring off with them a live beast, from the quarter in which they have committed their ravage, they cut its throat, drink its blood, and even the boys with their teeth tear the heart and entrails to pieces, which they ravenously devour, giving thereby to understand, that those of the enemies who shall fall into their hands, have no better treatment to expect at them. After this they bring out _Oorakins_, (bowls of bark) full of that coarse vermillion which is found along the coast of Chibucto, and on the west-side of Acadia (Nova-Scotia) which they moisten with the blood of the animal if any remains, and add water to compleat the dilution. Then the old, as well as the young, smear their faces, belly and back with this curious paint; after which they trim their hair shorter, some of one side of the head, some of the other; some leave only a small tuft on the crown of their head; others cut their hair entirely off on the left or right side of it; some again leave nothing on it but a lock, just on the top of their forehead, and of the breadth of it, that falls back on the nape of the neck. Some of them bore their ears, and pass through the holes thus made in them, the finest fibril-roots of the fir, which they call _Toobee_, and commonly use for thread; but on this occasion serve to string certain small shells. This military masquerade, which they use at once for terror and disguise, being compleated, all the peltry of the beasts killed in the enemy's country, is piled in a heap; the oldest _Sagamo_, or chieftain of the assembly gets up, and asks, "What weather it is? Is the sky clear? Does the sun shine?" On being answered in the affirmative, he orders the young men to carry the pile of peltry to a rising-ground, or eminence, at some little distance from the cabbin, or place of assembly. As this is instantly done, he follows them, and as he walks along begins, and continues his address to the sun in the following terms: "Be witness, thou great and beautiful luminary, of what we are this day going to do in the face of thy orb! If thou didst disapprove us, thou wouldst, this moment, hide thyself, to avoid affording the light of thy rays to all the actions of this assembly. Thou didst exist of old, and still existeth. Thou remainest for ever as beautiful, as radiant, and as beneficent, as when our first fore fathers beheld thee. Thou wilt always be the same. The father of the day can never fail us, he who makes every thing vegetate, and without whom cold, darkness, and horror, would every where prevail. Thou knowest all the iniquitous procedure of our enemies towards us. What perfidy have they not used, what deceit have they not employed, whilst we had no room to distrust them? There are now more than five, six, seven, eight moons revolved since we left the principal amongst our daughters with them, in order thereby to form the most durable alliance with them, (for, in short, we and they are the same thing as to our being, constitution, and blood); and yet we have seen them look on these girls of the most distinguished rank, _Kayheepidetchque_, as mere playthings for them, an amusement, a pastime put by us into their hands, to afford them a quick and easy consolation, for the fatal blows we had given them in the preceding war. Yet, we had made them sensible, that this supply of our principal maidens was, in order that they should re-people their country more honorably, and to put them under a necessity of conviction, that we were now become sincerely their friends, by delivering to them so sacred a pledge of amity, as our principal blood. Can we then, unmoved, behold them so basely abusing that thorough confidence of ours? Beautiful, all-seeing, all-penetrating luminary! without whose influence the mind of man has neither efficacy nor vigor, thou hast seen to what a pitch that nation (who are however our brothers) has carried its insolence towards our principal maidens. Our resentment would not have been so extreme with respect to girls of more common birth, and the rank of whose fathers had not a right to make such an impression on us. But here we are wounded in a point there is no passing over in silence or unrevenged. Beautiful luminary! who art thyself so regular in thy course, and in the wise distribution thou makest of thy light from morning to evening, wouldst thou have us not imitate thee? And whom can we better imitate? The earth stands in need of thy governing thyself as thou dost towards it. There are certain places, where thy influence does not suffer itself to be felt, because thou dost not judge them worthy of it. But, as for us, it is plain that we are thy children; for we can know no origin but that which thy rays have given us, when first marrying efficaciously, with the earth we inhabit, they impregnated its womb, and caused us to grow out of it like the herbs of the field, and the trees of the forest, of which thou art equally the common father. To imitate thee then, we cannot do better than no longer to countenance or cherish those, who have proved themselves so unworthy thereof. They are no longer, as to us, under a favorable aspect. They shall dearly pay for the wrong they have done us. They have not, it is true, deprived us of the means of hunting for our maintenance and cloathing; they have not cut off the free passage of our canoes, on the lakes and rivers of this country; but they have done worse; they have supposed in us a tameness of sentiments, which does not, nor cannot, exist in us. They have defloured our principal maidens in wantonness, and lightly sent them back to us. This is the just motive which cries out for our vengeance. Sun! be thou favorable to us in this point, as thou art in that of our hunting, when we beseech thee to guide us in quest of our daily support. Be propitious to us, that we may not fail of discovering the ambushes that may be laid for us; that we may not be surprized unawares in our cabbins, or elsewhere; and, finally, that we may not fall into the hands of our enemies. Grant them no chance with us, for they deserve none. Behold the skins of their beasts now a burnt-offering to thee! Accept it, as if the fire-brand I hold in my hands, and now set to the pile, was lighted immediately by thy rays, instead of our domestic fire." Every one of the assistants, as well men as women, listen attentively to this invocation, with a kind of religious terror, and in a profound silence. But scarce is the pile on a blaze, but the shouts and war-cries begin from all parts. Curses and imprecations are poured forth without mercy or reserve, on the enemy-nation. Every one, that he may succeed in destroying any particular enemy he may have in the nation against which war is declared, vows so many skins or furs to be burnt in the same place in honor of the sun. Then they bring and throw into the fire, the hardest stones they can find of all sizes, which are calcined in it. They take out the properest pieces for their purpose, to be fastened to the end of a stick, made much in the form of a hatchet-handle. They slit it at one end, and fix in the cleft any fragment of those burnt stones, that will best fit it, which they further secure, by binding it tightly round with the strongest _Toobee_, or fibrils of fir-root above-mentioned; and then make use of it, as of a hatchet, not so much for cutting of wood, as for splitting the skull of the enemy, when they can surprize him. They form also other instruments of war; such as long poles, one of which is armed with bone of elk, made pointed like a small-sword, and edge of both sides, in order to reach the enemy at a distance, when he is obliged to take to the woods. The arrows are made at the same time, pointed at the end with a sharp bone. The wood of which these arrows are made, as well as the bows, must have been dried at the mysterious fire, and even the guts of which the strings are made. But you are here to observe, I am speaking of an incident that happened some years ago; for, generally speaking, they are now better provided with arms, and iron, by the Europeans supplying them, for their chace, in favor of their dealings with them for their peltry. But to return to my narration. Whilst the fire is still burning, the women come like so many furies, with more than bacchanalian madness, making the most hideous howlings, and dancing without any order, round the fire. Then all their apparent rage turns of a sudden against the men. They threaten them, that if they do not supply them with scalps, they will hold them very cheap, and look on them as greatly inferior to themselves; that they will deny themselves to their most lawful pleasures; that their daughters shall be given to none but such as have signalized themselves by some military feat; that, in short, they will themselves find means to be revenged of them, which cannot but be easy to do on cowards. The men, at this, begin to parley with one another, and order the women to withdraw, telling them, that they shall be satisfied; and that, in a little time, they may expect to have prisoners brought to them, to do what they will with them. The next thing they agree on is to send a couple of messengers, in the nature of heralds at arms, with their hatchets, quivers, bows, and arrows, to declare war against the nation by whom they conceive themselves aggrieved. These go directly to the village where the bulk of the nation resides, observing a sullen silence by the way, without speaking to any that may meet them. When they draw near the village, they give the earth several strokes with their hatchets, as a signal of commencing hostilities in form; and to confirm it the more, they shoot two of their best arrows at the village, and retire with the utmost expedition. The war is now kindled in good earnest, and it behoves each party to stand well on its guard. The heralds, after this, return to make a report of what they have done; and to prove their having been at the place appointed, they do not fail of bringing away with them some particular marks of that spot of the country. Then it is, that the inhabitants of each nation begin to think seriously, whether they shall maintain their ground by staying in their village, and fortifying it in their manner, or look out for a place of greater safety, or go directly in quest of the enemy. Upon these questions they assemble, deliberate, and hold endless consultations, though withal not uncurious ones: for it is on these occasions, that those of the greatest sagacity and eloquence display all their talents, and make themselves distinguished. One of their most common stratagems, when there were reasons for not attacking one another, or coming to a battle directly, was for one side to make as if they had renounced all thoughts of acting offensively. A party of those who made this feint of renunciation, would disperse itself in a wood, observing to keep near the borders of it; when, if any stragglers of the enemy's appeared, some one would counterfeit to the life the particular cry of that animal, in the imitation of which he most excelled; and this childish decoy would, however, often succeed, in drawing in the young men of the opposite party into their ambushes. Sometimes the scheme was to examine what particular spot lay so, that the enemies must, in all necessity, pass through it, to hunt, or provide bark for making their canoes. It was commonly in these passes, or defiles, that the bloodiest encounters or engagements happened, when whole nations have been known to destroy one another, with such an exterminating rage on both sides, that few have been left alive on either; and to say the truth, they were, generally speaking, mere cannibals. It was rarely the case that they did not devour some limbs, at least, of the prisoners they made upon one another, after torturing them to death in the most cruel and shocking manner: but they never failed of drinking their blood like water; it is now, some time, that our Micmakis especially are no longer in the taste of exercising such acts of barbarity. I have, yet, lately myself seen amongst them some remains of that spirit of ferocity; some tendencies and approaches to those inhumanities; but they are nothing in comparison to what they used to be, and seem every day wearing out. The religion to which we have brought them over, and our remonstrances have greatly contributed to soften that savage temper, and atrocious vindictiveness that heretofore reigned amongst them. But remember, Sir, that as to this point I am now only speaking, upon my own knowlege, of the Micmakis and Mariquects, who, though different in language, have the same customs and manners, and are of the same way of thinking and acting. But to arrive at any tolerable degree of conjecture, whence these people derive their origin own myself at a loss: possibly some light might be got into it, by discovering whether there was any affinity or not between their language, and that of the Orientalists, as the Chinese or Tartars. In the mean time, the abundance of words in this language surprized, and continues to surprize me every day the deeper I get into it. Every thing is proper in it; nothing borrowed, as amongst us. Here are no auxiliary verbs. The prepositions are in great number. This it is that gives great ease, fluency, and richness to the expression of whatever you require, when you are once master enough to join them to the verbs. In all their absolute verbs they have a dual number. What we call the imperfect, perfect, and preter-perfect tenses of the indicative mood, admits, as with us, of varied inflexions of the terminations to distinguish the person; but the difference of the three tenses is express, for the preter-perfect by the preposition _Keetch_; for the preter-pluperfect by _Keetch Keeweeh_: the imperfect is again distinguished from them by having no preposition at all. They have no feminine termination, either for the verbs or nouns. This greatly facilitates to me my composition of songs and hymns for them, especially as their prose itself naturally runs into poetry, from the frequency of their tropes and metaphors; and into rhime, from their nouns being susceptible of the same termination, as that of the words in the verbs which express the different persons. In speaking of persons absent, the words change their termination, as well in the nouns as in the verbs. They have two distinctions of style; the one noble, or elevated, for grave and important subjects, the other ignoble, or trivial, for familiar or vulgar ones. But this distinction is not so much with them, as with us, marked by a difference of words, but of terminations. Thus, when they are treating of solemn, or weighty matters, they terminate the verb and the noun by another inflexion, than what is used for trivial or common conversation. I do not know, whether I explain clearly enough to you this so material a point of their elocution; but it makes itself clearly distinguished, when once one comes to understand the language, in which it supplies the place of the most pathetic emphasis, though even that they do not want, nor great expression in their gestures and looks. All their conjugations are regular and distinct. Yet, with all these advantages of language, the nation itself is extreamly ignorant as to what concerns itself, or its origin, and their traditions are very confused and defective. They know nothing of the first peopling of their country, of which they imagine themselves the Aborigines. They often talk of their ancestors, but have nothing to say of them that is not vague or general. According to them, they were all great hunters, great wood-rangers, expert managers of canoes, intrepid warriors, that took to wives as many as they could maintain by hunting. They had too a custom amongst them, that if a woman grew pregnant whilst she was sucking a child, they obliged her to use means for procuring an abortion, in favor of the first-come, who they supposed would otherwise be defrauded of his due nourishment. Most of them also value themselves on being descended from their Jugglers, who are a sort of men that pretend to foretel futurity by a thousand ridiculous contorsions and grimaces, and by frightful and long-winded howlings. The great secret of these Jugglers consists in having a great _Oorakin_ full of water, from any river in which it was known there were beaver-huts. Then he takes a certain number of circular turns round this Oorakin, as it stands on the ground, pronouncing all the time with a low voice, a kind of gibberish of broken words, unintelligible to the assistants, and most probably so to himself, but which those, on whom he means to impose, believe very efficacious. After this he draws near to the bowl, and bending very low, or rather lying over it, looks at himself in it as in a glass. If he sees the water in the least muddy, or unsettled, he recovers his erect posture, and begins his rounds again, till he finds the water as clear as he could wish it for his purpose, and then he pronounces over it his magic words. If after having repeated them twice or thrice, he does not find the question proposed to him resolved by this inspection of the water, nor the wonders he wants operated by it, he says with a loud voice and a grave tone, that the _Manitoo_, or _Miewndoo_, (the great spirit) or genius, which, according to them, has all knowledge of future events, would not declare himself till every one of the assistants should have told him (the Juggler) in the ear what were his actual thoughts, or greatest secret. [A Romish missionary must, with a very bad grace, blame the Jugglers, for what himself makes such a point of religion in his _auricular confession_. Even the appellation of _Juggler_ is not amiss applicable to those of their craft, considering all their tricks and mummery not a whit superior to those of these poor savages, in the eyes of common-sense. Who does not know, that the low-burlesque word of _Hocus-pocus_, is an humorous corruption of their _Hoc est corpus meum_, by virtue of which, they make a _God_ out of a vile wafer, and think it finely solved, by calling it a _mystery_, which, by the way is but another name for _nonsense_. Is there any thing amongst the savages half so absurd or so impious?] To this purpose he gets up, laments, and bitterly inveighs against the bad dispositions of those of the assistants, whose fault it was, that the effects of his art were obstructed. Then going round the company, he obliges them to whisper him in the ear, whatever held the first place in their minds; and the simplicity of the greater number is such, as to make them reveal to him what it would be more prudent to conceal. By these means it is, that these artful Jugglers renders themselves formidable to the common people, and by getting into the secrets of most of the families of the nation, acquire a hank over them. Some, indeed, of the most sensible see through this pitiful artifice, and look on the Jugglers in their proper light of cheats, quacks, and tyrants; but out of fear of their established influence over the bulk of the nation, they dare not oppose its swallowing their impostures, or its regarding all their miserable answers as so many oracles. When the Juggler in exercise, has collected all that he can draw from the inmost recesses of the minds of the assistants, he replaces himself, as before, over the mysterious bowl of water, and now knows what he has to say. Then, after twice or thrice laying his face close to the surface of the water, and having as often made his evocations in uncouth, unintelligible words, he turns his face to his audience, sometimes he will say, "I can only give a half-answer upon such an article; there is an obstacle yet unremoved in the way, before I can obtain an entire solution, and that is, there are some present here who are in such and such a case. That I may succeed in what is asked of me, and that interests the whole nation, I appoint that person, without my knowing, as yet, who it is, to meet me at such an hour of the night. I name no place of assignation but will let him know by a signal of lighted fire, where he may come to me, and suffer himself to be conducted wherever I shall carry him. The _Manitoo_ orders me to spare his reputation, and not expose him; for if there is any harm in it to him, there is also harm to me." Thus it is the Juggler has the art of imposing on these simple credulous creatures, and even often succeeds by it in his divinations. Sometimes he does not need all this ceremonial. He pretends to foretell off-hand, and actually does so, when he is already prepared by his knowledge, cunning, or natural penetration. His divinations chiefly turn on the expedience of peace with one nation, or of war with another; upon matches between families, upon the long life of some, or the short life of others; how such and such persons came by their deaths, violently or naturally; whether the wife of some great _Sagamo_ has been true to his bed or not; who it could be that killed any particular persons found dead of their wounds in the woods, or on the coast. Sometimes they pretend it's the deed of the _Manitoo_, for reasons to them unknown: this last incident strikes the people with a religious awe. But what the Jugglers are chiefly consulted upon, and what gives them the greatest credit, is to know whether the chace of such a particular species of beasts should be undertaken; at what season, or on which side of the country; how best may be discovered the designs of any nation with which they are at war; or at what time such or such persons shall return from their journey. The Juggler pretends to see all this, and more, in his bowl of water: divination by coffee-grounds is a trifle to it. He is also applied to, to know whether a sick person shall recover or die of his illness. But what I have here told you of the procedure of these Jugglers, you are to understand only of the times that preceded the introduction of Christianity amongst these people, or of those parts where it is not yet received: for these practices are no longer suffered where we have any influence. Amongst the old savages lately baptized, I could never, from the accounts they gave me of the belief of their ancestors, find any true _knowledge_ of the supreme Being; no idea, I mean, approaching to that we have, or rather nothing but a vague imagination. They have, it is true, a confused notion of a Being, acting they know not how [Who does?], in the universe, but they do not make of him a great soul diffused through all its parts. They have no conception or knowledge of all the attributes we bestow on the Deity. Whenever they happen to philosophize upon this _Manitoo_, or great spirit, they utter nothing but _rêveries_ and absurdities. [Are not there innumerable volumes on this subject, to which the same objection might as justly be made? Possibly the savages, and the deepest divines, with respect to the manner of the Deity's existence, may have, in point of ignorance, nothing to reproach one another. It matters very little, whether one sees the sun from the lowest valley, or the highest mountain, when the immensity of its distance contracts the highest advantage of the eminence to little less than nothing. Surely the infinite superiority of the Deity, must still more effectually mock the distinction of the mental eye, at the same time that his existence itself is as plain as that of the sun, and like that too, dazzling those most, who contemplate it most fixedly; reduces them to close the eye, not to exclude the light, but as overpowered by it.] Amongst other superstitious notions, not the least prevalent is that of the _Manitoo_'s exercise of his power over the dead, whom he orders to appear to them, and acquaint them with what passes at a distance, in respect to their most important concerns; to advise them what they had best do, or not do; to forewarn them of dangers, or to inspire them with revenge against any nation that may have insulted them, and so forth. They have no idea of his spirituality, or even of the spirituality of that principle, which constitutes their own vital principle. They have even no word in their language that answers to that of soul in ours. The term approaching nearest thereto that we can find, is _M'cheejacmih_, which signifies _Shade_, and may be construed something in the nature of the _Manes_ of the Romans. The general belief amongst them is, that, after death, they go to a place of joy and plenty, in which sensuality is no more omitted than in Mahomet's paradise. There they are to find women in abundance, a country thick of all manner of game to humor their passion for hunting, and bows and arrows of the best sort, ready made. But these regions are supposed at a great distance from their's, to which they will have to travel; and therefore it's requisite to be well-provided, before they quit their own country, with arrows, long poles fit for hunting, or for covering cabbins, with bear-skins, or elk-hides, with women, and with some of their children, to make their journey to that place more commodious, more pleasant, and appear more expeditious. It was especially in character for a warrior, not to leave this world without taking with him some marks of his bravery, as particularly scalps. Therefore it was, that when any of them died, he was always followed by, at least, one of his children, some women, and above all, by her whom in his life he had most loved, who threw themselves into the grave, and were interred with him. They also put into it great strips, or rolls of the bark of birch, arrows, and scalps. Nor do they unfrequently, at this day, light upon some of these old burying-places in the woods, with all these funeral accompanyments; but of late, the interment of live persons has been almost entirely disused. I never could learn whether they had any set formulary of prayer, or invocation to the _great Manitoo_; or whether they made any sacrifices of beasts or peltry, to any other _Manitoo_, in contradiction to him, or to any being whom they dreaded as an evil genius. I could discover no more than what I have above related of the ceremonies in honor of the sun. I know, indeed, they have a great veneration for the moon, which they invoke, whenever, under favor of its light, they undertake any journeys, either by land or water, or tend the snares they have set for their game. This is the prayer they occasionally address to it: "How great, O moon! is thy goodness, in actually, for our benefit, supplying the place of the father of the day, as, next to him, thou hast concurred to make us spring out of that earth we have inhabited from the first ages of the world, and takest particular care of us, that the malignant air of the night, should not kill the principle and bud of life within us. Thou regardest us, in truth, as thy children. Thou hast not, from the first time, discontinued to treat us like a true mother. Thou guidest us in our nocturnal journies. By the favor of thy light it is, that we have often struck great strokes in war; and more than once have our enemies had cause to repent their being off their guard in thy clear winter-nights. Thy pale rays have often sufficiently lighted us, for our marching in a body without mistaking our way; and have enabled us not only to discover the ambushes of the enemy, but often to surprize him asleep. However we might be wanting to ourselves, thy regular course was never wanting to us. Beautiful spouse of the sun! give us to discover the tracks of elks, moose-deer, martins, lynxes, and bears, when urged by our wants, we pursue by night the hunt after these beasts. Give to our women the strength to support the pains of child-birth [_Lucina fer opem_, was also the cry amongst the ancient heathens], render their wombs prolific, and their breasts inexhaustible fountains." I have often tried to find out, whether there was any tradition or knowledge amongst them of the deluge, but always met with such unsatisfactory answers, as entirely discouraged my curiosity on that head. This nation counts its years by the winters. When they ask a man how old he is, they say, "How many winters have gone over thy head?" Their months are lunar, and they calculate their time by them. When we would say, "I shall be six weeks on my journey;" they express it by, "I shall be a moon and a half on it." Before _we_ knew them, it was common to see amongst them, persons of both sexes of a hundred and forty, or a hundred and fifty years of age. But these examples of longevity are grown much more rare. By all accounts too, their populousness is greatly decreased. Some imagine this is owing to that inveterate animosity, with which these so many petty nations were continually laboring one another's destruction and extirpation. Others impute it to the introduction by the Europeans, of the vice of drunkenness, and to the known effect of spirituous liquors in the excesses of their use, to which they are but too prone, in striking at the powers of generation, as well as at the principles of health and life. Not improbably too, numbers impatient of the encroachments of the Europeans on their country, and dreading the consequences of them to their liberty, for which they have a passionate attachment, and incapable of reconciling or assimilating their customs and manners to ours, have chosen to withdraw further into the western recesses of the continent, at a distance impenetrable to our approach. But which ever of these conjectures is the truest, or whether or not all of these causes have respectively concurred, in a lesser or greater degree, the fact is certain, that all these northern countries are considerably thinned of their natives, since the first discovery of them by the Europeans. Nor have I reason to think, but that this is true of America in general, wherever they have carried their power, or extended their influence. It is also true, that the women of this country are naturally not so prolific as those of some other parts of the world in the same latitude. One reason for this may be, their not having their menstrual flux so copiously, or for so long a time as those of Europe. Yet one would think, the plurality of wives permitted amongst them, might in some measure compensate for this defect, which, however, it evidently does not. Their women have always observed, not to present themselves at any public ceremony, or solemnity, whilst under their monthly terms, nor to admit the embraces of their husbands. At stated times they repair to particular places in the woods, where they recite certain formularies of invocation to the _Manitoo_ dictated to them by some of their oldest _Sagamees_, or principal women, and more frequently by some celebrated Juggler of the village, that they may obtain the blessing of fruitfulness. For it is with them, as amongst the Jews, that barrenness is accounted opprobrious. A woman is not looked upon as a woman, till she has proved it, by her fulfilling what they consider as one of the great ends of her creation. Failing in that, she is divorced from her husband, and may then prostitute herself without any scandal. If she has no inclination or relish for this way of life, they compel her to it, in regard to their young men, who do not care to marry, till they are arrived at full-ripe years, and for whom, on their return from their warlike or hunting expeditions, they think it necessary to provide such objects of amusement. They pretend withal, that they are subject to insupportable pains in their loins, if such a remedy is not at hand to relieve them. But once more you are to remember, that I am only speaking of those people not yet converted to Christianity, by which this licentiousness is not allowed. And yet, notwithstanding the maxims we inculcate to them, the natives continue no other than what they were before, that is to say, as much addicted to venery as ever, and rarely miss an occasion of gratifying their appetite to it. The only way we can think of to prevent their offending religion, is to have them married as soon as they begin to feel themselves men. The restraint however in this point is, what they can least endure. In their unconverted state, their manner of courtship and marriage is as follows: When a youth has an inclination to enter into the connubial state, his father, or next relation, looks out for a girl, to whose father the proposal is made: this being always transacted between the parents of the parties to be married. The young man, who is commonly about thirty years of age, or twenty at the least, rarely consults his own fancy in this point. The girl, who is always extreamly young, is never supposed to trouble her head about the measures that are taking to marry her. When the parents on each side have settled the matter, the youth is applied to, that he may prepare his calumet as soon as he pleases. The calumet used on these occasions, is a sort of spungeous reed, which may furnish, according to its length, a number of calumets, each of which is about a foot long, to be lighted at one end, the other serving to suck in the smoak at the mouth, and is suffered to burn within an inch of the lips. The speech made to the youth on this occasion is as follows: "Thou may'st go when thou wilt, by day or by night, to light thy calumet in such a cabbin. Thou must observe to direct the smoak of it towards the person who is designed for thee, and carry it so, that she may take such a taste to this vapor, as to desire of thee that she may smoak of thy calumet. Show thyself worthy of thy nation, and do honor to thy sex and youth. Suffer none in the cabbin to which thou art admitted, to want any thing thy industry, thy art, or thy arrows can procure them, as well for food, as for peltry, or oil, for the good of their bodies, inside and outside. Thou hast four winters given thee, for a trial of thy patience and constancy." At this the youth never fails of going to the place appointed. If the girl, (who knows the meaning of this) has no particular aversion to him, she is soon disposed to ask his calumet of him. In some parts, but not in this where I am, she signifies her acceptance by blowing it out. Here she takes it from him, and sucking it, blows the smoak towards his nostrils, even sometimes so violently, as to make him qualm-sick, at which she is highly delighted. Nothing, however, passes farther against the laws of modesty, though she will tress his hair, paint his face, and imprint on various parts of his body curious devices and flourishes, all relative to their love; which she pricks in, and rubs over with a composition that renders the impression uncancellable. If the parents of the girl are pleased with the procedure of the suitor, they commonly, at the end of the second year, dispense, in his favor, with the rest of the probation-time; and, indeed, they could not well before, the girl almost always wanting, from the time she is first courted, at least two years to bring on the age of consummation. They tell him, "Thou may'st now take a small part of the covering of thy beloved whilst she sleeps." No sooner is this compliment made him, than, without saying any thing, he goes out of the cabbin, armed with his bow and arrows, and hurrying home acquaints his friends, that he is going to the woods, whence he shall not return till it pleases his beloved to recall him. Accordingly he repairs forthwith to the woods, and stays there for two or three days, diverting himself with hunting; at the end of which it has been agreed on, to send all the youths of the village to fetch him: and they come back loaded with game of all sorts, though the bridegroom is not suffered to carry any thing. There is also great provision made of seal and sea-cows for the wedding-feast. The head Juggler of the village, meets the bridegroom who is at the head of the procession, takes him by the hand, and conducts him to the cabbin of the bride, where he is to take part of her bed; upon which he lies down by her side, and both continue unmoveable and silent like two statues, whilst they are obliged to hear the long tedious harangues of the Juggler, of the parents of both, and of their oldest relations. After that, they both get up, and are led, the one by the young men, the other by the girls, to the place of entertainment, all singing, shooting, and dancing. The bridegroom is seated amongst the young men on one side, and the bride amongst the girls on another. One of his friends takes an _Oorakin_, loads it with roast-meat, and sets it down by him, whilst one of her's does the same thing, with an _Oorakin_ of the same size, and nearly alike, which is placed by the bride's side. After this ceremony of placing the _Oorakin_, the Juggler pronounces certain magical words over the meat: he foretels, especially to the bride, the dreadful consequences she must expect from the victuals she is about to eat, if she has in her heart any perfidiousness towards her husband: that she may be assured of finding in the _Oorakin_ that contains them, a certain prognostic of her future happiness, or unhappiness: of happiness, if she is disposed never in her life to betray her nation, nor especially her husband, upon any occasion, or whatever may befal her: of unhappiness, if through the caresses of strangers, or by any means whatever she should be induced to break her faith to him, or to reveal to the enemy the secrets of the country. At the end of every period, all the assistants signify their assent to the Juggler's words, by a loud exclamation of _Hah!_ Whilst he is talking, the particular friend of the bridegroom, and that of the bride, keep their eyes fixed on the two _Oorakins_; and as soon as he has done, the bride's friend making as if she did not think of what she was about, takes the _Oorakin_ allotted for the bridegroom, and carries it to the bride, whilst the bridegroom's friend, (the thing being pre-concerted) acts the like mummery of inadvertence, and sets before the bridegroom the _Oorakin_ belonging to the bride; after which the dishes are served in to the rest of the company. When they are all served, the two friends of the parties musing a little, pretend to have just then discovered their exchange of the bride and bridegroom's _Oorakins_. They declare it openly to each other, at which the Juggler takes up his cue, and with a solemn face says, "The _Manitoo_ has had his designs in this mistake: he has vouchsafed to give an indubitable sign of his approbation of the strait alliance this day contracted. What is the one's, is the same as the other's. They are henceforward united, and are as one and the same person. It is done. May they multiply without end!" At this the assistants all start up, and with cries of joy, and congratulation, rush to embrace the bride and bridegroom, and overwhelm them with caresses. After which they sit very gravely down again to the entertainment before them, and dispatch it in great silence. This is followed by dances of all kinds, with which the feast for the day concludes, as must this letter, in which I have certainly had less attention to the observing the limits of one, than to the gratifying your curiosity, with respect to these people, amongst whom my lot has so long been cast. I am, Sir, Your most obedient Humble servant, _To understand the following piece, it is necessary to know, that after the insidious peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, the savage nations, especially the Mickmakis and Maricheets continued hostilities against the English, at the underhand instigation of the French, who meant thereby to prevent, or at least distress, as much as obstruct, our new settlements in Nova-Scotia. For this purpose, the French missionaries had their cue from their government to act the incendiaries, and, to inflame matters to the highest pitch. These being, however, sensible, that the part assigned them was a very odious one, and inconsistent with the spirit of that religion for which they profess such zeal, one of them, by way of palliation, and in order to throw the blame on the English themselves, drew up the following state of the case, between our nation and the savages, viz._ MEMORIAL OF THE Motives of the Savages, called _Mickmakis_ and _Maricheets_, for continuing the War with _England_ since the last Peace. Dated _Isle-Royal_, 175-. These nations have never been able to forget all that the English settled in North-America have done since the very first of their establishment, towards destroying them root and branch. They have especially, at every moment, before their eyes the following transactions: In 1744, towards the end of October, Mr. Gorrhon, (perhaps Goreham) deceased, commanding a detachment of the English troops, sent to observe the retreat the French and savages were making from before Port-Royal (Annapolis) in Acadia, (Nova-Scotia): this detachment having found two huts of the Mickmaki-savages, in a remote corner, in which there were five women and three children, (two of the women were big with child) ransacked, pillaged, and burnt the two huts, and massacred the five women and three children. It is to be observed, that the two pregnant women were found with their bellies ripped open. An action which these savages cannot forget, especially as at that time they made fair war with the English. They have always looked on this deed as a singular mark of the most unheard-of cruelty. [Who would not look on it in the same light? But as no nation on earth is known to have more than ours constitutionally, a horror for such barbarities, especially in cold blood; it may be very easily presumed, that this fact was, if true, committed by some of the savages themselves, without the knowledge of the commander, or of any of the English troops.] Five months before this action, one named _Danas_, or _David_, an English privateer, having treacherously hoisted French colors in the Streights of Fronsac, by means of a French deserter he had with him, decoyed on board his vessel the chief of the savages of Cape-Breton, called James Padanuque, with his whole family, whom he carried to Boston, where he was clapped into a dungeon the instant he was landed; from which he was only taken out to stifle him on board of a vessel, in which they pretended to return him safe to Cape-Breton. His son, at that time a boy of eight years of age, they will absolutely not release; though, since their detention of that young savage, they have frequently had prisoners sent back to them, without ransom, on condition of restoring the young man to his country: but though they accepted the condition, they never complied with it. In the month of July, 1745, the same Danas, with the same success, employed the same decoy on a savage-family, which could not get out of their hands, but by escaping one night from their prisons. About the same time one named Bartholomew Petitpas, an appointed savage-linguist, was carried away prisoner to Boston. The savages have several times demanded him in exchange for English prisoners they then had in their hands, of whom two were officers, to whom they gave their liberty, on condition of the Bostoners returning of Petitpas; whom, however, they not only kept prisoner, but afterwards put to death. In the same year, 1745, a missionary of the savages of Cape Breton, Natkikouesch, Picktook, and of the island of St. John, having been invited by several letters, on the part of the commodore of the _English_ squadron, and of the general of the land-forces, to a parley, those gentlemen desired with him, concerning the savages, repaired to Louisbourg, at that time in possession of the English, on the assurances they had given him in writing, and on the formal promises they had bound with an oath, of full liberty to return from whence he came, after having satisfied them in all they wanted of him. They detained him at Louisbourg, where they gave him a great deal of ill usage, and obliged him to embark, all sick as he was, and destitute of necessaries, on board of one of the ships of the squadron, in which he was conveyed to England, from whence he at length got to France. [Most probably he had not given the satisfaction required by those gentlemen, which had been confessedly by himself made the condition of his return.] The same year, 1745, several bodies of the savages, deceased, and buried at _Port Tholouze_, were dug up again by the Bostoners, and thrown into the fire. The burying-place of the savages was demolished, and all the crosses, planted on the graves, broke into a thousand pieces. In 1746, some stuffs that the savages had bought of the English, who then traded in the bay of Megagouetch at _Beau-bassin_, there being at that time a great scarcity of goods over all the country, were found to be _poisoned_, [Is it possible a missionary of the truths of the Gospel could gravely commit to paper such an infernal lie? If even the savages had been stupid enough of themselves to imbibe such a notion, was it not the duty of a Christian to have shewn them the folly of it, or even but in justice to the Europeans? But what must be their guilt, if they suggested it? Surely, scarce less than that of the action itself.] so that more than two hundred savages of both sexes perished thereby. In 1749, towards the end of the month of May, at a time that the suspension of arms between the two crowns was not yet known in New France, the savages, having made prisoners two Englishmen of Newfoundland, had from these same prisoners the first news of the cessation of hostilities. They believed them on their bare words, expressed their satisfaction to them, treated them like brothers, unbound them, and carried them to their huts. The said prisoners rose in the night, and massacred twenty-five of these savages, men, women, and children. There were but two of the savages escaped this carnage, by being accidentally not present. [_How improbable is the whole of this story?_] Towards the end of the same year, the English being come to Chibuckto, made the report be every where spread [The missionaries in those parts might indeed raise such reports; the which giving the savages an aversion to the English, forced them to take hostile measures against them in their own defence: but who would suspect the English themselves of raising them, in direct opposition to their own interest?], that they were going to destroy all the savages. They seemed to act in consequence thereto, since they sent detachments of their troops, on all sides, in pursuit of the savages. These people were so alarmed with this procedure of the English, that from that time they determined, as weak as they were, to declare open war against them. Knowing that France had concluded a peace with England, they nevertheless resolved not to cease from falling on the English, wherever they could find them; saying, they were indispensably obliged to it, since, against all justice, they wanted to expel them out of their country. They then sent a declaration of war in form to the English, in the name of their nation, and of the savages in alliance with it. As to what concerns the missionaries to the savages, they cannot be suspected of using any connivence in all this, if justice is done to the conduct they have always observed amongst them, and especially in the time of the last war. How many acts of inhumanity would have been committed by this nation, naturally vindictive, if the missionaries had not taken pains, in good earnest, to put such ideas out of their heads? It is notorious, that the savages believe that there are no extremities of barbarity, but what are within the rules of war against those whom they consider as their enemies. Inexpressible are the efforts which these same missionaries have employed to restrain, on such occasions, this criminal ferocity, especially as the savages deemed themselves authorized by right of reprisals. How many unfortunate persons of the English nation would have been detained for ever captives, or undergone the most cruel deaths, if, by the intervention of the missionaries, the savages had not been prevailed on to release them? They are even ready to prove, by their written instructions, the lessons they inculcate to the savages, of the humanity and gentleness they ought to practise, even in time of war. It is especially ever since about seventeen years ago, that they do not cease declaiming against those barbarous and sanguinary methods of proceeding that seem innate to them. On this principle it is, that in the written maxims of conduct for them, care has been taken to insert a chapter, which, from the beginning to the end, places before their eyes the extreme horror they ought to have of such enormities. Their children particularly are sedulously taught this whole chapter, whence it comes, that one may daily perceive them growing more humane, and more disposed to listen, on this head, to the remonstrances of the missionaries. [_To this plea of innocence in the French missionaries, as to any instigation of the savages to hostilities against the English, we shall oppose the testimony of their own court, in the following words of the French ministry, in the very same year_, 1751. "His Majesty (the French king) has already observed, that the savages have hitherto been in the most _favorable dispositions_; and it even appears, that the conduct of the general C--n--ll--s, with respect to them, has only served to exasperate them more and more. It is of the _greatest importance_, both for the present and future, to keep them up to that spirit. The _missionaries_ amongst them, are more than any one at hand to _contribute thereto_, and his majesty has _reason_ to be _satisfied_ with the _pains_ they take in it. Our governor must excite these _missionaries_ not to _slacken their endeavours_ on this head. But he should advise them to _contain_ their _zeal_ within due bounds, so as not to render themselves _obnoxious_ to the English, unless for very good purpose, and so as to avoid giving handle for just complaints." _In this his most Christian Majesty has been faithfully served by these missionaries, in all points, except that political injunction of not giving a handle for just complaints, which they overshot in the ardor of their zeal; since it is undoubted matter of fact, that the missionaries openly employed all their arts, and all the influence of religion, to invenom the savages against us. Thence, besides a number of horrid cruelties, the most treacherous and base murder of captain How, at a conference, by some savages they set on, who perpetrated it within sight of the French forces. The publishing, however, of the foregoing memorial may have this good effect, that it will apprise the English of the matter of accusation against them, and enable them to counter-work those holy engines of state, and emissaries of ambition. It is also certain, that this very memorial was drawn up by a French priest, purely to furnish the French ministry a specious document to oppose to the most just representations of the British government. Besides the fictions with which it abounds, he has taken care to suppress the acts of cruelty committed, and the atrocious provocations given by the savages, at the instigation of his fellow-laborers sedition and calumny._] LETTER FROM Mons. DE LA VARENNE, TO HIS FRIEND at ROCHELLE. _Louisbourg_, the 8th of _May_, 1756. Though I had, in my last, exhausted all that was needful to say on our private business, I could not see this ship preparing for France, especially with our friend _Moreau_ on board, without giving you this further mark of how ardently I wish the continuance of our correspondence. It will also serve to supplement any former deficiencies of satisfaction to certain points of curiosity you have stated to me; this will give to my letter a length beyond the ordinary limits of one: and I have before-hand to excuse to you, the loose desultory way in which you will find I write, as things present themselves to my mind, without such method or arrangement, as a formal design of treating the subject would exact. But who looks for that in a letter? I need not tell you how severely our government has felt the dismemberment of that important tract of country already in the possession of the English, under the name of Acadia; to say nothing of their further pretentions, which would form such terrible encroachments on Canada. And no wonder it should feel it, considering the extent of so fruitful, and valuable a country as constitutes that peninsula. It might of itself form a very considerable and compact body of dominion, being, as you know, almost everywhere surrounded by the sea, and abounding with admirable and well-situated ports. It is near one hundred leagues in length, and about sixty in breadth. Judge what advantages such an area of country, well-peopled, and well-cultivated, and abounding in mines, might produce. It is full of hills, though I could not observe any of an extraordinary heighth, except that of Cape Doree, at the mouth of the river _des Mines_, the most fertile part of it in corn and grain, and once the best peopled. There are a number of rivers very rapid, but not large, except that of St. John's, which is the finest river of all Acadia, where good water is rather scarce. The soil in the vallies is rich, and even in the uplands, commonly speaking, good. The grains it yields are wheat, pease, barley, oats, rye, and Indian corn, and especially that of the vallies, for the higher ground is not yet cultivated. The pastures are excellent and very common, and more than sufficient to supply Cape-Breton, with the cattle that may be raised. There is fine hunting, and a plentiful fishing for cod, salmon, and other fish, particularly on the east-side, which is full of fine harbours at the distance of one, two, three, four, or of six or seven leagues at farthest from one another, within the extent of ninety leagues of coast. It is thought, in short, this fishery is better than any on the coasts belonging to France. The air is extreamly wholesome, which is proved by the longevity of its inhabitants. I myself know some of above an hundred years of age, descendants from the French established in Acadia. Distempers are very rare. I fancy the climate is pretty near the same as in the north of China, or Chinese-Tartary. This country too, being rather to the southward of Canada, is not so cold as that; the snow not falling till towards St. Andrew's day: nor does it lie on the ground above two or three days at most, after which it begins to soften; and though the thaw does not take place, the weather turns mild enough to allow of working, and undertaking journeys. In short, what may be absolutely called cold weather, may be reduced to about twenty-five or thirty days in a winter, and ceases entirely towards the end of March, or at latest, the middle of April. Then comes the seed-time. Then are made the sugar and syrups of maple, procured from the juice or sap of that tree, by means of incisions in the bark; which sap is carefully received in proper vessels. I could never find any ginseng-root; yet I have reason to believe there may be some in or near the hills, as the climate and situation have so much affinity to the northern provinces of China, or Northwest Tartary, as described to us by our missionaries. We have very little knowledge of the medicinal herbs in this country, though some of them have certainly great virtue. There are the maiden-hair, the saxi-frage, and the sarsaparilla. There is also a particular root in this country of an herb called _Jean Hebert_, about the ordinary size of the _Salsifix_, or _Goatsbread_, with knots at about an inch, or an inch and an half distance from one another, of a yellowish colour, white in the inside, with a sugarish juice, which is excellent for the stomach. There has been lately discovered in these parts a poisonous root, much resembling, in color and substance, a common carrot. When broke it has a pleasing smell; but between the flakes may be observed a yellowish juice, which is supposed to be the poison. Of four soldiers that had eaten of it in their soup lately, two were difficultly preserved by dint of antidotes; the other two died in the utmost agonies of pain, and convulsions of frenzy. One of them was found in the woods sticking by the head in a softish ground, into which he had driven it, probably in the excess of his torture. Such a vegetable must afford matter of curious examination to a naturalist; for as it does so much harm, it may also be capable of great good, if sought into by proper experiments. The spirit of turpentine is much used by the inhabitants. The gum itself is esteemed a great vulnerary; and purges moderately those who are full of bilious, or gross humors. For the rest there is, I believe, hardly any sort of grain, tree, or vegetable, especially in the north of France that might not be successfully raised in Acadia. The rains are frequent in every season of the year. There are indeed often violent squalls of wind, especially from the South, and seem the West, but nothing like the hurricanes in the West-Indies. It is a great rarity if thunder does any mischief. Some years ago there was a man killed in his hut by it; but the oldest men of the country never remembered to have known or heard of any thing like it before. There have been earthquakes felt but rarely, and not very violent. This country produces no venomous beasts, at least, that I could hear of. In the warmer season there are sometimes found snakes, not, however, thicker than one's finger, but their bite is not known to be attended with any fatal consequences, There are no tygers, nor lions, nor other beasts of prey to be afraid of unless bears, and that only in their rutting-time, and even then it is very rare that they attack. As there are then no carnivorous animals except the lynxes, who have a beautiful skin, and these rarely fall upon any living creatures; the sheep, oxen, and cows, are turned out into the woods or commons, without any fear for them. Partridges are very common, and are large-sized, with flesh very white. The hares are scarce, and have a white fur. There are a great many beavers, elks, cariboux, (moose-deer) and other beasts of the cold northern countries. The original inhabitants of this country are the savages, who may be divided into three nations, the _Mickmakis_, the _Maricheets_, or _Abenaquis_, (being scarcely different nations) and the _Canibats_. The _Mickmakis_ are the most numerous, but not accounted so good warriors as the others: but they are all much addicted to hunting, and to venery; in which last, however, they observe great privacy. They are fond of strong liquors, and especially of brandy: that is their greatest vice. They are also very uncurious of paying the debts they contract, not from natural dishonesty, but from their having no notion of property, or of meum or tuum. They will sooner part with all they have, in the shape of a gift, than with any thing in that of payment. Honors and goods being all in common amongst them, all the numerous vices, which are founded upon those two motives, are not to be found in them. Yet it is true, that they have chiefs to whom they give the title of _Sagamo_; but all of them almost, at some time or other, assume to themselves this quality, which is never granted by universal consent, but to the personal consideration of distinguished merit in councils, or in arms. Their troops have this particularity, that they are, for the most part, composed of nothing but officers; insomuch that it is rare to find a savage in the service that will own himself a private man. This want of subordination does not, however, hinder them from concurring together in action, when their native ferocity and emulation stand them, in some sort, instead of discipline. They are extreamly vindictive, of which I shall give you one example. Mons. _Daunay_, a French captain, with a servant, being overset in a canoe, within sight of some savages, they threw themselves into the water to save them, and the servant was actually saved. But the savage, who had pitched upon Mons. _Daunay_, seeing who it was, and remembering some blows with a cane he had a few days before received from him, took care to souse him so often in the water, that he drowned him before he got ashore. It is remarked, that in proportion as the Europeans have settled in this country, the number of the savages considerably diminishes. As they live chiefly upon their hunting, the woods that are destroyed to cultivate the country, must in course contract the district of their chace, and cause a famine amongst them, that must be fatal to them, or compel them to retire to other countries. The English, sensible of this effect, and who seemed to place their policy in exterminating these savage nations, have set fire to the woods, and burnt a considerable extent of them. I have myself crossed above thirty leagues together, in which space the forests were so totally consumed by fire, that one could hardly at night find a spot wooded enough to afford wherewithal to make an extempore cabbin, which, in this country, is commonly made in the following manner: Towards night the travellers commonly pitch upon a spot as near a rivulet or river as they can; and as no one forgets to carry his hatchet with him, any more than a Spanish don his toledo, some cut down wood for firing for the night; others branches of trees, which are stuck in the ground with the crotch uppermost, over which a thatching is laid of fir-boughs, with a fence of the same on the weather-side only. The rest is all open, and serves for door and window. A great fire is then lighted, and then every body's lodged. They sup on the ground, or upon some leaved branches, when the season admits of it; and afterwards the table serves for a bed. The savages themselves rarely have any fixed hut, or village, that maybe called a permanent residence. If there are any parts they most frequently inhabit, it is only those which abound most in game, or near some fishing-place. Such were formerly for them, before the English had driven them away, _Artigoneesch_, _Beaubassin_, _Chipoody_, _Chipnakady_, _Yoodayck_, _Mirtigueesh_, _La Héve Cape Sable_, _Mirameeky_, _Fistigoisch_, _La Baye des Chaleurs Pentagony_, _Medochtek_, _Hokepack_, and _Kihibeki_. At present these savage nations bear an inveterate antipathy to the English, who might have easily prevented or cured it, if instead of rigorous measures, they had at first used conciliative ones: but this it seems they thought beneath them. This it is, that has given our missionaries such a fair field for keeping them fixed to the French party, by the assistance of the difference of religion, of which they do not fail to make the most. But lest you may imagine I am giving you only my own conjectures, take the following extract from, a letter of father Noel de Joinville, of a pretty antient date. "I have remarked in this country so great an aversion in the convert-savages to the English, caused by difference of religion, that these scarce dare inhabit any part of Acadia but what is under their own guns. These savages are so zealous for the Roman Catholick church, that they always look with horror upon, and consider as enemies those who are not within the pale of it. This may serve to prove, that if there had been _priests_ provided in time, to work at the conversion of the savages of New-England, before the English had penetrated into the interior of the county as far as they have done, it would not have been possible for them to appropriate to themselves such an extent of country as, at this day, makes of New-England alone the most magnificent colony on the face of the earth." [This pompous epithet might have yet been more just, if the improvement of that colony had been enough the care of the state, to have been pushed all the lengths of which it was so susceptible. Few Englishmen will, probably, on reflexion deny, that if but a third of those sums ingulphed by the ungrateful or slippery powers on the continent, upon interests certainly more foreign to England than those of her own colonies, or lavished in a yet more destructive way, that of corrupting its subjects in elections: if the third, I say, of those immense sums, had been applied to the benefit of the plantations, to the fortifying, encouraging, and extending them, there would, by this time, have hardly been a Frenchman's name to be heard of in North-America especially.] But with this good father's leave, he attributes more influence to religion, though as the priests manage it, it certainly has a very considerable one, than in fact belongs to it. Were it not for other concurring circumstances that indispose the savages against the English, religion alone would not operate, at least so violently, that effect. Every one knows, that the savages are at best but slightly tinctured with it, and have little or no attachment to it, but as they find their advantage in the benefits of presents and protection, it procures to them from the French government. In short, it is chiefly to the conduct of this English themselves, we are beholden for this favorable aid of the savages. If the English at first, instead of seeking to exterminate or oppress them by dint of power, the sense of which drove them for refuge into our party, had behaved with more tenderness to them, and conciliated their affection by humoring them properly, and distributing a few presents, they might easily have made useful and valuable subjects of them. Whereas, disgusted with their haughtiness, and scared at the menaces and arbitrary encroachments of the English, they are now their most virulent and scarce reconcileable enemies. This is even true of more parts in America, where, though the English have liberally given presents to ten times the value of what our government does, they have not however had the same effect. The reason of which is clear: they make them with so ill a grace, and generally time their presents so unjudiciously, as scarce ever to distribute them, but just when they want to carry some temporary point with the savages, such, especially, as the taking up the hatchet against the French. This does not escape the natural sagacity of the savages, who are sensible of the design lurking at bottom of this liberality, and give them the less thanks for it. They do not easily forget the length of time they had been neglected, slighted, or unapplied to, unless by their itinerant traders, who cheat them in their dealings, or poison them with execrable spirits, under the names of brandy and rum. Whereas, on the contrary, the French are assiduously caressing and courting them. Their missionaries are dispersed up and down their several cantonments, where they exercise every talent of insinuation, study their manners, nature, and weaknesses, to which they flexibly accommodate themselves, and carry their points by these arts. But what has, at least, an equal share in attaching the savages to our party, is the connivence, or rather encouragement the French government has given to the natives of France, to fall into the savage-way of life, to spread themselves through the savage nations, where they adopt their manners, range the woods with them, and become as keen hunters as themselves. This conformity endears our nation to them, being much better pleased with seeing us imitate them, than ready to imitate us, though some of them begin to fall into our notions, as to trafficking and bartering, and knowing the use of money, of which they were before totally ignorant. We employ besides a much more effectual method of uniting them to us, and that is, by the intermarriages of our people with the savage-women, which is a circumstance that draws the ties of alliance closer. The children produced by these are generally hardy, inured to the fatigues of the chace and war, and turn out very serviceable subjects in their way. But what is most amazing is, that though the savage-life has all the appearance of being far from eligible, considering the fatigues, the exposure to all weathers, the dearth of those articles which custom has made a kind of necessaries of life to Europeans, and many other inconveniencies to be met with in their vagabond course; yet it has such charms for some of our native French, and even for some of them who have been delicately bred, that, when once they have betaken themselves to it young, there is hardly any reclaiming them from it, or inducing them to return to a more civilized life. They prefer roving in the woods, trusting to the chapter of accidents for their game which is their chief support, and lying all night in a little temporary hut, patched up of a few branches; to all the commodiousness they might find in towns, or habitations, amongst their own countrymen. By degrees they lose all relish for the European luxuries of life, and would not exchange for them the enjoyments of that liberty, and faculty of wandering about, for which, in the forests, they contract an invincible taste. A gun with powder and ball, of which they purchase a continuation of supplies with the skins of the beasts they kill, set them up. With these they mix amongst the savages, where they get as many women as they please: some of them are far from unhandsome, and fall into their way of life, with as much passion and attachment, as if they had never known any other. Mons. _Delorme_, whom you possibly may have seen in Rochelle, where he had a small employ in the marine-department, brought over his son here, a very hopeful youth, who had even some tincture of polite education, and was not above thirteen years old, and partly from indulgence, partly from a view of making him useful to the government, by his learning, at that age, perfectly the savage language, he suffered him to go amongst the savages. The young _Delorme_ would, indeed, sometimes return home just on a visit to his family; but always expressed such an impatience, or rather pining to get back again to them, that, though reluctantly, the father was obliged to yield to it. No representations in short, after some years, could ever prevail on him to renounce his connexions, and residence amongst the _Abenaquis_, where he is almost adored. He has learned to excel them all, even in their own points of competition. He out-does them all in their feats of activity, in running, leaping, climbing mountains, swimming, shooting with the bow and arrow, managing of canoes, snaring and killing birds and beasts, in patience of fatigue, and even of hunger; in short, in all they most value themselves upon, or to which they affix the idea of personal merit, the only merit that commands consideration amongst them. They are not yet polished enough to admire any other. By this means, however, he perfectly reigns amongst them, with a power the greater, for the submission to it not only being voluntary, but the effect of his acknowledged superiority, in those points that with them alone constitute it. His personal advantages likewise may not a little contribute thereto, being perfectly well-made, finely featured, with a great deal of natural wit, as well as courage. He dresses, whilst with the savages, exactly in their manner, ties his hair up like them, wears a tomby-awk, or hatchet, travels with _rackets_, (or Indian shoes) and, in short, represents to the life the character of a compleat savage-warrior. When he comes to _Quebec_, or _Louisbourg_, he resumes his European dress, without the least mark appearing in his behaviour, of that wildness or rudeness one would naturally suppose him to have contracted by so long a habit of them with the savages. Nobody speaks purer French, or acquits himself better in conversation. He takes up or lays down the savage character with equal grace and ease. His friends have, at length, given over teazing him to come and reside for good amongst them; they find it is to so little purpose. The priests indeed complain bitterly, that he is not overloaded with religion, from his entering so thoroughly into the spirit of the savage-life; and his setting an example, by no means edifying, of a licentious commerce with their women; besides, his giving no signs of his over-respecting either their doctrine or spiritual authority. This they pretend hurts them with their actual converts, as well as with those they labor to make; though, in this conduct, he is not singular, for the French wood-rangers, in general, follow the like course in a greater or lesser degree. These representations of the priests would, however, have greater influence with our government, if the temporal advantage they derive from these rovers, undisciplined as they are, did not oblige them to wink at their relaxation in spirituals. But it is not only men that have taken this passion for a savage life; there have been, though much rarer, examples of our women going into it. It is not many years since a very pretty French girl ran away into the woods with a handsome young savage, who married her after his country fashion. Her friends found out the village, or rather ambulatory tribe into which she had got; but no persuasions, or instances, could prevail on her to return and leave her savage, nor on him to content to it; so that the government not caring to employ force, for fear of disobliging the nation of them, even acquiesced in her continuance amongst them, where she remains to this day, but worshipped like a little divinity, or, at least, as a being superior to the rest of their women. Possibly too she is not, in fact, so unhappy, as her choice would make one think she must be; and if opinion constitutes happiness, she certainly is not so. There are not wanting here, who defend this strange attachment of some of their countrymen to this savage life, on principles independent of the reason of state, for encouraging its subjects to spread and gain footing amongst the savage nations, by resorting to their country, of which they, at the same time, gain a knowledge useful to future enterprizes, by a winning conformity to their actions, and by intermarriages with them. They pretend, that even this savage life itself is not without its peculiar sweets and pleasures; that it is the most adapted, and the most natural to man. Liberty, they say, is no where more perfectly enjoyed, than where no subordination is known, but what is recommended by natural reason, the veneration of old age, or the respect of personal merit. The chace is at once their chief employment and diversion; it furnishes them with means to procure those articles, which enter into the small number of natural wants. The demands of luxury, they think too dearly bought with the loss of that liberty and independence they find in the woods. They despise the magnificence of courts and palaces, in comparison with the free range and scope of the hills and vales, with the starry sky for their canopy: they say, we enjoy the Universe only in miniature, whilst the savage-rovers enjoy it in the great. Thus reason some of our admirers here of the savage-system of life, and yet I do not find that these refining advocates for it, are themselves tempted to embrace it. They are content to commend what themselves do not care to practise. Those who actually do embrace it, reason very little about it, though no doubt, the motives above assigned for their preference, are generally, one may say instinctively, at the bottom of it. Their greatest want is of wine, especially at first to those who are used to it; but they are soon weaned from it by the example of others, and content themselves with the substitution of rum, or brandy, of which they obtain supplies by their barter of skins and furs. In short, their hunting procures them all that they want or desire, and their liberty or independence supplies to them the place of those luxuries of life, that are not well to be had without the sacrifice in some sort of it. It is more difficult to find an excuse for the shocking cruelties and barbarities, exercised by the savages on their unhappy captives in war. The instances, however, of their inhumanity, are certainly not exagerated, nor possible to be exagerated, but they are multiplied beyond the limits of truth. That they put then their prisoners to death by exquisite tortures, is strictly true; but it is as true too, that they do not serve so many in that manner as has been said. Numbers they save, and even incorporate with their own nation, who become as free as, and on a footing with, the conquerors themselves. And even in that cruelty of theirs, there is at the bottom a mixture of piety with their vindictiveness. They imagine themselves bound to revenge the deaths of their ancestors, their parents, or relations, fallen in war, upon their enemies, especially of that nation by whom they have fallen. It is in that apprehension too, they extend their barbarity to young children, and to women: to the first, because they fear they may grow up to an age, when they will be sure to pursue that revenge of which the spirit is early instilled into them; to the second, lest they should produce children, to whom they would, from the same spirit, be sure to inculcate it. Thus, in a round natural enough, their fear begets their cruelty, and their cruelty their fear, and so on, _ad infinitum_. They consider too these tortures as matter of glory to them in the constancy with which they are taught to suffer them; they familiarize to themselves the idea of them, in a manner that redoubles their natural courage and ferocity, and especially inspires them to fight desperately in battle, so as to prefer death to a captivity, of which the consequences are, and may be, so much more cruel to them. Another reason is also assignable for their carrying things to these extremities: War is considered by these people as something very sacred, and not lightly to be undertaken; but when once so, to be pushed with the utmost rigor by way of terror, joining its aid towards the putting the speediest end to it. The savage nations imagine such examples necessary for deterring one another from coming to ruptures, or invading one another upon slight motives, especially as their habitations or villages used to be so slightly fortified, that they might easily be surprised. They have lately indeed learned to make stronger inclosures, or pallisadoes, but still not sufficient entirely to invalidate this argument for their guarding against sudden hostilities, by the idea of the most cruel revenge they annex to the commission of them. It is not then, till after the maturest deliberation, and the deepest debates, that they commonly come to a resolution of _taking up the hatchet_, as they call declaring of war; after which, there are no excesses to which their rage and ferocity do not incite them. Even their feasting upon the dead bodies of their enemies, after putting them to death with the most excruciating tortures they can devise, is rather a point of revenge, than of relish for such a banquet. That midst all their savageness they have, however, some glimmering perception of the _laws of nations_, is evident from the use to which they put the _calumet_, the rights of which are kept inviolate, thro' especially the whole northern continent of America. It answers nearest the idea of the olive-branch amongst the ancients. As to your question, Sir, about the English being in the right or wrong, in their treatment of the _Acadians_, or descendants of the Europeans first settled in Acadia, and in their scheme of dispersing them, the point is so nice, that I own I dare not pronounce either way: but I will candidly state to you certain facts and circumstances, which may enable yourself to form a tolerably clear idea thereon. But previously I shall give you a succinct description of these people: They were a mixed breed, that is to say, most of them proceeded from marriages, or concubinage of the savage women with the first settlers, who were of various nations, but chiefly French, the others were English, Scotch, Swiss, Dutch, &c. the Protestants amongst whom, and especially their children were, in process of time, brought over to a conformity of faith with ours. They found they could not easily keep their footing in the country, or live sociably with the great majority of the French, but by this means of coming over to our religion. Certain Normans, of which number was Champlein, were the _first_ French that discovered Port-Royal, now Annapolis, where they found some Scotch settled, who had built a fort of turf, and planted in the area before it some plumb-trees, and walnut-trees, which was all the works of agriculture, and fortification the British nation had made in this country before the year 1710. This is the chief reason [And a very good one surely.] too, why they so much insist on calling Acadia, Nova-Scotia, and pretend to be the first inhabitants and true proprietors. These Scotch were driven from Port-Royal by the Normans. It is true, they had discovered the river of Port-Royal _before_ the Normans, and had built a turf-fort; but it is by no means true, that they were therefore the true settlers on this river, and less yet in the whole of Acadia. [Nothing can be more false and pitiful, than what follows of this Frenchman's reasoning. If a fort is not a settlement, what can be called one? Is it not one of the most valid, and generally received marks of taking possession? It supposes always a design to cultivate and improve; and no doubt but these first settlers would have done both, if they had not been untimely driven away.] The true inhabitants are those who cultivate a country, and thereby acquire a real permanent situation. The property of ground is to them who clear, plant, and improve it. The English had done nothing in this way to it till the year 1710. They never came there, but on schemes of incursion or trade; and in all the wars they had with the French, on being superior to them, they contented themselves with putting them to ransom; and though they sometimes took their fortified places, they did not settle in them. As all their pretension in Acadia was trade, they sometimes indeed detained such French as they could take prisoners; but that was only for the greater security of their traffic in the mean while with the savages. Traders, continually obliged to follow the savages in their vagabond journeys, could not be supposed to have time or inclination for agriculture. This title then the French settlers had; and in short, the whole body of the inhabitants of Acadia, from time immemorial, may be averred to have been French, since a few families of English, and other Europeans, cannot be said to form an exception, and those, as I have before observed, soon became frenchified. Except a few families from Boston or New-England I could never learn there were above three of purely British subjects, who also, ultimately conforming both in the religious and civil institutions to the French, became incorporated with them. These families were the _Peterses_, the _Grangers_, the _Cartys_. These last indeed descended from one Roger John-Baptist Carty, an Irish Roman-Catholic. He had been an indented servant in New-England, and had obtained at length his discharge from his master, with permission to remain with the French Acadians for the freer exercise of his religion. Peters was an iron-smith in England, and together with Granger, married in Acadia, and was there naturalized a Frenchman. Granger made his abjuration before M. Petit, secular-priest of the seminary of Paris, then missionary at Port-Royal (Annapolis). These and other European families then soon became united with the French Acadians, and were no longer distinguished from them. Most of these last were originally from _Rochelle_, _Xaintonge_, and _Poitou_; but all went under the common name of Acadians; and were once very numerous. The Parish of _Annapolis-Royal_ alone in 1754, according to the account of father _Daudin_, contained three hundred habitations, or about two thousand communicants. The _Mines_, which are about five-and-thirty leagues from Port-Royal, and the best corn country in Acadia, were also very populous; nor were there wanting inhabitants in many commodious parts of this peninsula. The character of the French Acadians was good at the bottom: their morals far from vitious; their constitution hardy, and yet strongly turned to indolence and inaction, not caring for work, unless a point of present necessity pressed them; much attached to the customs of the country, which have not a little of the savage in them, and to the opinions of their fore-fathers, which they cherished as a kind of patrimony; it was hard to inculcate any novelty to them. They had many parts of character in common with the Canada French. A little matter surprises, and sets them a staring, without stirring their curiosity to examine, or exciting their inclination to adopt or embrace it. They are remarkably fond of rosaries, crucifixes, agnus deis, and all the little trinkets consecrated by religion, with which they love to adorn their persons, and of which the priests make no little advantage in disposing of amongst them: and in truth, it is almost incredible what a power and influence these have over them, and with which they despotically govern them. One instance I am sure cannot but make you laugh. In September, 1754, the priest at _Pigigeesh_, had appointed his parishioners to perform the religious ceremony of a _Recess_, and to make them expiate some disgust they had given him, obliged them, men, women, and children, to attend the adoration of the holy-sacrament with a rope about their necks; and what is more, he not only made them all buy the rope of him, in which you may be sure he took care to find his account, but exacted their coming to fetch it bare-footed, from his parsonage house; and this they quietly submitted to. In short, considering the sweets of power on whomsoever exercised, our good fathers the missionaries are not so much to be pitied, as they would have us believe, for their great apostolical labors, and exposure to fatigue; since it is certain, they live like little kings in their respective parishes, and enjoy in all senses the best the land affords; and even our government itself, for its own ends, is obliged to pay a sort of court to them, and to keep them in good humour. The Acadian men were commonly drest in a sort of coarse black stuff made in the country; and many of the poorer sort go bare-footed in all weathers. The women are covered with a cloak, and all their head-dress is generally a handkerchief, which would serve for a veil too, in the manner they tied it, if it descended low enough. Their dwellings were almost all built in an uniform manner; the inhabitants themselves it was who built them, each for himself, there being but few or no mechanics in the country. The hatchet was their capital and universal instrument. They had saw-mills for their timber, and with a plane and a knife, an Acadian would build his house and his barn, and even make all his wooden domestic furniture. Happy nation! that could thus be sufficient to itself, which would always be the case, were the luxury and the vanity of other nations to remain unenvied. Such in short were the French Acadians, who fell under the dominion of the king of Great Britain, when the English experienced, from both the Acadians and savages, a most thorough reluctance to the recognition of their new sovereign, which has continued to this day. As to the savages it is certain, that the governors for the English acted entirely against the interest of their nation, in their procedure with them. They had been long under the French government, so far as their nature allows them to be under any government at all; and besides almost all the Micmakis, and great numbers of the Maricheets, or Abenaquis, were converted to our faith, and were consequently under the influence of the priests. It could not then be expected, naturally speaking, that these people could all of a sudden shake off their attachment to, and connexions with our nation; so that, even after the cession of Acadia, they continued, with a savage sulleness, to give marks of their preference of our government. This could not fail of giving the English umbrage; and their impatience not brooking either delays, or soothing them into a temper and opinion more favorable to them: they let it very early be seen, and penetrated by the savages, that they intended to clear the country of them. Nor would this exterminating plan, however not over-humane, have been perhaps wholly an impolitical one, if they had not had the French for neighbors, who, ever watchful and alert in concerning themselves with what past in those parts, took care underhand, by their priests and emissaries, to inflame them, and to offer them not only the kindest refuge, but to provide them with all necessaries of life, sure of being doubly repaid by the service they would do them, if but in the mischief they would do the English, to whom it was a great point with our government to make Acadia as uncomfortable, and as untenable as possible. It was no wonder then, that the savages, ill-used by the English, and still dreading worse from them, being constantly plied by our caresses, presents, and promises, should prefer our nation to that. I have before said, that religion has no great hold of these savages, but it could not be but of some weight in the scale, where their minds were already so exulcerated against those of a different one, whom they now considered as their capital enemies. You may be sure like-wise, our priests did not neglect making the most of this advantage, which the English themselves furnished them by their indiscreet management: for certain it is, that a few presents well placed, proper methods of conciliation, and a very little time, would have entirely detached the savages from our interest, and have turned the system of annoyance of the English against the French themselves. Some English governors indeed grew sensible of this, and applied themselves to retrieve matters by a gentler treatment, but the mischief was already done and irretrieveable; and our missionaries took care to widen the breach, and to keep up their spirit of hatred and revenge, by instilling into them the notions of jealousy, that such overtures of friendship, on the part of the English, were no better than so many snares laid to make them perish, by a false security, since they could not hope to do it by open violence. One instance may serve to show you the temper of these people: Some years ago the English officers being assembled at the _Mines_, in order to take a solemn recognition from them of the king of Great Britain, when a savage, a new convert, called _Simon_, in spite of all dissuasion, went himself alone to the English commander, and told him, that all his endeavours to get the king of England acknowledged, would be to no purpose; that, for his part, he should never pay any allegiance but to the king of France, and drawing a knife, said, "This indeed is all the arms I have, and with this weapon alone, I will stand by the king of France till death." Yet, with all this obstinacy of sentiments, once more I dare aver, the savages would have been easily won over and attached to the English party, had these gone the right way about it: and I well know that the French, who knew best the nature of the savages, much dreaded it; and were not a little pleased to see the English take measures so contrary to their own interest, and play the game so effectually into our hands. In short, we took, as was natural, all the advantage of their indiscretion and over-sight. I come now to the Acadians, or what may more properly be called the French Acadians. These would undoubtedly have proved very valuable subjects to the English, and extreamly useful to them in improving a dominion so susceptible of all manner of improvement as _Acadia_, (Nova-Scotia) if they could have been, prevailed on to break their former ties of allegiance to the king of France, and to have remained quietly under the new government to which they were now transferred. But from this they were constantly dissuaded, and withheld by the influence of our French priests, cantoned, amongst them [The letter-writer might have here added the infamous arts and falsities by which these emissaries of the French imposed on those bigotted deluded people, and to that end made religion a vile tool of state. They represented to these Acadians, that it was an inexpiable crime against their faith, to hold any commerce with heretics, and much more so to enter into their interests;--that there would be no pardon for them, either in the other world, or even in this, when the French should regain, as they certainly would, possession of a country ceded so much against the grain. In short, they succeeded but too well in keeping up the spirit of rebellion amongst those infatuated devotees of theirs, who remained sullen and refractory to all the advances the English made to gain them.], who kept them steady to our party. You may be sure our government did not fail of constantly inculcating the expediency of this conduct to our priests; who not only very punctually and successfully conformed to their instructions on this head, but very often in the heat of their zeal so much exceeded them, as to draw on themselves the animadversion of the English government. This answered a double end, of hindering that nation from finding those advantages in this country, by the prospect of which it had been tempted to settle in it, and of engaging it to consider Acadia itself, as something not material enough to think worth its keeping, at the expence which it must occasion, and consequently induce the English to be the readier to part with it again, on any future treaty of peace. This too is certain, that the French themselves knew neither the extent, nor the value of this country, till they were sensible of the improvements the English were projecting; and the use now so easy to discover might be made of so fine an establishment. But to return to the Acadians: It must be confest the English had, with respect to them, a difficult game to play. To force such a number of families, of which too such great use might have been made, to evacuate the country, seems at first both impolitic and inhuman. But then it must be considered, that these people were absolutely untractable as to the English, and thoroughly under the direction of priests in an interest quite opposite to theirs. To have taken those priests entirely from them, would have exasperated them yet more, and was, in fact, a measure repugnant to that spirit of toleration in religious matters, of which they boast, and to which it must be owned they constantly adhered, as to these people, both in speculation and practice. [Might not this dilemma have been removed, by procuring for them priests, since priests they must have, from neutral nations, such as the Flemings, the Roman Swiss Cantons, &c. whom a very small matter of reward and encouragement would, it is probable, have fixed in the English interest? At least, they could not have the same motives for fomenting rebellious principles, as the French priests, who were set on by that government.] None of the Acadians were ever molested purely for their religion; and even the priests of our nation were always civilly treated by them, whenever they had not reason to think they meddled in temporal matters, or stirred up their parishioners to rebellion. I have seen many of their own letters that acknowledge as much; so that upon the whole, I do not see that the English could do otherwise than they did, in expelling their bounds a people, who were constitutionally, and invincibly, a perpetual thorn in their side, whom they could at best look on as secret domestic enemies, who wanted nothing but an occasion to do them all the mischief in their power, and of whom, consequently, there could not, for their interest and safety, remain too few in the land. In the mean time the French took special care to appear at least to receive with open arms those _refugees_, whom their fear or hatred of the English drove out of that country; they gave them temporary places of habitation, both for them and their cattle, besides provisions, arms, tools, &c. till they should fix a settlement in some part of the French dominions here, which they recommended especially in the island of, or on the banks of the river of St. John; but they were at first very loth to come to a determination. And surely, these unfortunate victims of their attachment to the French government deserved all the reparation in its power to give them, for what they had quitted for the sake of preserving allegiance to it, even after their country had been transferred to another sovereign. I cannot, however, consistently with truth say, they were received as kindly as they deserved, which probably bred that undetermination of their's to fix a new settlement, as they were pressed to do by the French government. They retained still a hankering after their old habitations: the temporary new ones were far from being equally agreeable or convenient; and even the ancient settlers in those places where these refugees were provisionally cantoned, began to make complaints of their encroaching upon them, and to represent their apprehensions of their becoming burthensome to them. Some of our people in power, more sollicitous for their own private interest, than for the public good, were but too remiss in relieving and comforting these poor people. This, at length, indisposed them so, that after very pathetic remonstrances on the hardship of their case, and the motives upon which they thus suffered, great numbers of them began to listen seriously to the proposals made them by the English, to return upon very inviting terms to the settlements they had quitted. In short, it required the utmost art of the missionaries, and even a kind of coercion from the military power, to keep them from accepting the English offers. For when they presented a petition to Mons. _de Vergor_, for leave to return to the English district, this commander, after having remonstrated to them that he could not grant their request, nor decide any thing of himself in a matter of that importance, was forced, at length, to declare to them, that he would _shoot_ any man who should attempt to go over to the English. [It should here be remarked, that these very people had taken the oath of allegiance to the crown of England, agreeable to the tenor of the treaty of Utrecht. But the French, not content with harbouring these causeless malecontents, that were actually deserters over to them, kept continually, by means of the priests, plying such as staid behind with exhortations, promises, menaces, in short, with every art of seduction, to engage them to withdraw their sworn allegiance to their now lawful sovereign. In short, if all the transactions of the French in those parts were thrown into a history, it would lay open to the world such a scene of complicated villainy, rebellion, perjury, subornation of perjury, perfidiousness, and cruelty, as would for ever take from that nation the power of pluming itself, as it now so impudently does, on its sincerity, fairness, and moderation. The English, on the other hand, too conscious of the justice of their cause at bottom, have been too remiss in their confutation of the French falsities: content with being in the right, they cared too little for having the appearance of being so, as if the world was not governed by appearances.] Thus these poor people remained under this deplorable dilemma. Some of them too, had not even habitations to go back if they would: they had been forced into the measure of deserting their country, and passing over to the French side, by the violence of the Abbot de Loutre, who had not only preached them into this spirit, but ordered the savages, whom he had at his disposal, to set fire to their habitations, barns, &c. particularly at _Mirtigueesh_. [The reader is desired to observe, that in the memorials delivered into the English court by the French ministers, this burning of villages was specifically made an article of complaint, at the same time that it was their own incendiary agent, at their own instigation, who had actually caused fire to be set to them by his savages. Could then impudence be pushed farther than it was on this occasion?] In the mean time the French did not spare, at least, the consolation of words and promises to these distrest Refugee-acadians. They were assured, that they would infallibly be relieved on the regulation of the limits taking place, which was then on the point of being settled, by commissaries, between the two crowns. [The truth is, that in these assurances the French government, which never intended a conclusion, but only an amusement, did not scruple equally deceiving the English, and these infatuated Acadian subjects of ours, who, to the French interest had sacrificed their own, their possessions in their country, their sworn faith, in short, their ALL. Whoever has the patience to go through the French memorials, in their procedure with our commissaries, may see such instances of their pitiful prevarications, petty-fogging chicanery, quirks, and evasions, as would nauseate one. The whole stress of their argument, in short, turns merely upon names, where the things themselves were absolutely out of the question, from the manifest notoriety of them.] This hope, in some sort, pacified them; and they lived as well as they could in the expectation of a final decision, which was not so soon to come. Yet even this example of the sufferings of these people, purely on account of their attachment to the French government, could not out balance with the French Acadians, who remained in the English district, the assiduous applications of our priests to keep them firm in the French interest. They never ceased giving every mark in their power of their preference of our government to that, under which the treaty of Utrecht had put them. The English, however, at length finding that, neither by fair nor foul means, could they reclaim or win them over to their purpose, so as that they might in future depend upon them, came at once to a violent resolution. They surprized and seized every French Acadian-man they could lay their hands on, (the women they knew would follow of course) and, to clear the country effectually of them, dispersed them into the remotest parts of their other settlements in North-America, where they thought they could do the least mischief to them. Some were shipped off for England: the priests shared the same fate, and were conveyed to Europe. With this evacuation, the very existence of the French Acadians may be said to have ended; for in Acadia there are scarce any traces of them left, few or none having escaped this general seizure and transportation, for the necessity of which, the English were perhaps more to be pitied than blamed. In the mean time our government had so far succeeded, as to force the English, thus to deprive themselves of such a number of subjects, who, but for the reasons above deduced, might have been very valuable ones, and a great strengthening of their new colony. Hitherto then our neighborhood has made it almost as irksome, and uncomfortable to them, as we could wish; and this fine spot of dominion does not nigh produce to them the advantages that might otherwise naturally be expected from it. Numbers of themselves begin to exclaim against it, as if its value and importance had been overrated; not considering, that it is on the circumstances of their possession, and not on the nature of the possession itself, that their complaints and murmurings should fall. It is very likely, that whenever we get it back again, we shall know very well what to do with it. They have begun to teach us the value of what we thus inadvertently parted with to them; and it will be hard, indeed, on recovering it, if we do not improve upon their lessons. In the mean time you in Europe are cruelly mistaken, if you do not annex an idea of the highest consequence and value, to the matters of dominion now in dispute, between the crowns of France and Great Britain, between whom the war is in a manner begun, by the capture of the Alcides and Lys, and which, even without that circumstance, was inevitable. I know that our (French) government, is indeed fully sensible of the capital importance to it of its interest in these parts, and has proceeded in consequence. But it is not so, I find by your letters, and the reports of others, with numbers in Europe, who do not conceive, that the present object of the war is so considerable as it really is. To say nothing of the vast extent of country that falls under the claim of the English to Acadia (Nova-Scotia) which alone would form an immence mass of dominion, greatly improveable in a number of points, its situation is yet of greater weight. By the English possessing it, Canada itself would be so streightened, so liable to harrassment, and especially to the comptrol of its navigation, that it would scarce be tenable, and surely not worth the expence of keeping. The country pretended to have been ceded is far preferable to it; and the masters of it would be equally masters of the sea all over North-America. Hallifax, for example, according to which of the nation's hand it should be in, may be equally an effectual check on Quebec, or Boston. You will then allow, that was there even nothing more in dispute than the limits of the cession of Acadia, or Nova-Scotia, together with its necessary dependence, that alone would form such a considerable object, as not easily to be given up on either side. The commissaries appointed by both crowns, then failing of coming to any agreement or regulation, it is no wonder to see the appeal lodged with the sword; especially when there is another point yet remains, of perhaps equal, if not superior, importance, depending on the issue of the war: and that is, the western inland frontiers of the English colonies. Should we ever command the navigation of the lakes and rivers, behind their settlements, you can easily figure to yourself, not only the vast advantages of preserving that communication of Canada, with New Orleans and the Mississippi, so absolutely essential to both these our colonies, but the facility it will give us on all occasions of distressing the English, where neither their marine-force can succor them, nor can they be able to resist the attack, since we may make it wherever ever we please, and effectually dodge any land-force they might assemble in any one or two parts to oppose us. We may then carry the war into the quarter most convenient; and most safe for us, if we should ever have the whole navigation of the lakes so far at our disposal, as to prevent their constructing any material number vessels to dispute it with us. Thus we can penetrate into the heart of any of their colonies, that may best suit us, especially with the concurrent aid of the savages, whom we have found means to attach so strongly to us, and on whom we can greatly depend for the effectual harrassment of, especially, the back-plantations of the English. You see then, Sir, by this summary sketch of the points in contest, that the war being once engaged, it will not be so easy a matter as many in Europe imagine, to adjust the pretensions, so various and so important, of the respective nations, so as to be able to procure a peace. Some, of the points appear to me absolutely _untreatable_. You may observe too, that I do not so much as touch upon the dispute about Tabago, Santa-Lucia, or any of the Leeward islands, which are not, however, of small consequence. In short, the war must, in all human probability, be a much longer one, than is commonly believed. Neither nation can materially relax of its claims, without such a thorough sacrifice of its interest in America, as nothing but the last extremities of weakness can compel. Long as this letter is, I cannot yet close it without mentioning to you a singular phenomenon of nature, in the island of St. John. You know it is a flat, level island, chiefly formed out of the congestion of sand and soil from the sea. Tradition, experience, and authentic public acts (_Procés verbaux_) concur to attest that every seven years, it is visited by swarms either of locusts, or of field-mice, alternately, never together; without its being possible to discover hitherto either the reason, or the origin of these two species, which thus in their turns, at the end of every seventh year, pour out all of a sudden in amazing numbers, and having committed their ravages on all the fruits of the earth, precipitate themselves into the sea. Neither has any preventive remedy for this evil been yet discovered. It is well known how they perish, but, once more, how they are produced no one, that I could learn, has as yet been able to trace. The field-mice are undoubtedly something in the nature of those swarms of the sable-mice, that sometimes over-run Lapland and Norway, though I do not know that these return so regularly, and at such stated periods, as those of this island. I am, Sir, Your most obedient, Humble servant. CHARACTER OF THE SAVAGES of NORTH-AMERICA, EXTRACTED FROM A LETTER of the Father CHARLEVOIX, TO A LADY of Distinction, To give you, Madam, a summary sketch of the character of the savages in this country, I am to observe to you, that under a savage appearance, with manners and customs, that favor entirely of barbarism, may be found a society exempt from almost all the faults that so often vitiate the happiness of ours. They appear to be without passion, but they are in cold blood, and sometimes even from principle, all that the most violent and most unbridled passion can inspire into those, who no longer listen to reason. They seem to lead the most miserable of lives, and they are, perhaps, the only happy of the earth. At least those of them are still so, amongst whom the knowledge of those objects that disturb and seduce us, has not yet penetrated, or awakened in them, those pernicious desires which their ignorance kept happily dormant: it has not, however, hitherto made great ravages amongst them. There may be perceived a mixture in them of the most ferocious and the most gentle manners; of the faults reproachable to the carnivorous beasts, with those virtues and qualities of the head and heart, that do the most honor to human-kind. One would, at first, imagine, that they had no sort of form of government, that they knew no laws nor subordination, and that living in an entire independence, they suffered themselves to be entirely guided by chance, or by the most wild, untamed caprice: yet they enjoy almost all the advantages, which a well-regulated authority can procure to the most civilized nations. Born free and independent, they hold in horror the very shadow of despotic power; but they rarely swerve from certain principles and customs, founded upon good-sense, which stand them in the stead of laws, and supplement in some sort to their want of legal authority. All constraint mocks them; but reason alone hold them in a kind of subordination, which, for its being voluntary, does not the less answer the proposed end. A man, whom they should greatly esteem, would find them tractable and ductile enough, and might very nearly make them do any thing he had a mind they should; but it is not easy to gain their esteem to such a point. They grant it only to merit, and that merit a very superior one, of which they are as good judges as those, who, amongst us, value themselves the most upon being so. They are, especially, apt to be taken with physiognomy; and there are not in the world, perhaps, men who are greater _connoisseurs_ in it: and that is, because they have for no man whatever, any of those respects that prejudice or impose on us, and that studying only nature, they understand it well. As they are not slaves to ambition or interest, those two passions that have chiefly cancelled in us that sentiment of humanity, which the author of nature had engraved in our hearts; the inequality of conditions is not necessary to them, for the support of society. There are not therefore, Madam, to be seen amongst them, or at least, are rarely to be met with, those arrogant haughty characters, who, full of themselves of their greatness, or their merit, look on themselves almost as a species a-part, and disdain the rest of mankind, of whom consequently they can never have the confidence or love. Their equals these rarely know any thing of, because the jealousy that reigns amongst the great, hinders them from being intimate enough with one another. Neither do they know themselves, from their never studying themselves, and from their constant self-flattery. They never reflect, that to gain admission into the hearts of men, they must make themselves their equals; so that with this pretended superiority of enlightened understanding, which they look on as an essential property of the rank they hold, the most part of them live groveling in a proud and incurable ignorance of all that it would be the most important for them to know, and never enjoy the true sweets of life. In all this how wretchedly different from the savages! In this country, all the men esteem themselves equally men; and in man, what they most esteem is, the man. No distinction of birth; no prerogative attributed to rank, to the prejudice of the other free members of society; no pre-eminence annexed to merit that can inspire pride, or make others feel too much their inferiority. There is, perhaps, less delicacy in their sentiments than amongst us, but surely more uprightness; less ceremony; less of all that can form a dubious character; less of the temptations or illusions or self-love. Religion only can perfect these people in what is good in them, and correct what bad. This indeed is not peculiar to them, but what is so, is, that they bring with them fewer obstacles to religious devotion when once they have begun to believe, which can only be the effect of a special grace. It is also true, that to establish firmly the empire of religion over them, it would be necessary that they should see it practised in all its purity by those who profess it. They are extremely susceptible of the scandal given by bad Christians, as are all those who are, for the first time, instructed in the principles of the Gospel-morality. You will perhaps ask me, Madam, if they have a religion? To this I answer, that it cannot be said they have not one, though it is difficult to give a definition of what it is. I shall sometime or other, take occasion to enter into more particulars on this head. This letter, like most of the others that have preceded it, prove sufficiently that I do not pretend to write to you methodically. I shall then now only content myself with adding, by way of finishing, to this picture of the savages, that even in their most indifferent actions, may be perceived the traces of the primitive natural religion, but which escape those who do not study them enough, because they are yet more defaced by the want of instruction, [This want of instruction is wretchedly supplemented amongst the savage-converts to the Popish religion, by that superstitious worship, and those fabulous traditions, its missionaries have introduced amongst them, and which must be only the more execrable, for their being a superstructure on so fair a foundation as that of the truths of the Gospel. At least, the savages, in their genuine unsophisticated state, have no such base, absurd, derogatory ideas of the Deity, as are implied by the doctrines of transubstantiation, purgatory, absolution, and the like fictions in the Romish church, which have been the more than mines of Mexico and Peru, of its clergy.] than adulterated by the mixture of a superstitious worship, and by fabulous traditions. _FINIS._ 
31245	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 31245-h.htm or 31245-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31245/31245-h/31245-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31245/31245-h.zip) Acadian Reminiscences The True Story of Evangeline by JUDGE FELIX VOORHIES Introduction by Felix Birney Voorhies Price $2.00 E. P. Rivas, Publisher New Orleans, Louisiana Copyright, 1907, by Felix Voorhies [Illustration: _A Modern Conception of Evangeline_ Posed by Rev. A. T. Kempton] Table of Contents Page List of Illustrations 7 Introduction 9 I. Reminiscences 13 II. Acadian Manners and Customs 23 III. Rumors of War 35 IV. Threatening Clouds 43 V. Acadian Exiles 53 VI. A Night of Terror 61 VII. Generous Friends 75 VIII. Evangeline 79 IX. Louisiana 91 List of Illustrations _Frontispiece_ A Modern Conception of Evangeline Page Catholic Church Exterior 76 Evangeline 81 Evangeline Oak 86 Interior of Church 104 Introduction Acadian Reminiscences, depicting the True Life of Evangeline, is a story centered about the life of the Acadians whose descendants are now residents of the Teche Country also known as the Land of Evangeline. These people lived a pure and simple life with an unbounded devotion to their religion and with an unshakable faith in their God. Their love for one another is unparalleled in the annals of human history, to which may be attributed their fortitude and perseverance in their travels from Canada, upon being expelled by the British, to their chosen Land on the banks of Bayou Teche. The author, Judge Felix Voorhies, relates the story as it was told to him by his grandmother. The story begins by telling of the native land of these Acadians and of the village of St. Gabriel from which they were driven when the French Province was surrendered to the British. It tells of members of the same families being separated and placed aboard different ships and some never to see each other again. The story tells of their landing in Maryland and after some time, hearing that members of theirs and other families having landed in Louisiana. This news brought encouragement and determination, in face of great dangers, to travel to the beautiful Land of the Teche. The author was best able to present this story as it was handed down to him by word of mouth by his grandmother who adopted Evangeline when orphaned at an early age. The writer repeats the story in a simple narrative manner characteristic of the Acadians. To this day travelers may visit the quaint town of St. Martinsville on the banks of Bayou Teche and pay their respects at the grave shrine of Evangeline and for a few fleeting moments live the life of these early settlers. Because of the demands for this story and in tribute to Judge Felix Voorhies, my grandfather, a man of noble character, staunch patriotism and unerring judgment, I, together with all members of the Voorhies family, dedicate this book. FELIX BIRNEY VOORHIES. Chapter One Acadian Reminiscences _With the true Story of Evangeline_ It seems but yesterday, and yet sixty years have passed away since my boyhood. How fleeting is time, how swiftly does old age creep upon us with its infirmities. The curling smoke, dispelled by the passing wind, the water that glides with a babbling murmur in the gentle stream, leave as deep a mark of their passage as do the fleeting days of man. I was twelve years old, and yet I can picture in my mind the noble simplicity of my father's house. The homes of our fathers were not showy, but their appearance was smiling and inviting; they had neither quaintness nor gaudiness, but were as grand in their simplicity as the boundless hospitality of their owners, for no people were more generous or hospitable than the Acadians who settled in the magnificent and poetical wilds of the Teche country. My father's house stood on a sloping hill, in the center of a large yard, whose finely laid rows of china trees, interspersed with clusters of towering oaks, formed delightful vistas. On the declivity of the hill the orchard displayed its wealth of orange, of plum and peach trees. Farther on was the garden, teeming with vegetables of all kinds, sufficient for the need of a whole village. I can yet picture that yard, with its hundreds of poultry, so full of life, running with flapping of wings and with noisy cacklings around my mother as she scattered the grain for them morning and evening. At the foot of the hill, extending to the Vermillion Bayou, were the pasture grounds, where grazed the cattle, and where the bleating sheep followed, step by step, the stately ram with tinkling bell suspended to his neck. How clearly is that scenery pictured in my mind with its lights and shadows! Were I a painter I could even now portray with striking reality the minutest shadings and beauties of that landscape. How strange that I should recall so vividly those things, while scenes that I have admired in my maturer years have been obliterated from my memory! Ah! the child's mind, like soft wax, is easily molded to sensations and impressions that never fade, while man's mind, blunted by the keenness of life's deceptions, can no longer receive and retain the imprints of those impressions and sensations. If this be true, does not a kind Providence suggest to us, in this wise, the wisdom of molding the child's mind and intelligence with the fostering care of parental solicitude, that he may become an upright man, a good citizen and a reproachless husband and father. My father was an Acadian, son of an Acadian, and proud of his ancestry. The term Acadian was, in those days, synonymous with honesty, hospitality and generosity. By his indomitable energy, my father had acquired a handsome fortune, and such was the simplicity of his manners, and such his frugality, that he lived, contented and happy, on his income. Our family consisted of my father and mother, of three children, and of my grandmother, a centenarian, whose clear and lucid memory contained a wealthy mine of historical facts that an antiquarian or chronicler would have been proud to possess. In the cold winter days the family assembled in the hall, where a goodly fire blazed on the hearth, and while the wind whistled outside, our grandmother, an exile from Acadia, would relate to us the stirring scenes she had witnessed when her people were driven from their homes by the British, their sufferings during their long pilgrimage overland from Maryland to the wilds of Louisiana, the dangers that beset them on their long journey through endless forests, along the precipitous banks of rivers too deep to be forded, among hostile Indians, that followed them stealthily, like wolves, day and night, ever ready to pounce upon them and massacre them. And as she spoke, we drew closer to her, and grouped around her and stirred not, lest we lose one of her words. When she spoke of Acadia, her face brightened, her eyes beamed with a strange brilliancy, and she kept us spellbound, so eloquent and yet so sad were her words, and then tears trickled down her aged cheeks and her voice trembled with emotion. Under our father's roof she lacked none of the comforts of life. We knew that her children vied with each other to please her, and we wondered why it was that she seemed to be sad and unhappy. We were then mere children and knew nothing of the human heart, grim experience had not taught us its sorrowful lessons, and we knew not that a remembrance has often the bitterness of gall, and that tears alone will wash away that bitterness. She sat in her rocking chair, with hands clasped on her knees, her body leaning slightly forward, her hair, silvered over by age, could be seen under the lace of her cap, her dress was neat and tasteful, for she always took pride in her personal appearance. She called us "petiots" meaning "little ones," and she took pleasure in conversing with us. My father remonstrated with her because she fondled us too much. "Mother," he would say, "you spoil the children," but she heeded not his words and fondled us the more. These details are interesting to none but myself, and I dwell, perhaps, too long upon them. Alas! I am an old man, reviewing the joys and sorrows of my boyhood, and it seems to me that I have become once more a little child when I speak of days gone by, and when I recall the memory of those I loved so well and who are no more. I shall now attempt to repeat the story of my grandmother's misfortunes, and as she has related it to us time and again. Chapter Two My Grandmother's Narrative _She Depicts Acadian Manners and Customs_ "Petiots," she said, "my native land is situated far, far away, up north, and you would have to walk during many months to reach it; you would have to cross rivers deep and wide, go over mountains looming up thousands of feet, and beneath impending rocks, shadowing yawning valleys; you would have to travel day and night, in endless forests, among hostile Indians, seeking an opportunity to waylay and murder you. "My native land is called Acadia. It is a cold and desolate region during winter, and snow covers the ground during several months of the year. It is rocky, and huge and rugged stones lie strewn over the surface of the ground in many places, and one must struggle hard for a livelihood there, especially with the poor and meagre tools possessed by my people. My country is not like yours, diversified by rolling and gentle hills, covered the year round with a thick carpet of green grass, and where every plant sprouts up and grows to maturity as if by magic, and where one may enrich himself easily, provided he fears God and is laborious and economical. Yet I grieve for my native land, with its rocks and snows, because I have left there a part of my heart in the graves of those I loved so well and who sleep under its sod." And as she spoke thus, her eyes streamed with tears and emotion choked her utterance. "I have promised to give you an insight into the manners and customs of your Acadian ancestors, and to tell you how it was that we left our country as exiles to emigrate to Louisiana. I now keep my promise, and will relate to you all that I know of our sad history: "You must know, petiots, that less than a hundred years ago Acadia was a French Province, whose people lived contented and happy. The king of France sent brave officers to govern the province, and these officers treated us with the greatest kindness; they were our arbiters and adjusted all our differences, and so equitable were their decisions, that they proved satisfactory to all. Is it strange, then, that being thus situated we prospered and lived contented and happy? Little did we then dream of what cruel fate had in store for us. "Our manner of living in Acadia was peculiar, the people forming, as it were, one single family. The province was divided into districts inhabited by a certain number of families, among which the government parceled out the land in tracts sufficiently large for their needs. Those families grouping together formed small villages, or posts, under the administration of commandants. No one was allowed to lead a life of idleness, or to be a worthless member of the province. The child worked as soon as he was old enough to do so, and he worked until old age unfitted him for toil. The men tended the flocks and tilled the land, and while they plowed the fields, the boys followed them step by step, goading on the work-oxen. The wives and daughters attended to the household work, and spun the wool and cotton which they wove and manufactured into cloth with which to clothe the family. The old people not over active and strong, like your grandmother," she would add with a smile, "together with the infirm and invalids, braided the straw with which we manufactured our hats; so that you see, petiots, we had no drones, no useless loungers in our villages, and every one lived the better for it. "The land allotted to each district was divided into two unequal parts; the larger portion was set apart as the tillage ground, and then parceled out among the different families; and yet the clashing of interests, resulting from that community of rights, never stirred up any contentions among your Acadian ancestors. "Although poor, they were honest and industrious, and they lived contented with what little they had, without envying their neighbors, and how could it be otherwise? If any one was unable to do his field work because of illness, or of some other misfortune, his neighbors flew to his assistance, and it required but a few days work, with their combined efforts to weed his field and save his crop. "Thus it was that, incited by noble and generous feeling, the inhabitants of the province seemed to form one single family, and not a community composed of separate families. "These details, petiots, are tedious to you, and you would rather that I should tell you stories more amusing and captivating." "No, grandmother, we feel more and more interested in your narrative. Speak to us of Acadia, your native land, which we already love for your sake." "Petiots," she said, "I love my Acadia, and you will learn to love it also, when you shall have been made acquainted with the worth of its honest and noble inhabitants; besides," added she, with a sad smile, "the gloomy and sombre part of my story remains to be told. When you shall have listened to it, you will then understand why it is that I feel sad and weep, when the remembrances of the past come crowding in my heart. But to resume, contiguous to the village ground lay the pasture grounds, well fenced in, and which were known as the common. In these grounds, the cattle of the colonists were kept, and thus secured in that safe enclosure, our herds increased every year. Thus you see, petiots, we lacked none of the comforts of life, and although not wealthy, we were not in want, as our wishes were few and easily satisfied. "Plainness and simplicity of manners are the mainsprings of happiness, and he that wishes for what he may never have or acquire, must be miserable, indeed, and worthy of pity. Alas! that this simplicity of our Acadian manners should have already degenerated into extravagance and folly! Ah! the Acadians are losing, by degrees, the remembrance of the traditions and customs of the mother country, the love of gold has implanted itself in their hearts, and this will bring no happiness to them. Ere you live to be as old as I," she would say shaking her head mournfully, "you will find out that your grandmother is right in her prediction. "In Acadia, as we prized temperance, sobriety and simplicity of manners more than riches, early marriages were highly favored. Early marriages foster the virtues which give to man the only true happiness, and from which he derives health and longevity. "No obstacle was thrown in the way of a loving couple who desired to marry. The lover accepted by the maiden obtained the ready consent of the parents, and no one dreamed of inquiring whether the lover was a man of means, or whether the destined bride brought a handsome dowry, as we are wont to do nowadays. Their mutual choice proved satisfactory to all, and, indeed, who better than they could mate their hearts, when they alone were staking their happiness on the venture? and, besides, it is not often that marriages founded on mutual love turn out badly. "The bans were published in the village church, and the old curate, after admonishing them of the sacredness of the tie that bound them forever, blessed their union, while the holy sacrifice of mass was being said. Petiots, it is useless for me to describe the marriage ceremony and the rejoicings attending the nuptials, as you have witnessed the like here, but I will speak to you of an old Acadian custom which prevails no more among us, one which we no longer observe. "As soon as the marriage of a young couple was determined, the men of the village, after having built a cozy little home for them, cleared and planted the land parceled out to them; and while they so generously extended their aid and assistance, the women were not laggards in their kindness to the bride. To her they made presents of what they deemed most necessary for the comfort and utility of her household, and all this was done and given with honest and willing hearts. "Everything was orderly and neat in the home of the happy couple, and after the marriage ceremony in the church and the wedding feast at the home of the bride's father, the happy couple were escorted to their new home by the young men and the young maidens of the village. How genial was the joy that warmed our hearts and brightened our souls on these occasions; how noisy and light the gaiety of the young people; how unalloyed their merriment and happiness!" Chapter Three Rumors of War Disturb the Peace and Quiet _Of the Acadians_ "Thus far, petiots, I have briefly depicted to you the simple manners and customs of the Acadians. I will now relate to you what befell them, and how a cruel war sowed ruin and desolation in their homes. I will tell you how they were ruthlessly treated by the English, driven away from Acadia, and despoiled of all their worldly goods and possessions; how they were scattered to the four winds as wretched exiles, and how the very name of their country was blotted out of existence. My narrative will not be gay, petiots, but it is meet and proper that you should know these things, and that you should learn them from the lips of the witnesses themselves. "It was on a Sunday, I remember this as if it were but yesterday, we were attending mass, and when our old curate ascended his pulpit, as he was wont to do every Sunday, he announced to us that war was being waged between France and England. 'My children,' said he in sad and solemn tones, 'you may expect to witness awful scenes and to undergo sore trials, but God will not forsake you if you put your trust in his infinite mercy'; and then kneeling down, he prayed aloud for France, and we all responded to his fervent voice, and said amen! from the depths of our hearts. A painful silence prevailed in the little church until mass was over; it seemed as if every one of us was attending the funeral of a member of his family. As we left the church, the people grouped themselves on all sides to discuss the sad news. There was no dancing on the greensward in front of the little church that day, petiots, and we retired mournfully and quietly to our homes. "This intelligence troubled us, and we tried, in vain, to shake off the gloom that darkened our souls. When we conversed together, the words died on our lips, and our smiles had the sadness of a sob. "Ah! Petiots, war, with its train of evils and of woes, is always a terrible scourge, and it was but natural that we should ponder mournfully on its consequences and dread the future. England had enlisted hundreds of Indians in her armies, and we knew that the bloodthirsty savages spared no one, and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on their prisoners; they dreamed of nothing but incendiarism and massacre, and these were the troops that were to be let loose upon us. The mere thought of facing such fiends, was enough to dismay the stoutest heart and to disturb the peace and quiet of a community like ours. We knew not what to resolve, but, come what may, we were determined to die, rather than become traitors to our King and to our God. "Then we argued ourselves into a different mood by thinking that this news might, after all, be exaggerated, and that our apprehensions were unfounded. Why should England wage war upon us? Acadia, so poor, so desolate, so sparsely peopled, was surely not worth the shedding of a single drop of blood for its conquest. The storm would pass by without even ruffling our peace and tranquillity. We argued thus to rid ourselves of the gloomy forebodings that troubled us, but despite our endeavors, our fears haunted us and made us despondent and miserable. "The news that reached us, now and then, were far from being encouraging. France, whelmed in defeat, seemed to have abandoned us, the English were gaining ground, and our Canadian brothers were calling for assistance. Several of our young men resolved to join them to fight the battles of France and to die for their country, if God so willed it. "Ah! Petiots, that was a sad day in the colony, and we all shed bitter tears. The brave young men that were sacrificing their lives so nobly, wept with us, but remained as firm as rocks in their resolve. We had, at last, realized the fact that the threatening ruin was frowning upon us, and that it had struck at our very hearts. "On the day of their departure, the noble young men received the holy communion, kneeling before the altar, and they listened to the encouraging words of the old curate, while every one wept and sobbed in the little church. After having told them to serve the king faithfully and to love God above all else, he gave them his blessing, while big tears rolled down his cheeks. Alas! how could he look upon them without emotion and grief? He had christened them when they were mere babes; he had watched them grow to manhood; he knew them as I know you, and they were leaving their homes and those that they loved, never, perhaps to return. "They departed from St. Gabriel, sad but resolute, and as far as they could be seen, marching off, they waved their handkerchiefs as a last farewell. It was a cruel day to us, and from that moment, everything grew from bad to worse in Acadia." Chapter Four Threatening Clouds Overcast the Acadian Sky _The Elders of the Colony Meet in Council to Discuss the Situation_ "Six months passed away without our receiving the least intelligence of what had become of our brave young men. This contributed, not a little, to increase our uneasiness, and to sadden our thoughts, for we felt in our hearts that they would never return. Our forebodings proved too well founded," said my grandmother, with faltering voice, "we have never ascertained their fate. We knew, however, that the war was still progressing, and that the French were losing ground every day. The English directed all their efforts against Canada, and seemed to have lost sight of Acadia in the turmoil and fury of battle. In spite of our anxiety and apprehensions, the peace and quiet of the colony remained unruffled. Alas! we had been lulled to security by deceitful hopes, and the storm that had swept along Canada, was about to burst upon us with unchecked fury. Our day of trial had dawned, and, doomed victims of a cruel fate, we were about to undergo sufferings beyond human endurance, and to experience unparalleled outrages and cruelties." Our grandmother, at this point, was overcome by her emotion and hung her head down. Awed into admiration, mingled with reverence, for her noble sentiments and for the ardent love she still cherished for her lost country, we gazed upon her in silence, and understood now why it was that she always wept when she spoke of Acadia. Having mastered her emotions, she brushed away her tears and resumed her narrative as follows. "Petiots," she said in a sweet sad tone, "your grandmother always weeps when the remembrance of her sufferings and of her wrongs comes back to her heart. She is an old woman and her tears soothe her grief. Scars of a wounded heart never heal entirely, joy and happiness alone leave no trace of their passage, as you shall learn hereafter. But why should I speak thus to you? Soon enough you shall learn more from the teachings of grim experience, than from all the sayings and maxims, how wise and judicious soever they may be. "It was bruited at St. Gabriel that the English were landing troops in Acadia, whence came the rumor, no one could tell, and it would have been impossible to trace it to its source, and yet, uncertain as it was, it created considerable uneasiness in the community. Bad news travels fast, petiots, and it looks as if some evil genius took delight to despatch winged messengers to scatter the tidings broadcast over the land. The rumor was confirmed in a manner as tragical as it was unexpected. "One morning, at dawn of day, a young man was lying unconscious on the green near the church. His arm was shattered, and he had bled profusely; it was with the greatest difficulty that we restored him to life. When he opened his eyes his looks were wild and terrified, and, despite his weakness, he made a desperate effort to rise and flee. "We quieted him with friendly words, and he heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. He had a burning fever, and his parched lips quivered as he muttered incoherent words. We removed him to the priest's house, where his wounds were dressed, and when he had recovered from the exhaustion occasioned by the loss of blood, he related to us what had happened to him, and we listened to his words with breathless suspense and anxiety. "'The English', said he, 'have landed troops on the eastern coast of Acadia, and are committing the most atrocious cruelties. Their inhumanity surpasses belief. They pillage and burn our villages, and even lay sacrilegious hands on the sacred vessels in our churches. They tear the wives from their husbands, the children from their parents, and they drive their ill-fated victims to the seashore, and stow them on ships which sail immediately for unknown lands. They spare only such as become traitors to their Faith and to their King. They raided our village at dusk yesterday, and have perpetrated there the same wanton outrages and cruelties. They reduced it to ashes, and the least expostulation on our part exposed us to be shot down like outlaws. They have driven its inhabitants to the seashore like cattle, and when through sheer exhaustion, one of their victims fell by the road side, I have seen the fiends compel him with the butts of their muskets, to rise and walk. I have escaped, in the darkness of night, with an arm shattered by a random shot, and I have run exhausted by the loss of blood, I fell where you have found me. They will overrun Acadia, and they will not spare you, my friends, if you show any hostility to them. Your town will be raided shortly, and you cannot resist them, my friends. Abandon your homes, and seek safety elsewhere, while you have the time and chance to do so.' "You may well imagine, petiots, that our trouble was great when we heard this terrible news. We stood there, not knowing what to do, although time was precious, and although it was necessary that we should devise some plan for our safety and protection. In our predicament and in so critical an emergency, our only alternative was to apply to our old curate for advice. "He gave us words of encouragement, and withdrew with our elders to his room. We remained in the churchyard, grouped together and speaking in whispers, our souls harrowed by the most gloomy and despairing thoughts. "Ah! Petiots, we often speak of a mortal hour, but the hour that passed away while these men were holding counsel in the curate's room, seemed to encompass a year's duration. Our happiness, our all, our life itself, in fact, were at stake and turned on their decision, and we awaited that decision in dreadful suspense. At last our elders, accompanied by our old curate, sallied out of that house with sorrowful countenances, but with steady step and firm resolve written on their brows." Chapter Five The Acadians Resolve to Leave Acadia as Exiles _Rather than submit to English rule--Before leaving St. Gabriel, they apply the torch to the houses, and it is swept away by the flames._ "Their countenance bespoke the gravity of the situation, far more serious, indeed, than we then realized, and as they approached us, in the deathlike silence that prevailed, we could distinctly hear the throbbings of our hearts. We were impatient to learn our fate, and yet we dreaded the disclosure. Our anxiety was of short duration, and one of our elders spoke as follows. I repeat his very words, for as they fell from his lips with the solemn sound of a funeral knell, they became engraved upon my heart. 'My good friends,' said he, 'our hopes were illusory and the future is big with ominous threats for us. A cruel and relentless enemy is at our doors. The story of the wounded man is true, the English are applying the torch to our villages, and are spreading and scattering ruin as they advance. They spare neither old age nor infirmity, neither women nor children, and are tender hearted only to renegades and apostates. Are you ready to accept these humiliating conditions, and to be branded as traitors and cowards?' "'Never,' we answered; 'never! Rather proscription, ruin and death.' "'My friends,' he added, 'exile is ruin; it is despair, it is desolation. Pause a while and reflect, before forming your resolve.' "Not one of us flinched, and without hesitancy, we all cried out: 'Rather than disown our mother country and become apostates, let exile, let ruin, let death, be our lot.' "'Your answer is noble and generous, my good friends, and your resolve is sublime,' said he; 'then let exile be our lot. Many a one has suffered even more than we shall suffer and for causes less saintly than ours. Let us prepare for the worst, for to-day, we bid adieu forever, perhaps to Acadia, to our homes, to the graves of those we loved so well. We leave friendless and penniless for distant lands; we leave for Louisiana, where we shall be free to honor and reverence France, and to serve our God according to our belief. My good friends, we barely have the time to prepare ourselves; to-night, we must be far from St. Gabriel.' "These words chilled our hearts. It seemed to us, that all this was a dream, a frightful illusion, that clung to our hearts, to our souls; and yet, without a tear, without a complaint, we resigned ourselves to our fate. "Ah! it was a cruel day to us, petiots. We were leaving Acadia, we were abandoning the homes where our children were born and raised, we were leaving as malefactors, without one ray of hope to lighten our dark future, and it seemed to us that poor, desolate Acadia was dearer to us, now that we were forced to leave her forever. Everything that we saw, every object that we touched, recalled to our hearts some sweet remembrance of days gone by. Our whole life seemed centered in the furniture of our desolate homes; in the flowers that decked our gardens; in the very trees that shaded our yards. They whispered to us ditties of our blithe childhood; they recalled to us the glowing dreams of our adolescence illumined with their fleeting illusions; they spoke to us of the hopes and happiness of our maturer years; they had been the mute witnesses of our joys and of our sorrows, and we were leaving them forever. As we gazed upon them, we wept bitterly, and in our despair, we felt as if the sacrifice was beyond our strength. But our sense of duty nerved us, and the terrible ordeal we were undergoing did not shake our resolve, and submitting to the will of God, we preferred exile and poverty, with their train of woes and humiliations, before dishonoring ourselves by becoming traitors and renegades. "In the course of the day our grief increased, and the scenes that took place were heart-rending. I never recall them without shuddering. "Our people, so meek, so peaceable, became frenzied with despair. The women and children wandered from house to house, wailing and uttering piercing cries. Every object of spoil was destroyed, and the torch was applied to the houses. The fire, fanned by a too willing breeze, spread rapidly, and in a moment's time, St. Gabriel was wrapt in a lurid sheet of devouring flames. We could hear the cracking of planks tortured by the blaze; the crash of falling roofs, while the flames shot up to an immense height with the hissing and soughing of a hurricane. Ah! Petiots, it was a fair image of pandemonium. The people seemed an army of fiends, spreading ruin and desolation in their path. The work-oxen were killed, and a few among us, with the hope of a speedy return to Acadia, threw our silverware into the wells. Oh, the ruin, the ruin, petiots; it was horrible. "We left St. Gabriel numbering about three hundred, whilst the ashes of our burning houses, carried by the wind, whirled past us like a pillar of light to guide our faltering steps through the wilderness that stretched before us." Chapter Six A Night of Terror and of Misery. The Exiles are Captured by the English Soldiery _Driven to the seashore and embarked for deportation--They are thrown as cast-aways on the Maryland shores--The hospitality and generosity of Charles Smith and of Henry Brent_ "As darkness came, we cast a sad look toward the spot where our peaceful and happy St. Gabriel once stood. Alas, we could see nothing but the crimson sky reflecting the lurid glare of the flames that devoured our Acadian villages. "Not a word fell from our lips as we journeyed slowly on, and as night came its darkness increased our misery, and such was our dejection, that we would have faced death without a shudder. "At last we halted in a deep ravine shadowed by projecting rocks, and we sat down to rest our weary limbs. We built no fires and spoke only in whispers, fearing that the blazing fire, that the least sound might betray us in our place of concealment; with hearts failing, oppressed with gloomy forebodings, the events of the day seemed to us a frightful dream. "Oh! that it only had been a dream, petiots! Alas! it was a sad reality, and yet in our wretchedness, we could hardly realize that these events had actually happened. "Our elders had withdrawn a few paces away from us to decide on the best course to pursue, for, in the hurry of our departure, no plan of action had been decided upon, our main object being to escape the outrages and ill-treatment of a merciless and cruel soldiery. It was decided to reach Canada the best way we could, after which, after crossing the great northern lakes, our journey was to be overland to the Mississippi river, on whose waters we would float down to Louisiana, a French colony inhabited by people of our own race, and professing the same religious creed as ours. "But to carry out this plan, petiots, we had to travel thousands of miles through a country barren of civilization, through endless forests, and across lakes as wide and deep as the sea; we were to overcome obstacles without number and to encounter dangers and hardships at every step, and yet we remained firm in our resolve. It was exile with its train of woes and of misery; it was, perhaps, death for many of us, but we submitted to our fate, sacrificing our all in this world for our religion, and for the love of France. "We knelt down to implore the aid and protection of God in the many dangers that beset us, and, trusting in His kind Providence, we lay down on the bare ground to sleep. "As you may imagine, petiots, no one, save the little children slept that night. We were in a state of mental anguish so agonizing that the hours passed away without bringing the sweet repose of a refreshing sleep. "When the moon rose, dispelling by degrees the darkness of night, we again pursued our journey. We made the least noise possible as we advanced cautiously, our fears and apprehensions increasing at every step. All at once our column halted; a deathlike silence prevailed, and our hearts beat tumultuously within us. Was it the beat of the drum that had startled us? No one could tell. We listened with eagerness, but the sound had died away, and the stillness of night remained undisturbed. Our anxiety became intense. Was the enemy in pursuit of us? We remained in painful suspense, not knowing what danger lurked ahead of us. The few minutes that succeeded seemed as long as a whole year. We drew close together and whispered our apprehensions to one another. We moved on slowly, our footsteps falling noiselessly on the roadway, while we strained our eyes to pierce the shadows of night to discover the cause of our fears. The sound that had startled us was no more heard, and somewhat encouraged, our uneasiness grew less. "We had not advanced two hundred yards when we were halted by a company of English soldiers. Ah! Petiots, our doom was sealed. We were in a narrow path surrounded by the enemy, without the possibility of escape. How shall I describe what followed. The women wrung their hands and sobbed piteously in their despair. The children, terrified, uttered shrill and piercing cries, while the men, goaded to madness, vented their rage in hurried exclamations, and were determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible. "After a while, the tumult subsided, and order was somewhat restored. "The officer in command approached us; 'Acadians,' said he, 'you have fled from your homes after having reduced them to ashes; you have used seditious language against England, and we find you here, in the depth of night, congregated and conspiring against the king, our liege lord and sovereign. You are traitors and you should be treated as such, but in his clemency, the king offers his pardon to all who will swear fealty and allegiance to him.' "'Sir,' answered Rene Leblanc, under whose guidance we had left St. Gabriel, 'our king is the king of France, and we are not traitors to the king of England whose subjects we are not. If by the force of arms you have conquered this country, we are willing to recognize your supremacy, but we are not willing to submit to English rule, and for that reason, we have abandoned our homes to emigrate to Louisiana, to seek there, under the protection of the French flag, the quiet and peace and happiness we have enjoyed here.' "The officer who had listened with folded arms to the noble words of Rene Leblanc, replied with a scowl of hatred: 'To Louisiana you wish to go? To Louisiana you shall go, and seek in vain, under the French flag, that protection you have failed to receive from it in Canada. Soldiers,' he added, with a smile that made us shudder, 'escort these worthy patriots to the seashore, where transportation will be given them free in his majesty's ships.' "These words sounded like a death knell to us; we saw plainly that our doom was sealed, and that we were undone forever, and yet, in the bitterness of our misfortune, we uttered no word of expostulation, and submitted to our fate without complaint. They treated us most brutally, and had no regard either for age or for sex. They drove us back through the forest to the seashore, where their ships were anchored, and stowing the greater number of our party in one of their ships, they weighed anchor, and she set sail. The balance of our people had been embarked on another vessel which had departed in advance of ours. "Is it necessary, petiots, that I should speak to you of our despair when thus torn from our relatives and friends, when we saw ourselves cooped up in the hull of that ship as malefactors? Is it necessary that I should describe the horror of our plight, our sufferings, our mental anguish during the many days that our voyage on the sea lasted? "This can be more easily imagined than depicted. We were huddled in a space scarcely large enough to contain us. The air rarefied by our breathing became unwholesome and oppressive; we could not lie down to rest our weary limbs. With but scant food, with the water given grudgingly to us, barely enough to wet our parched lips; with no one to care for us, you can well imagine that our sufferings became unbearable. Yet, when we expostulated with our jailers, and complained bitterly of the excess of our woes, it seemed to rejoice them. They derided us, called us noble patriots, stubborn French people and papists; epithets that went right to our hearts, and added to our misery. "At last our ship was anchored, and we were told that we had reached the place of our destination. Was it Louisiana? we inquired. Rude scoffs and sharp invectives were their only answer. We were disembarked with the same ruthless brutality with which we had been dragged to their ship. They landed us on a precipitous and rocky shore, and leaving us a few rations, saluted us in derision with their caps and bidding farewell to the noble patriots, as they called us. Our anguish, at that moment, can hardly be conceived. We were outcasts in a strange land; we were friendless and penniless, with a few rations thrown to us as to dogs. The sun had now set, and we were in an agony of despair. "Our only hope rested in the mercy of a kind Providence, and with hearts too full for utterance, we knelt down with one accord and silently besought the Lord of Hosts to vouchsafe to us that pity and protection which he gives to the most abject of his creatures. Never was a more heartfelt prayer wafted to God's throne. When we arose, hope, once more smiling to us, irradiated our souls and dispelled, as if by magic, the gloom that had settled in our hearts. We felt that none but noble causes lead to martyrdom, and we looked upon ourselves as martyrs of a saintly cause, and with a clear conscience, we lay down to sleep under the blue canopy of the heavens. "The dawn of day found us scattered in groups, discussing the course we were to pursue, and our hearts grew faint anew at the thought of the unknown trials that awaited us. "At that moment, we spied two horsemen approaching our camp. Our hearts fluttered with emotion. The incident, simple as it was, proved to be of great importance to us. We felt as if Providence had not forsaken us, and that the two horsemen, heralds of peace and joy, were his messengers of love in our sore trials. "We were not mistaken, petiots. When the cavaliers alighted, they addressed us in English, but in words so soft and kind, that the sound of the hated language did not grate on our ears, and seemed as sweet as that of our own tongue. They bowed gracefully to us, and introduced themselves as Charles Smith and Henry Brent. 'We are informed,' said they, 'that you are exiles, and that you have been cast penniless on our shores. We have come to greet you, and to welcome you to the hospitality of our roofs.' These kind words sank deep in our hearts. 'Good sirs,' answered Rene Leblanc, 'you behold a wretched people bereft of their homes and whose only crime is their love for France and their devotion to the Catholic faith,' and saying this, he raised his hat, and every man of our party did the same. 'We thank you heartily for your greeting and for your hospitality so generously tendered. See, we number over two hundred persons, and it would be taxing your generosity too heavily, no one but a king could accomplish your noble design.' "'Sir,' they answered, 'we are citizens of Maryland, and we own large estates. We have everything in abundance at our homes, and this abundance we are willing to share with you. Accept our offer, and the Brent and Smith families will ever be grateful to God, who has given them the means to minister to your wants, assuage your afflictions and soothe your sorrows.' "How could we decline an offer so generously made? It was impossible for us to find words expressive of our gratitude. Unable to utter a single word, we shook hands with them, but our silence was far more eloquent than any language we could have used." Chapter Seven Assisted by Their Generous Friends _The Acadians become prosperous, but yearn to rejoin their friends and relatives in Louisiana_ "The same day, we moved to their farms, which lay near by, and I shall never forget the kind welcome we received from these two families. They vied with each other in their kind offices toward us, and ministered to our wants with so much grace and affability, that it gave additional charm and value to their already boundless hospitality. "Petiots, let the names of Brent and of Smith remain enchased forever like precious jewels in your hearts, let their remembrance never fade from your memory, for more generous and worthier beings never breathed the pure air of heaven. [Illustration: _Catholic Church, St. Martinsville, La._] "Thus it was, petiots, that we settled in Maryland after leaving Acadia. "Three years passed away peacefully and happily, and during the whole of that time, the Smith and Brent families remained our steadfast friends. Our party had prospered, and plenty smiled once more in our homes. We lived as happy as exiles could live away from the fatherland, ignorant of the fate of those who had been torn from us soruthlessly. In vain we had endeavored to ascertain the lot of our friends and relatives, and what had become of them; we could learn nothing. Many parents wept for their lost children; many a disconsolate wife pined away in sorrow and hopeless grief for a lost husband; but, petiots, the saddest of all was the fate of poor Emmeline Labiche." Emmeline Labiche? Who was Emmeline Labiche? We had never heard her name mentioned before, and our curiosity was excited to the highest pitch. Chapter Eight _The_ True Story _of Evangeline_ "Emmeline Labiche, petiots, was an orphan whose parents had died when she was quite a child. I had taken her to my home, and had raised her as my own daughter. How sweet-tempered, how loving she was! She had grown to womanhood with all the attractions of her sex, and, although not a beauty in the sense usually given to that word, she was looked upon as the handsomest girl of St. Gabriel. Her soft, transparent hazel eyes mirrored her pure thoughts; her dark brown hair waved in graceful undulations on her intelligent forehead, and fell in ringlets on her shoulders, her bewitching smile, her slender, symmetrical shape, all contributed to make her a most attractive picture of maiden loveliness. [Illustration: _Evangeline_ By Edwin Douglas] "Emmeline, who had just completed her sixteenth year, was on the eve of marrying a most deserving, laborious and well-to-do young man of St. Gabriel, Louis Arceneaux. Their mutual love dated from their earliest years, and all agreed that Providence willed their union as man and wife, she the fairest young maiden, he the most deserving youth of St. Gabriel. "Their bans had been published in the village church, the nuptial day was fixed, and their long love-dream was about to be realized, when the barbarous scattering of our colony took place. "Our oppressors had driven us to the seashore, where their ships rode at anchor, when Louis, resisting, was brutally wounded by them. Emmeline had witnessed the whole scene. Her lover was carried on board of one of the ships, the anchor was weighed, and a stiff breeze soon drove the vessel out of sight. Emmeline, tearless and speechless, stood fixed to the spot, motionless as a statue, and when the white sail vanished in the distance, she uttered a wild, piercing shriek, and fell fainting to the ground. "When she came to, she clasped me in her arms, and in an agony of grief, she sobbed piteously. 'Mother, mother,' she said, in broken words, 'he is gone; they have killed him; what will become of me?' "I soothed her grief with endearing words until she wept freely. Gradually its violence subsided, but the sadness of her countenance betokened the sorrow that preyed on her heart, never to be contaminated by her love for another one. "Thus she lived in our midst, always sweet tempered, but with such sadness depicted in her countenance, and with smiles so sorrowful, that we had come to look upon her as not of this earth, but rather as our guardian angel, and this is why we called her no longer Emmeline, but Evangeline, or God's little angel. "The sequel of her story is not gay, petiots, and my poor old heart breaks, whenever I recall the misery of her fate," and while our grandmother spoke thus, her whole figure was tremulous with emotion. "Grandmother," we said, "we feel so interested in Evangeline, God's little angel, do tell us what befell her afterwards." "Petiots, how can I refuse to comply with your request? I will now tell you what became of poor Emmeline," and after remaining a while in thoughtful revery, she resumed her narrative. "Emmeline, petiots, had been exiled to Maryland with me. She was, as I have told you, my adopted child. She dwelt with me, and she followed me in my long pilgrimage from Maryland to Louisiana. I shall not relate to you now the many dangers that beset us on our journey, and the many obstacles we had to overcome to reach Louisiana; this would be anticipating what remains for me to tell you. When we reached the Teche country, at the Poste des Attakapas, we found there the whole population congregated to welcome us. As we went ashore, Emmeline walked by my side, but seemed not to admire the beautiful landscape that unfolded itself to our gaze. Alas! it was of no moment to her whether she strolled on the poetical banks of the Teche, or rambled in the picturesque sites of Maryland. She lived in the past, and her soul was absorbed in the mournful regret of that past. For her, the universe had lost the prestige of its beauties, of its freshness, of its splendors. The radiance of her dreams was dimmed, and she breathed in an atmosphere of darkness and of desolation. "She walked beside me with a measured step. All at once, she grasped my hand, and, as if fascinated by some vision, she stood rooted to the spot. Her very heart's blood suffused her cheeks, and with the silvery tones of a voice vibrating with joy: 'Mother! Mother!' she cried out, 'it is he! It is Louis!' pointing to the tall figure of a man reclining under a large oak tree. "That man was Louis Arceneaux. "With the rapidity of lightning, she flew to his side, and in an ecstacy of joy: 'Louis, Louis,' said she, 'I am your Emmeline, your long lost Emmeline! Have you forgotten me?' "Louis turned ashy pale and hung down his head, without uttering a word. "'Louis," said she, painfully impressed by her lover's silence and coldness, 'why do you turn away from me? I am still your Emmeline, your betrothed, and I have kept pure and unsullied my plighted faith to you. Not a word of welcome, Louis?' she said, as the tears started to her eyes. 'Tell me, do tell me that you love me still, and that the joy of meeting me has overcome you, and stifled your utterance.' [Illustration: _The Evangeline Oak_ Near the "Poste des Attakapas"] "Louis Arceneaux, with quivering lips and tremulous voice, answered: 'Emmeline, speak not so kindly to me, for I am unworthy of you. I can love you no longer; I have pledged my faith to another. Tear from your heart the remembrance of the past, and forgive me,' and with quick step, he walked away, and was soon lost to view in the forest. "Poor Emmeline stood trembling like an aspen leaf. I took her hand; it was icy cold. A deathly pallor had overspread her countenance, and her eye had a vacant stare. "'Emmeline, my dear girl, come,' said I, and she followed me like a child. I clasped her in my arms. 'Emmeline, my dear child, be comforted; there may yet be happiness in store for you.' "'Emmeline, Emmeline,' she muttered in an undertone, as if to recall that name, 'who is Emmeline?' Then looking in my face with fearful shining eyes that made me shudder, she said in a strange, unnatural voice: 'Who are you?' and turned away from me. Her mind was unhinged; this last shock had been too much for her broken heart; she was hopelessly insane. "How strange it is, petiots, that beings, pure and celestial like Emmeline, should be the sport of fate, and be thus exposed to the shafts of adversity. Is it true, then, that the beloved of God are always visited by sore trials? Was it that Emmeline was too ethereal a being for this world, and that God would have her in his sweet paradise? It does not belong to us, petiots, to solve this mystery and to scrutinize the decrees of Providence; we have only to bow submissive to his will. "Emmeline never recovered her reason, and a deep melancholy settled upon her. Her beautiful countenance was fitfully lightened by a sad smile which made her all the fairer. She never recognized any one but me, and nestling in my arms like a spoiled child, she would give me the most endearing names. As sweet and as amiable as ever, every one pitied and loved her. "When poor, crazed Emmeline strolled upon the banks of the Teche, plucking the wild flowers that strewed her pathway, and singing in soft tones some Acadian song, those that met her wondered why so fair and gentle a being should have been visited with God's wrath. "She spoke of Acadia and of Louis in such loving words, that no one could listen to her without shedding tears. She fancied herself still the girl of sixteen years, on the eve of marrying the chosen one of her heart, whom she loved with such constancy and devotion, and imagining that her marriage bells tolled from the village church tower, her countenance would brighten, and her frame trembled with ecstatic joy. And then, in a sudden transition from joy to despair, her countenance would change and, trembling convulsively, gasping, struggling for utterance, and pointing her finger at some invisible object, in shrill and piercing accents, she would cry out: 'Mother, mother, he is gone; they have killed him; what will become of me?' And uttering a wild, unnatural shriek, she would fall senseless in my arms. "Sinking at last under the ravages of her mental disease, she expired in my arms without a struggle, and with an angelic smile on her lips. "She now sleeps in her quiet grave, shadowed by the tall oak tree near the little church at the Poste des Attakapas, and her grave has been kept green and flower-strewn as long as your grandmother has been able to visit it. Ah! petiots, how sad was the fate of poor Emmeline, Evangeline, God's little angel." And burying her face in her hands, grandmother wept and sobbed bitterly. Our hearts swelled also with emotion, and sympathetic tears rolled down our cheeks. We withdrew softly and left dear grandmother alone, to think of and weep for her Evangeline, God's little angel. Chapter Nine The Acadians leave Maryland to go to Louisiana _Their perilous and weary journey overland--Death of Rene Leblanc. They arrive safely in Louisiana and settle in the Attakapas region on the Teche and Vermillion Bayous_ "As I have already told you, petiots, during three years, we had lived contented and happy in Maryland, when we received tidings that a number of Acadians, exiles like us, had settled in Louisiana, where they were prospering and retrieving their lost fortunes under the fostering care of the French government. "This news which threw us in a flutter, engrossed our minds so completely, that we spoke of nothing else. It gave rise to the most extravagant conjectures, and the hope of seeing, once more, the dear ones torn so cruelly from us, was revived in our hearts. This news was deficient, however, in one respect: it left us ignorant of the fate of those who, like us, had been exiled from St. Gabriel. "That uncertainty cast a gloom over our hopes which marred our joy and happiness, and increased our anxiety. "Our suspense became unbearable, and we finally discussed seriously the expediency of emigrating to Louisiana. The more timid among us represented the temerity and folly of such an undertaking, but the desire to seek our brother exiles grew keener every day, and became so deeply rooted in our minds, that we concluded to leave for Louisiana, where the banner of France waved over true French hearts. "We announced our determination to our benefactors, the Brent and Smith families, and, undismayed by the perils that awaited us, and the obstacles we had to overcome, we prepared for our pilgrimage from Maryland to Louisiana. "Our friends used all their eloquence to dissuade us from our resolve, but we resisted all their entreaties, although we were deeply touched by this new proof of their friendship. We disposed of the articles that we could not carry along with us, and kept our wagons and horses to transport the women and children, and the baggage. In all, we numbered two hundred persons, and of these, fifty were well armed, and ready to face any danger. "We journeyed slowly; the wagons moved in the centre, while twenty men in advance, and as many in the rear marched four abreast. Ten of the bravest and most active of our young men took the lead a short distance ahead of the column, and formed our advance guard. Our forces were distributed in this wise, petiots, for our safety, as the road lay through mountain defiles, and in a wild and dreary country inhabited by Indians. "We secured, as scouts and guides, two Indians well known to the Brent family, and in whom, we were told, we could place the most implicit confidence. We had occasion, more than once, to find how fortunate we had been to secure their services. We set out on our journey with sorrow. We were parting with friends kind and generous; friends who had relieved us in our needs, and who had proved true as steel, and loving as brothers. We were parting from them, lured with hopes which might prove illusory, and when we grasped their hands in a last farewell, words failed us, and our tears and sobs told them of our gratitude for the benefits they had, so generously, showered upon us. They, too, wept, touched to the heart by the eloquent, though mute, expression of our gratitude. Their last words, were words of love, glowing with a fervent wish that our cherished hopes might be realized. "We set out in a westerly direction, and we had soon lost sight of the hospitable roofs of the Brent and Smith families. We again felt that we were, once more, poor wandering exiles roaming through the world in search of a home. "Our journey, petiots, was slow and tedious, for a thousand obstacles impeded our progress. We encountered deep and rapid streams that we could not cross for want of boats; we traveled through mountain defiles, where the pathway was narrow and dangerous, winding over hill and dale and over craggy steeps, where one false step might hurl us down into the yawning chasm below. We suffered from storms and pelting rains, and at night when we halted to rest our weary limbs, we had only the light canvass of our tents to shelter us from the inclemency of the weather. "Ah! petiots, we were undergoing sore trials! But we were lulled by the hope that far, far away in Louisiana, our dreamland, we would find our kith and kin. That radiant hope illumined our pathway; it shone as a beacon light on which we kept our eyes riveted, and it steeled our hearts against sufferings and privations almost too great to be borne otherwise. "Thus we advanced fearlessly, aye, almost cheerfully, and at night, when we pitched our tents in some solitary spot, our Acadian songs broke the silence and loneliness of the solitude, and, as the gentle wind wafted them over the hills, the light couplets were re-echoed back to us so clearly and so distinctly, that it seemed the voice of some friend repeating them in the distance. "As long as we journeyed in Virginia, barring the obstacles presented by the roads of a country diversified by hill and dale, our progress, though slow, was satisfactory. The people were generous, and supplied us with an abundance of provisions. But when the white population grew sparser and sparser, and when we reached the wild and mountainous country which, we were told, bore the name of Carolina, then, petiots, it required a stout heart and firm resolve, indeed, not to abandon the attempt to reach Louisiana by the overland route we were following. "During days and weeks, we had to march slowly and tediously through endless forests, cutting our way across undergrowth so thick, as to be almost impervious to light, brushwood where a cruel enemy might lay concealed in ambush to murder us, for we were now in the very heart of the Indian country, and the savages followed us, stealthily, day and night. We could see them with their tattooed faces and hideous headgear of feathers, frightful in appearance, lurking around in the forest, and watching our movements. We were always on the alert, expecting an attack at any moment, for we could distinctly hear their whoops and fierce yells. "Ah! Petiots, it was then that our mental and bodily anguish became extreme, and that the stoutest heart grew faint under the pressure of such accumulated woes. Our nights were sleepless, and, careworn and on the verge of starvation, we moved steadily onward, the very picture of dejection and of despair. Thus we toiled on day after day, and night after night, during two long weary months on our seemingly endless journey, until, disspirited and disheartened, our courage failed us. "It was a dark hour, full of alarming forebodings, and we witnessed the depression of our brother exiles with sorrow and apprehension. "But a kind Providence watched over us. God tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb. The hope of finding our lost kindred stimulated our drooping spirits. We had been told that Louisiana was a land of enchantment, where a perpetual spring reigned. A land where the soil was extremely fertile; where the climate was so genial and temperate, and the sky so serene and azure, as to justly deserve the name of Eden of America. It smiled to us in the distance like the promised land, and toward that land we bent our weary steps, longing for the day when we would tread its soil, and breathe once more the pure air in which floated the banner of France. "At last we reached the Tennessee river, where it curves gracefully around the base of a mountain looming up hundreds of feet. Its banks were rocky and precipitous, falling straight down at least fifty feet, and we could see, in the chasm below, its waters that flowed majestically on in their course toward the grand old Meschacebe. It was out of the question to cross the river there, and we followed the roadway on its banks around the mountain, advancing cautiously to avoid the danger that threatened us at every step. "That night, we slept in a large natural cave on the very brink of the precipice by the river. At dawn of day we resumed our march, and as we advanced, the country became more and more level, and after four days of toil and fatigue, we halted and camped on a hill by the riverside, where a small creek runs into the river. We met there a party of Canadian hunters and trappers who gave us a friendly welcome, and replenished our store of provisions with game and venison. They informed us that the easiest and least wearisome way to reach Louisiana was to float down the Tennessee and Meschacebe rivers. The plan suggested by them was adopted, and the men of our party, aided by our Canadian friends, felled trees to build a suitable boat. "There, petiots, a great misfortune befell us. We experienced a great loss in the death of Rene Leblanc, who had been our leader and adviser in the hours of our sore trials. Old age had shattered his constitution, and unequal to the fatigues of our long pilgrimage, he pined away, and sank into his grave without a word of complaint. He died the death of a hero and of a Christian, consoling us as we wept beside him, and cheering us in our troubles. His death afflicted us sorely, and the night during which he lay exposed, preparatory to his burial, the silence was unbroken, in our camp, save by our whispered words, as if we feared to disturb the slumbers of the great and good man that slept the eternal sleep. We buried him at the foot of the hill, in a grove of walnut trees. We carved his name with a cross over it on the bark of the tree sheltering his grave, and after having said the prayers for the dead, we closed his grave, wet with the tears of those he had loved so well. "My narrative has not been gay, petiots, but the gloom that darkened it will now be dispelled by the radiant sunshine of joy and of happiness. "Our boat was unwieldy, but it served our purpose well. We stored in it our baggage and supplies; we sold our horses and wagons to our Canadian friends, and taking leave of our Indian guides, we cut loose the moorings of the boat. We floated down stream, our young men rowing, and singing Acadian songs. "Nothing of importance happened to us after our embarkment, petiots. During the day, we traveled, and at night, we moored our boat safely, and encamped on the banks of the river. At last we launched on the turbulent waters of the Mississippi and floated down that noble stream as far as Bayou Plaquemines, in Louisiana, where we landed. Once more we were treading French soil, and we were freed from English dominion. "As the tidings of our arrival spread abroad, a great number of Acadian exiles flocked to our camp to greet and welcome us. Ah! petiots, how can I describe our joy and rapture, when we recognized countenances familiar to us. Grasping their hands, with hearts too full for utterance, we wept like children. Many a sorrowing heart revived to love and happiness on that day. Many a wife pressed to her bosom a long lost husband. Many a fond parent clasped in rapturous embrace a loving child. Ah! such a moment repaid us a thousandfold for all our sufferings and privations, and we spent the day in rejoicing, conviviality and merriment. [Illustration: _Interior, Catholic Church, St. Martinsville, La._] "The sequel of my story will be quickly told, petiots. Shortly afterwards, we left for the Teche region, where lands had been granted to us by the government. We wended our way, to our destined homes, through dismal swamps, through bayous without number and across lakes until we reached Portage Sauvage, at Fausse Pointe. The next day, we were at the Poste des Attakapas, a small hamlet having two or three houses, one store and a small wooden church, situated on Bayou Teche which we crossed in a boat. "There, the several Acadians separated to settle on the lands granted to them. "You must not imagine, petiots, that the Teche region was, at that time, dotted all over like nowadays with thriving farms, elegant houses and handsome villages. No, petiots, it required the nerve and perseverance of your Acadian fathers to settle there. Although beautiful and picturesque, it was a wild region inhabited, mostly, by Indians and by a few white men, trappers and hunters by occupation. Its immense prairies, covered with weeds as tall as you, were the commons where herds of cattle and of deer roamed unmolested, save by the hunter and the panther. Such was the region your ancestors settled, and which, by their energy, they have transformed into a garden teeming with wealth. "The Acadians enriched themselves in a country where no one will starve if he is industrious, and where one may easily become rich if he fears God, and if he is economical and orderly in his affairs. "Petiots, I have kept my promise, and my tale is told. Your Acadian fathers were martyrs in a noble cause, and you should always be proud to be the sons of martyrs and of men of principle." "Grandmother," we said, as we kissed her fondly, "your words have fallen in willing and loving hearts, and they will bear fruit. We are proud now of being called Acadians, for there never was any people more noble, more devoted to duty and more patriotic than the Acadians who became exiles, and who braved death itself, rather than renounce their faith, their king and their country." [FINIS] Acknowledgement is made of the kindness of Rev. A. T. Kempton, Lecturer on Evangeline; Rev. George W. Brooks, an authority on Acadian history, and The Soule Art Publishing Company, in loaning us photographs for illustrating this book. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Punctuation around quotations was very erratic in this book--this has been made more uniform. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the original spellings and the author's words and intent. 
2671	----	None 
16975	----	THE HAUNTED HOUSE: A True Ghost Story. Being an account of the Mysterious Manifestations that have taken place in the presence of ESTHER COX, The young Girl who is possessed of Devils, and has become known throughout the entire Dominion as THE GREAT AMHERST MYSTERY, by WALTER HUBBELL. * * * * * THE AUTHOR LIVED IN THE HOUSE AND WITNESSED THE WONDERFUL MANIFESTATIONS. * * * * * Saint John, N.B.: "Daily News" Steam Publishing Office, Canterbury Street. 1879. INTRODUCTION. The manifestations described in this story commenced one year ago. No person has yet been able to ascertain their cause. Scientific men from all parts of Canada and the United States have investigated them in vain. Some people think that electricity is the principal agent; others, mesmerism; whilst others again, are sure they are produced by the devil. Of the three supposed causes, the latter is certainly the most plausible theory, for some of the manifestations are remarkably devilish in their appearance and effect. For instance, the mysterious setting of fires, the powerful shaking of the house, the loud and incessant noises and distinct knocking, as if made by invisible sledge-hammers, on the walls; also, the strange actions of the household furniture, which moves about in the broad daylight without the slightest visible cause. As these strange things only occur while Miss Esther Cox is present, she has become known as the "Amherst Mystery" throughout the entire country. The author of this work lived for six weeks in the haunted house, and considers it his duty to place the entire matter before the public in its true light, having been requested to do so by the family of Miss Cox. THE HAUNTED HOUSE. CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF ESTHER COX. Amherst, Nova Scotia, is a beautiful little village on the famous Bay of Fundy; has a population of about three thousand souls, and contains four churches, an academy, a music hall, a large iron foundry, a large shoe factory, and more stores of various kinds than any village of its size in the Province. The private residences of the more wealthy inhabitants are very picturesque in their appearance, being surrounded by beautifully laid out lawns, containing ornamental trees of various kinds and numerous beds of flowers of choice and sometimes very rare varieties. The residences of Parson Townsend, Mr. Robb, Doctor Nathan Tupper, and Mr. G.G. Bird, proprietor of the Amherst book store; also that of Mr. Amos Purdy, the village Post Master, and others too numerous to mention, are sure to attract the visitor's attention and command his admiration. On Princess street, near Church, there stands a neat two story cottage, painted yellow. It has in front a small yard, which extends back to the stable. The tidy appearance of the cottage and its pleasant situation are sure to attract a stranger's attention. Upon entering the house everything is found to be so tastefully arranged, so scrupulously clean, and so comfortable, that the visitor feels at home in a moment, being confident that everything is looked after by a thrifty housewife. The first floor consists of four rooms, a parlor containing a large bay window, filled with beautiful geraniums of every imaginable color and variety, is the first to attract attention; then the dining room, with its old fashioned clock, its numerous home made rugs, easy chairs, and commodious table, makes one feel like dining, especially if the hour is near twelve; for about that time of day savory odors are sure to issue from the adjoining kitchen. The kitchen is all that a room of the kind in a village cottage should be, is not very large, and contains an ordinary wood stove, a large pine table, and a small washstand, has a door opening into the side yard near the stable, and another into the wash shed, besides the one connecting it with the dining room, making three doors in all, and one window. The fourth room is very small, and is used as a sewing room; it adjoins the dining room, and the parlor, and has a door opening into each. Besides the four rooms on the first floor, there is a large pantry, having a small window about four feet from the floor, the door of this pantry opens into the dining room. Such is the arrangement of the first floor. Upon ascending a short flight of stairs, and turning to the left, you find yourself in the second story of the cottage, which consists of an entry and four small bed rooms, all opening into the entry. Each one of the rooms has one window, and only one door. Two of these little bed rooms face towards the street, and the other two towards the back of the cottage. They, like the rest of the house, are conspicuous for their neat, cosy aspect, being papered and painted, and furnished with ordinary cottage furniture. In fact everything about the little cottage will impress a casual observer with the fact that its inmates are happy, and evidently at peace with God and man. This humble cottage is the home of Daniel Teed, shoemaker. Everybody knows and respects honest hard working Dan, who never owes a dollar if he can help it, and never allows his family to want for any comfort that can be procured, with his hard earned salary as foreman of the Amherst Shoe Factory. Dan's family consists of his wife Olive, as good a soul as ever lived, always hard at work. From early morning until dusky eve she is on her feet. It has always been a matter of gossip and astonishment, among the neighbors, as to how little Mrs. Teed, for she is by no means what you would call a large woman, could work so incessantly without becoming weary and resting for an hour or so after dinner. But she works on all the same, never rests, and they still look on her with astonishment. Dan and Olive have two little boys. Willie, the eldest, is _five_ years old; he is a strong, healthy looking lad, with a ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and brown curly hair; his principal amusements are throwing stones, chasing the chickens, and hurting his little brother. George, the youngest of Dan's boys, is the finest boy of his age in the village and is only a little over a year old; his merry little laugh, winning ways, and cunning actions to attract attention have made him a favorite with all who visit at the cottage. Besides his wife and two little boys, Dan has under his honest roof and protection his wife's two sisters,--Jane and Esther Cox--who board with him. Jane is a lady-like, self-possessed young woman of about twenty-two, and is quite a beauty; her hair is very light brown and reaches below her waist when she allows it to fall in graceful tresses--at other times she wears it in the Grecian style; her eyes are of a greyish hue; a clear complexion and handsome teeth add to her fine appearance. In fact, Jane Cox is one of the village belles, and has hosts of admirers, not of the male sex alone, for she is also popular among the ladies; she is a member and regular attendant of Parson Townsend's Church, which, by the way, the good Parson has had under his care for about forty-five years. Esther Cox, Dan's other sister in-law, is such a remarkable girl in every respect that I must give as complete a description of her as possible. She was born in Upper Stewiacke, Nova Scotia, on March 28th, 1860, and is consequently in her eighteenth year. Esther has always been a queer girl. When born she was so small that her good, kind grandmother, who raised her, (her mother having died when she was three weeks old) had to wash and dress her on a pillow, and in fact keep her on it all the time until she was nine months old, at which age her weight was only five pounds. When she was quite a little girl her father, Archibald T. Cox, married again, and moved to East Machias, Maine, where he has since resided. Having followed his second wife to the grave, he married a third with whom he is now living. Esther's early years having been spent with her grandmother, she very naturally became grave and old-fashioned, without knowing how or why. Like all little girls, she was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences, and the sedate manner and actions of the old lady made an early impression on Esther that will cling to her through life. In person Esther is of low stature and rather inclined to be stout; her hair is curly, of a dark brown color, and is now short, reaching only to her shoulders; her eyes are large and grey, with a bluish tinge, and an earnest expression which seems to say, "why do you stare at me so; I can not help it if I am not like other people." Her eye-brows and eye-lashes are dark and well marked, that is to say, the lashes are long and the eye-brows very distinct. Her face is what can be called round, with well shaped features; she has remarkably handsome teeth, and a pale complexion. Her hands and feet are small and well shaped, and although inclined to be stout, she is fond of work, and is a great help to her sister Olive, although she sometimes requires a little urging. Although Esther is not possessed of the beauty that Jane is famous for, still there is something earnest, honest and attractive about this simple-hearted village maiden, that wins for her lots of friends of about her own age; in fact, she is quite in demand among the little children of the neighborhood also, who are ever ready to have a romp and a game with _Ester_, as they all call her. The truth is, a great many of the grown up inhabitants of the village call her _Ester_ also, dropping the _h_ entirely, a habit common in Nova Scotia. Esther's disposition is naturally mild and gentle. She can at times, however, be very self-willed, and is bound to have her own way when her mind is made up. If asked to do anything she does not feel like doing she becomes very sulky and has to be humored at times to keep peace in the family. However, all things considered, she is a good little girl and has always borne a good reputation in every sense of the word. There are two more boarders in the little cottage, who require a passing notice. They are William Cox and John Teed. William is the brother of Olive, Jane, and Esther, and is a shoemaker by trade, and one of Dan's workmen in the factory. The other boarder, John Teed, is Dan's brother. John, like his brother, is an honest, hard working young man, has been raised a farmer, an occupation he still follows when not boarding with Dan in Amherst. As the reader may, perhaps, be anxious to know how Dan, good, honest hard working Dan, and, his thrifty little wife Olive, look, I will endeavor to give a short description of each. So here goes. Dan is about thirty-five years old, and stands five feet eight in his stockings. He has light brown hair, rather thin on top, a well shaped head, blue eyes, well defined features, a high nose, and wears a heavy moustache and bushy side whiskers; his complexion is florid; rheumatism of several years standing has given him a slight halt in the left leg. He does his work, spends his salary as he should, and leads a Christian life, has a pew in the Wesleyan Church of which Rev. R.A. Temple is pastor, belongs to a temperance society, and, I dare say, when he dies will be well rewarded in the next world. Olive, as I have already said, is not a very large woman. She is good and honest, like her husband, and goes to church with him as a wife should. Her hair is dark brown, eyes grey, complexion pale and slightly freckled. Although not as beautiful as Jane, nor at any time as sulky as Esther can be, she has those motherly traits of character which command respect. Being older than her sisters she is looked up to by them for advice when they think they need it, and consolation when they are in sorrow. Olive's wise little head is sure to give the right advice at the right time, and in the family of the cottage her word is law. I do not mean to say that she rules her husband. No! Dan is far from being a hen-pecked man, but, as two heads are always better than one, Dan often takes her advice and profits by it. Such is the cottage and household of honest Dan Teed. To-day is cool and pleasant. The hour is nearly twelve noon--the hour for dinner in the cottage. Esther is seated on the parlor floor playing with George to keep him from running out in the hot sun. Willie is out in the yard near the stable tormenting a poor hen, who has had a log of wood tied to one of her legs by Olive to prevent her from setting in the cow's stall; but master Willie seems to think she has been tied so that he may have a good time banging her over the head with a small club, which he is doing in a way that means business. Suddenly his mother comes out of the kitchen, and after soundly boxing his ears, sends him howling into the house, much to the relief of the poor hen who has just fallen over with exhaustion and fright, but upon finding her tormentor gone is soon herself again. Presently Olive hears Dan at the gate, and comes to the front door to meet him and tell him that dinner is almost ready, remarking that he cannot guess what she has for dessert. Honest Dan replies that no matter what it is he is hungry and will eat it, for he has been working hard. So in he goes to wash his hands and face at the wash-stand in the kitchen. Jane is coming down the street. Esther, who is seated on a chair with George on her lap, sees her sister from the bay window in the parlor. Jane has a position in Mr. Jas. P. Dunlap's establishment, and goes to her work every morning at seven o'clock. As soon as Esther sees Jane she takes George up in her arms and runs in to tell Olive that Jane is coming, and suggests that dinner be served at once, for _she_ feels hungry. So Olive, with Esther's assistance, puts the dinner on the table, and they all sit down to enjoy the meal, and a good substantial meal it is; plenty of beef-steak and onions, plenty of hot mashed potatoes, plenty of boiled cabbage, and an abundance of home made bread and fresh butter made that very morning from the rich cream of Dan's red cow. Little George, who is seated in his high chair at his mother's right hand, commences to kick the bottom of the table in such a vigorous manner that not one word can be heard, for he makes a terrible noise, the toes of his shoes being faced with copper to prevent the youngster from wearing them out too soon. Olive asks Esther to please get the old pink scarf and tie his feet so that he will be unable to make such a racket, Esther does not move, but upon being requested a second time gets up rather reluctantly, goes to the hat rack in the hall, gets the scarf and ties the little fellow's feet, as requested. Upon reseating herself at the table it is noticeable that she has a sulky expression, for she does not like to be disturbed while enjoying dinner, nor in fact any meal, for the simple reason that her appetite is voracious, being particularly fond of pickles, and she has been known to drink a cupful of vinegar in a day. All ate in silence for some minutes, when Jane inquires if the cow was milked again last night? "Yes," says Dan, and "I only wish I could find out who does it; it would not be well for him, I can tell you. This is the tenth time this fortnight that she has been milked. Oh! if it was not for this rheumatism in my hip, I would stay up some night and catch the thief in the act, have him arrested, and--" "And then," remarks Esther, with an eye to the financial part of the milk question, "we should have just two quarts more to sell every day; that would be--let me see how much it would come to." "Never mind," remarks John Teed, "how much it would come to, just hand me that dish of potatoes, please. They are so well mashed that I must eat some more. I can't bear potatoes with lumps all through them, can you Jane." "No, John, I cannot," replies Jane. "Neither can I," joins in William Cox; "if I ever marry I hope my wife will be as good a cook as Olive; if she prove so I shall be satisfied." "Gim me 'nother piece of meat, do you hear," is the exclamation which comes from master Willie. "Ask as a good boy should," remarks Dan, "and you shall have it." "Gim me 'nother piece of meat, do you hear," says the young rascal a second time, louder than before. A good sound box on the ear from his father, prevents further remarks coming from the unruly boy during the rest of the meal. However, after a slight pause, Dan gives him a piece of beef-steak, his mother in the meantime says: "I wonder how that boy learns to be so rude." "Why," replies John Teed, "by playing with those bad boys down near the carriage factory. I saw him there about nine o'clock this morning, and what's more, I can tell you that unless he keeps away from them he will be ruined." "I'm going to take him in hand as soon as he gets a little older and make him toe the mark," says Dan. "Well Mudge,"--Dan nearly always calls his wife Mudge, for a pet name--"give me another cup of tea, woman, and then I'll go back to the factory, that is as soon as I have taken a pull or two at my pipe." "What! are you going without eating some of the bread pudding I went to the trouble of making because I thought you would like it?" asks Olive. "Oh, you've got pudding have you; all right, I'll have some if it's cold," replies Dan. "Oh, yes, it's cold enough by this time. Come, Esther, help me to clear away these dishes, and you, Jane, please bring in the pudding, it is out on the door-step near the rain-water barrel." The dishes having been cleared away, and the pudding brought, all ate a due share, and after some further conversation about the midnight milker of the cow, Esther remarks that she believes the thief to be one of the Micmac Indians from the camp up the road. Everybody laughs at such a wild idea, and they all leave the table. Esther, takes George from his chair, after first untying his feet, and then helps Olive to remove the dishes to the kitchen, where she washes them, and then goes to the sofa in the parlor to take a nap. Dan in the meantime has enjoyed his smoke and gone back to the factory, as has also William Cox. John Teed has gone up the Main Street to see his sister Maggie, and Jane has returned to Mr. Dunlap's. Willie is out in the street again with the bad boys, and Olive has just commenced to make a new plaid dress for George, who has gone to sleep in his little crib in the small sewing-room. Esther, after sleeping for about an hour, comes into the dining room where Olive is sewing and says, "Olive, I am going out to take a walk, and if Bob should come while I am out, don't forget to tell him that I will be in this evening, and shall expect him." "All right Esther," says her sister, "but you had better be careful about Bob, and how you keep company with him; you know what we heard about him only the day before yesterday." "Oh, I don't believe a word of it," replied Esther. She looked at her sister for a moment, and then said in an injured tone, "I guess I am old enough to take care of myself. What! half-past two already? I must be off;" and off she went. Supper being over, Esther put on her brown dress and took her accustomed seat on the front door step to talk to Dan, as he smoked his evening pipe. Jane dressed in her favorite white dress, trimmed with black velvet, her beautiful hair fastened in a true Grecian coil, and perfectly smooth at the temples, is in the parlor attending to her choice plants, presently her beau comes to spend the evening with her. So the evening passes away. Olive has sung little George to sleep, carried him up to bed and retired herself. Dan has smoked his pipe and retired also. It was now ten o'clock. Esther still sat on the front step humming the tune of a well known Wesleyan hymn to herself as she gazed up at the stars, for it must be remembered that although she was not by any means pious, still, like a dutiful girl, she went to church with Dan and Olive. As the girl was just passing into womanhood, and felt that she must love something, it was perfectly natural for her to sit there and wait for Bob to make his appearance. About half-past ten Jane's beau took his departure, and Jane not having anything further to keep her up, decided to retire, and advised Esther to follow her example. Esther took a last look up and down the street, and then went into the house with much reluctance. After locking the front door the girls went into the dining room and Jane lighted the lamp. Esther had taken off her shoes and thrown them on the floor, as was her custom, when it suddenly occurred to her that there was butter-milk in the cellar, and the same instant she made up her mind to have some. Taking the lamp from Jane, she runs into the cellar in her stocking feet, drinks about a pint of butter-milk and runs up again, telling her sister, who has been meanwhile in the dark dining room, that a large rat passed between her feet while in the cellar. "Come right up to bed you silly girl," said Jane, "and don't be talking about rats at this time of night." So Jane took the lamp and Esther picked up her shoes, and they went to their bed-room. After closing the door of their room, "Esther," said Jane, "you are foolish to think anything at all about Bob." "Oh, mind your own business, Jane," Esther replied "let's say our prayers and retire;" and so they did. CHAPTER II. THE FATAL RIDE. Esther and Jane arose on the morning of August 28th, 1878, as was their usual custom, at half-past six, and ate breakfast with the rest of the family. After breakfast Jane went to Mrs. Dunlap's, Dan to his shoe factory with his brother-in-law, William Cox, John Teed also went to _his_ work, and none of the family remained in the house but Olive and Esther, who commenced to wash up the breakfast dishes and put the dining room in order, so that part of their work at least should be finished before the two little boys came down stairs to have their childish wants attended to. What with making the beds and sweeping the rooms, and washing out some clothing for the boys, both Esther and Olive found plenty to occupy their time until the hour for preparing dinner arrived. When Olive commenced that rather monotonous operation, assisted by Esther, who, as she sat on the door-step between the dining room and kitchen paring potatoes, and placing them in a can of cold water beside her, attracted her sister's attention by her continued silence and the troubled expression of her countenance. "What in the name of the sun ails you to-day, Esther?" inquired Olive, really worried by her little sister's sad appearance. "Oh, nothing, Olive! only I was thinking that if--that if--that if--" "Well! well, go on, go on, it is not necessary to say that if--five or six times in succession, is it, before telling me what's the matter with you, you nonsensical, giddy, hard-headed girl. I believe you have fallen in love so with Bob McNeal, that you are worrying yourself to death because you know he is too poor to marry you and you are afraid some rich girl will fall in love with him, and that he will marry her and give you the cold shoulder. There, that's just what I think _is_ the matter with you, and I can tell you one thing my young lady, and that is, that the sooner you get over your infatuation for that young man, the better for you, and the better for us all. There now, I'm done. No I'm not either, listen to me, girl, and don't make me angry by turning up your nose while I am giving you good advice." "I'm not turning up my nose at you, Olive. I only felt like sneezing, and wanted to stop it before it had fully commenced, and how could I try to stop it except by working my nose in that way, when I have a big wet potato in one hand and this ugly old knife in the other, and all wet, too." "Oh, nonsense, girl, don't keep on talking about ugly old knives and wet potatoes, but listen to me. I feel it in my bones that trouble is in store for us, and all through Bob McNeal. Now do be a good girl, and take my advice and never invite him to call again; because I tell you, Esther, that trouble is coming to you through that young man, for I feel it in my bones." "Well, Olive, I will tell you the truth; the fact is that--why here's Jane! Why, Jane, what has brought you home at this time of day? It is only eleven, and dinner won't be ready for an hour." Jane, who had just taken off her hat and hung it up in the hall, replied, "that as there was nothing more to be done at Dunlap's until the afternoon, she thought she might as well be at home attending to her plants as at the shop." After looking at Esther and Olive a moment, she said, "What were you two putting your heads together about when I came in? Esther stopped talking as soon as she saw me, and Olive, I noticed that you went to the stove and poured so much water into the tea-kettle from the bucket that it ran over, just because you were looking at me instead of at the kettle. You are both up to something, I know you are. Now come, tell me all about it; is it a great secret? I won't tell anybody; tell me, do." Esther, who has just finished paring the potatoes and is now putting them on the stove to boil, takes a seat in the dining room on the settee and has one of her sulky moods, during which she always declines to speak when spoken to. Jane looks at her a second and then says in a playful manner, "Oh, it's all right, Esther, I can guess what it was; what nonsense. I'll go and attend to my plants. Why, I declare it's a quarter past eleven already, and I have got to comb my hair before dinner, too. Oh! my, how time flies!" So off Jane goes to her plants in the parlor, leaving Esther in the dining room and Olive in the kitchen getting dinner ready as fast as she can. Olive had just gone behind the kitchen door that leads into the yard to get another stick of wood for the fire when she was startled by a scream; she feels instinctively that one of her children is in danger, and she is right, for little George has just been saved from a horrible death by Maud Weldon, their next door neighbor. The little scamp had managed to crawl through the fence and get as far as the middle of the street, when Maud saw him, and was just in time to prevent him from being run over by a heavy wagon drawn by a pair of horses that were being driven at a breakneck pace past the house. Of course the fair Maud screamed, young women generally do at such times; but she saved George all the same. Her piercing shriek brought the stately Miss Sibley and her mother to the door of their house, which is almost directly opposite Dan's, and also caused Mrs. Mitchell and Mrs. Bell to become so nervous that they kept their children in the house for the rest of the day, when they heard of the dangerous adventure George had had, for they both arrived too late to witness the rescue. The watchfulness and care they both bestowed on their little ones for the next week was so much time thrown away, however, for it so happened that no more fast teams came through that particular street for about a month. Well, after the brave blonde, Maud Weldon, had become the heroine of the hour, she went into Dan's cottage with Esther and Jane, who both ran out when they heard the scream. Olive had already taken her boy in, washed his little hands and face, put on his clean over-dress, and was now holding him in her lap in the large rocking-chair. Maud Weldon was in the parlor with Jane and Esther looking at the flowers and telling them about her new beau, how handsome he was, and that she intended to marry him if he asked her, winding up her conversation on the subject of beaux with the remark that she was bound not to die an old maid, but was going to get married for she wanted to have a house of her own to keep. And so the conversation ran on between the three girls in the parlor until dinner was nearly ready, when Mrs. Hicks, Maud's aunt, called her and she went home. After dinner, Esther and Olive were washing the dishes in the kitchen and talking over George's narrow escape, when Esther suddenly made up her mind to tell her sister what she was about to do when Jane's rather unexpected return from the shop put an end to their conversation. So after having put all the dishes away in the pantry, she told Olive if she would promise not to tell anybody, not even Dan, she would tell her something that must be kept a secret, because if it became known it might make people nervous and could do no good. "Very well," replied Olive, "wait until I get my sewing, then we will go into the parlor, you can tell me all about it, and I promise that I won't tell." So they went into the parlor. Esther sat in the rocking-chair and Olive on the sofa. "Well, Olive," said Esther. "Now don't laugh, for it is about a dream." "A dream!" exclaimed Olive. "A dream! go on, let me hear it." "Well," began Esther, "last night I sat for two hours on the front step looking at the stars. After I came in I went down into the cellar in my stocking feet and drank about a pint of butter-milk and a large rat ran between my feet; then Jane and I went to our room, shut the door, said our prayers and went to bed, and in a short time we both fell asleep, and I dreamt that when I got up in the morning every thing and every body was changed except myself. This cottage instead of being yellow was green; you, Dan, Jane, brother William, John Teed, Willie and George, all had heads like bears, and you all growled at me, but yet could talk, and, what was very strange, you all had eyes as large as horses' eyes, only they were as red as blood. While I was talking to you I heard a noise in the street and on going to the door I saw hundreds of black bulls with blue eyes, very bright blue eyes, coming towards the house, blood was dripping from their mouths and their feet made fire come out of the ground. On they came, roaring very loudly all the time, right straight for the house. They broke down the fence, I shut the front door, locked it and then ran to the back door and fastened it. Then they all commenced to butt the house so violently that it nearly fell over. It shook so that I woke up and found that I had fallen out of bed without waking Jane. So I got in again and soon fell asleep; but the dream is still in my mind. I can see it still, and wonder what it means until I get the head-ache. What do you think about it Olive? Do you think there is any truth in dreams? Did you ever know of one to come true, or do you think it was all caused by the pint of butter-milk and my going into the cellar in my stocking feet, and the rat?" "Well," said Olive, "I never could make up my mind fully on that subject; but of this I am certain, whatever Dan dreams comes true; there is no doubt about that. But don't tell him anything about this dream, Esther, or he will be floundering around all night trying to find out what it means; or Jane either, because, perhaps, it will scare her so that she will be unable to sleep." "Don't believe it, Olive, I have told Jane, and she says it was all caused by the butter-milk I drank. She says it made me see a rat in the cellar just after I had drank it, and that it was no wonder I saw bears and bulls, too, after I went to sleep. Oh, my sakes alive, if I only had a dream book, like the one Mrs. Emery used to have, I'd soon find out what it means. Do you know, Olive, I have a great mind to go out to the Indian camp this very afternoon and try if that fortune-telling squaw who told Maggie Teed's fortune, and Mary Miller's, too, can't tell me all about it. I want to know if it means that something terrible is about to happen or not." "Well," said Olive, "Esther, don't talk any more about it but read your Bible, go to church, say your prayers, and ask God to take care of you; then you need never fear dreams or anything else, for you must always remember that God has more power than the devil, and always will have." "Oh!" replied Esther, with a smile, "it is all very Well for you to talk in that way, but I shouldn't wonder if the devil saw more of me than he ever has yet before I die." "Oh, Esther, how can you talk so; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and to think that you were brought up by grandmother too." And so the afternoon passed slowly away, the beautiful blue sky which had been so clear all day began to assume a darkish aspect, and threatening clouds spread themselves between the earth and heaven. By the time Dan and the rest had come home to supper, it looked very much like rain. Dan said it was going to rain sometime during the night; he knew it, because his rheumatism was bad. Supper being ready, they all sat down and enjoyed it. After supper Dan took a smoke, Jane went to her accustomed seat in the parlor near her plants, William Cox and John Teed went out to see their girls, Olive put the boys to bed, and Esther sat down on the front door-step all by herself and sang "The Sweet By-and-bye" in a low voice. The hands of the old fashioned clock in the dining room indicated ten minutes to eight, when a carriage drove up to the gate, and a well built young man jumped out, opened the gate and came in. As he entered the house he shook hands with Esther, saying as he did so: "Go and put on your hat and sack and take a ride with me Esther, and I will tell you why I did not call last evening as I promised." This young man was Bob McNeal, by trade a shoemaker, and a fine looking young fellow he was, too. His hair and eyes were black, features, rather handsome, and he wore a small black moustache. As soon as Esther had received his invitation she ran up stairs, got her hat and sack, ran down again, jumped into the carriage, which was a buggy with room for two only, and off they drove. Jane came out to the front door and called after them, just as they were driving away: "You had better put the top up Bob, for it will certainly rain before long." Dan, who had been sitting in the dining room in one of the easy chairs, remarked to Jane as he was going up stairs: "What a pity Bob McNeal is such a wild fellow. I'm afraid he will never amount to much. He is a remarkably fine workman too; he has improved in his work since I took him into the factory with me. Oh well, I suppose it's all right; good night Jane." "Good night Dan," said Jane. "I hope your rheumatism will be better in the morning." "So do I," replied Dan. And up he went to bed, Jane returning to the parlor to wait for her beau. Bob and Esther drove through Amherst, and turned down the road leading to the Marsh. They were going to take a ride into the country. Bob said that was the best road to take, and Esther did not care much which way they went, so she got a ride. While driving through a small wood, Bob seemed to be suddenly seized with an attack of what lawyers are pleased to term emotional insanity, for he dropped the reins and leaped from the buggy. Upon reaching the ground, he drew from the side pocket of his coat a large revolver, and, pointing it at Esther, told her, in a loud voice, to get out of the buggy or he would kill her where she sat. She, of course, refused to do as he requested or rather commanded, and, as it was raining and becoming quite dark, she told him to get into the buggy and drive her home, and not act like a crazy man. The remark about acting like a crazy man seemed to enrage him past endurance, for he uttered several terrible oaths, and, aiming the revolver at her heart, was about to fire, when the sound of wheels were heard rumbling in the distance. He immediately jumped into the buggy, seized the reins, and drove at a breakneck pace through the pouring rain to Dan's cottage. Esther was wet through by the time they had arrived at the gate. She jumped out, opened the gate, entered the cottage and ran up stairs without noticing Jane, whom she passed in the hall. Bob, as soon as she got out, drove rapidly down the street. As the hour was now ten o'clock, Esther immediately retired and, after crying herself to sleep, slept until morning. Jane entered the room about half an hour after her sister, engaged in prayer and then retired, without disturbing her. For the next four days Esther seemed to be suffering from some secret sorrow. She could not remain in the house, but was continually on the street, or at some of the neighbors' houses, and every night she cried herself to sleep. Of course her woe-begone appearance was noticed by the family, but they refrained from questioning her, for the simple reason that they supposed she and Bob had quarrelled; and as they did not approve of the attachment between him and Esther, they were rather glad that his visits had ceased, and gave no further attention to the matter, supposing that she would be herself again in a week or two. Bob's continued absence from the cottage--for he used to be there every other day--strengthened them in the belief that they were right in their supposition, and so they let the matter rest. CHAPTER III. THE HAUNTED HOUSE. Supper is just over. Dan and Olive are in the parlor. Jane is up stairs in her room, talking to Esther who has retired early; it being only seven o'clock, she asks Esther: "How long she is going to continue to worry herself about Bob?" Not receiving a reply, she puts on her heavy sack and remarks: "I am going over to see Miss Porter, and will soon return; it is so damp and foggy to-night that, I declare, it makes me feel sleepy too. I think I will follow your example, and retire early. Good night, I suppose you will be asleep by the time I get back;" and off she goes. As the night is so very damp and disagreeable, all begin to feel sleepy long before half-past eight, and go up to their rooms. Before Dan goes up stairs, he takes the bucket and brings some fresh water from the pump--which he, as usual, places on the kitchen table--taking a large tin dipper about half full up to his room for the children to drink during the night. It is now about fifteen minutes to nine. Jane has just returned from her visit, and has gone to her room, which is in the front of the house, near the stairway, and directly next to Dan and Olive's room. She finds Esther crying, as usual, for the girl has actually cried herself to sleep every night since the fatal ride. After getting into bed, she says: "Oh, my, I forgot to put the lamp out," rises immediately and extinguishes the light, remarks to Esther that "it is very dark," bumps her head against the bed post, and finally settles herself down for a good sleep. Esther, who has just stopped crying, remarks to Jane that "this is a wretched night," and says, "somehow I can't get to sleep." "No wonder," says Jane, "you went to bed too early." "Jane, this is September the fourth, aint it?" asks Esther. "Yes," replies Jane. "Go to sleep and let me alone, I don't want to talk to you, I want to go to sleep. What if it is September the fourth." "Oh nothing," replies Esther, "only it is just a week to-night, since I went riding with Bob! Oh, what will become of me?" and she instantly burst into another crying spell. "Esther" said Jane, "Do you know I think you are losing your mind, and that if you keep on this way you will get so crazy that we will have to put you in the Insane Asylum." This had the desired effect, for she stopped instantly. For a few minutes everything was perfectly still. No sound was to be heard except the breathing of the two young girls, as they lay side by side in bed. They had remained perfectly quiet, for about ten or fifteen minutes, when Esther jumped out of bed with a scream, exclaiming that there was a mouse under the bed clothes. Her scream startled her sister, who was almost asleep, and she also got out of bed and lit the lamp, for she is as much afraid of mice as Esther is. They both searched the bed, but could not find the supposed mouse, supposing it to be inside the mattrass. Jane exclaimed "Oh pshaw, what fools we are to be sure to be scared at a little harmless mouse; if there really is one here it can do us no harm, for see, it is inside the mattrass, look how the straw is being moved about. The mouse has gotten inside and can't get out, because there is no hole in the ticking. Let us go back to bed Esther. It can do us no harm now." So they put out the light, and got into bed again. After listening for a few minutes without hearing the straw move in the mattrass, they both fell asleep. On the following night the girls heard something moving under their bed. Esther exclaimed: "There is that mouse again, Jane. Let us get up and kill it. I'm not going to be worried by mice every night." So they both arose, and on hearing a rustling in a green paste-board box, filled with patch-work, which was under the bed, they placed it out in the middle of the room and were much amazed to see the box jump up in the air about a foot and then fall over on its side. The girls could not believe their own eyes; so Jane placed the box in its old position in the middle of the room, and both watched it intently, when to their amazement the same thing occurred again. The girls were now really frightened, and screamed as loudly as they could for Dan, who put on some clothing and came into their room to ascertain what was the matter. They told him what had just taken place, but he only laughed, and after pushing the box under the bed, and remarking that they must be insane or perhaps had been dreaming, he went back to bed grumbling because his rest had been disturbed. The next morning the girls both declared that the box had really moved; but, as nobody believed them, they saw it was of no use to talk of the matter. Jane went to the shop, Dan to his shoe factory, and William Cox and John Teed about their business as usual, leaving Olive and Esther to attend to their household duties. After dinner Olive took her sewing into the parlor, and Esther went out to walk. The afternoon was delightful, and there was quite a breeze blowing from the bay. Walking is very pleasant when there is no dust; but Amherst is such a dusty little village, especially when the wind blows from the bay, that it is impossible to walk on any of the streets with comfort on a windy day during the summer. Esther found this to be the case, so she retraced her steps homeward, stopping at the post office and at Bird's book store, where she bought a bottle of ink from Miss Blanche. On arriving at the cottage she hung up her hat and joined Olive in the parlor, took little George on her lap, and, after singing him to sleep, lay down on the sofa and took a nap. After supper Esther took her accustomed seat on the door-step, remaining there until the moon had risen. It was a beautiful moonlight night, almost as bright as day. While seated there gazing at the moon, she said to herself, "Well there is one thing certain anyhow, I am going to have good luck all this month, for on Sunday night I saw the new moon over my shoulder." At half-past eight o'clock, Esther complained of feeling feverish and was advised by Olive and Jane to go to bed, which she did. About ten o'clock Jane retired for the night. After she had been in bed some fifteen minutes, Esther jumped with a sudden bound into the centre of the room, taking all the bed clothes with her. "My God!" she exclaimed, "what can be the matter with me! Wake up Jane, wake up! I'm dying, I'm dying!" "Dying!" responded Jane; "why dying people don't speak in that loud tone. Wait until I light the lamp, don't die in the dark Esther." Jane thought her sister only had the night mare, but when she lit the lamp, she was considerably alarmed by her sister's appearance. There stood Esther in the centre of the room, her short hair almost standing on end, her face as red as blood, and her eyes really looked as if they were about to start from their sockets, her hands were grasping the back of a chair so tightly that her nails sank into the soft wood. She was truly an object to look on with amazement, as she stood there in her white night gown trembling with fear. Her sister called as loudly as she could for assistance; for Jane, too, was pretty well frightened by this time, and did not know what to do. Olive was the first to enter the room, having first thrown a shawl around her shoulders, for the night was very chilly. Dan, put on his coat and pants in a hurry, as did also William Cox, and John Teed, and the three men entered the room about the same time. "Why what in the name of thunder ails you Esther?" asked Dan. William and John exclaimed in the same breath, "She's mad!" Olive was speechless with amazement, while they stood looking at the girl, not knowing what to do to relieve her terrible agony. She became very pale and seemed to be growing weak; in fact, she became so weak in a short time that she had to be assisted to the bed. After sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, and gazing about the room with a vacant stare, she started to her feet with a wild yell, and said she felt like bursting into pieces. "Great Heavens," exclaimed Olive, "What shall we do with her; she is crazy?" Jane, who always retains her presence of mind, took her sister's hand and said in a soothing tone: "Come Esther, get into bed again." As they found that she could not do so without assistance, Olive and Jane helped her, and placed the bed clothing over her again. As soon as she had been assisted to bed she said in a low choking voice, "I am swelling up and shall certainly burst, I know I shall." Dan looked at her face and remarked in a startled tone. "Why, the girl is swelling, Olive, just look at her, look at her hands too, see how swollen they are, and she is as hot as fire." She was literally burning up with fever, and yet as pale as death, while only a few minutes before her face was as red as blood, and her entire person as cold as ice. What a strange case, pale when hot, and blood red when cold, yet such was really the fact. While the family stood looking at her, wondering what would relieve her, for her entire body had swollen to an enormous size and she was screaming with pain and grinding her teeth as if in a fit, a loud report like thunder was heard in the room. They all started to their feet instantly and seemed paralyzed with fear. "My God!" exclaimed Olive, "the house has been struck by lightning and I know my poor boys are killed?" After giving vent to this exclamation, she rushed from the room to her own where the children were, and found them both sleeping soundly, so she returned to the room where they all stood looking at Esther, and wondering what had produced the terrible sound. On entering, Olive told them that the boys were both sound asleep. "I wonder what that awful noise was?" she said. Going to the window and raising the curtain she saw that the stars were shining brightly and was then satisfied that it had not been thunder they had heard. Just as she let the curtain drop, three terrific reports were heard, apparently directly under the bed. They were so loud that the whole room shook, and Esther who a moment before had been swollen to such an enormous size, immediately assumed her natural appearance, and sank into a state of calm repose. As soon as they found that it was sleep and not death that had taken possession of her, they all left the room except Jane, who went back to bed beside her sister, but could not sleep a wink for the balance of the night. The next day Esther remained in bed until about nine o'clock, when she arose, seemingly all right again, and got her own breakfast. As her appetite was not as good as usual, all she could eat was a small piece of bread and butter and a large green pickle, washed down with a cup of strong tea. She helped Olive with her work as usual, and after dinner took a walk past the post office, around the block and back to the cottage again. At supper the usual conversation about the strange sounds took place, all wondering what had caused them. As no one could ascertain the cause they gave it up as something too strange to think about, and all agreed not to let the neighbors know anything about it, because they argued, that, as no one would be likely to believe that such strange sounds had been heard under the bed, the best thing to do was to keep the matter quiet. About four nights after the loud reports had been heard, Esther had another similar attack. It came on about ten o'clock at night, just as she was getting in bed. This time, however, she managed to get into bed before the attack had swelled her up to any great extent. Jane, who had already retired, advised her to remain perfectly still, and perhaps the attack would pass off, but how sadly was she mistaken. Esther had only been in bed about five minutes when, to the amazement of the girls, all the bed clothing flew off and settled down in the far corner of the room. They could see them going for the lamp was burning dimly on the table. They both screamed, and then Jane fainted dead away. The family rushed into the room as before, and were so frightened that they did not know what to do. There lay the bed clothes in the corner, Esther all swollen up, Jane in a dead faint, and perhaps really dead for all they knew, for by the glare of the lamp, which Dan held in his hand, she looked more dead than alive. Olive was the first to come to her senses. Taking up the bed clothes, she placed them over her sisters. Just as she had done so, off they flew again to the same corner of the room. In less time than it takes to count three, the pillow flew from under Esther's head and struck John Teed in the face. He immediately left the room, saying that he had had enough. He could not be induced to return and sit on the edge of the bed with the others, who in that way managed to keep the clothes in their place. Jane had by this time recovered from her swoon. William Cox went down to the kitchen for a bucket of water to bathe Esther's head, which was aching terribly. Just as he got to the door of the room again with the bucket of water, a succession of reports were heard, which seemed to come from the bed where Esther lay. They were so very loud that the whole room shook, and Esther, who had a moment before been swollen up, commenced to assume her natural appearance, and in a few minutes fell into a pleasant sleep. As everything seemed now to be all right again, everybody went back to bed. In the morning Esther and Jane were both very weak, particularly Esther. She, however, got up when her sister did, and lay down on the sofa in the parlor. At breakfast they all agreed that a doctor had better be called in. So in the afternoon Dan left the factory early and went to see Dr. Caritte. The doctor laughed when Dan told him what had occurred. He said he would call in the evening and remain until one in the morning if necessary, but did not hesitate to say that what Dan had told him was all nonsense, remarking that he knew no such tomfoolery would occur while he was in the house. As the hands of the clock pointed to ten, in walked the doctor. Bidding everybody a hearty good evening, he took a seat near Esther, who had been in bed since nine o'clock, but as yet had not been afflicted with one of her strange attacks. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and then told the family that she seemed to be suffering from nervous excitement and had evidently received a tremendous shock of some kind. Just as he had said these words, the pillow from under her head left the bed, with the exception of one corner, which remained under her head, straightened itself out as if filled with air, and then went back to its place again. The doctor's large, blue eyes opened to their utmost capacity, as he asked in a low tone: "Did you all see that; it went back again." "So it did," remarked John Teed, "but if it moves out again it will not go back, for I intend to hold on to it, even if it did bang me over the head last night." John had no sooner spoken these words than out came the pillow from under Esther's head as before. He waited until it had just started back again, and then grasped it with both hands, and held on with all his strength. The pillow, however, was pulled from him by some invisible power stronger than himself. As he felt it being pulled away, his hair actually stood on end. "How wonderful!" exclaimed Dr. Caritte. Just as the doctor arose from his chair, the reports under the bed commenced, as on the previous night. The doctor looked beneath the bed, but failed to ascertain what caused the sounds. When he walked to the door the sounds followed him, being now produced on the floor of the room. In about a minute after this, off went the bed clothes again, and before they had been put back on the bed, the sound as of some person writing on the wall with a sharp instrument was heard. All looked at the wall whence the sound of writing came, when to their great astonishment there was seen written, near the head of the bed, in large characters, these words: "Esther Cox, you are mine to kill." Everybody could see the writing plainly, and yet only a moment before nothing was to be seen but the blank wall. The reader can imagine their utter amazement at what had just taken place. There they stood around the bed of this wonderful girl, each watching the other to see that there was no deception. They knew these marvellous things had taken place, for all heard them with their own ears and beheld them with their own eyes. Still, they could not believe their own senses, it was all so strange. But the writing on the wall--what did it mean, and how came it there? God only knew. As Doctor Caritte stood in the doorway for a moment wondering to himself what it all meant, a large piece of plaster came flying from the wall of the room, having in its flight turned a corner and fallen at his feet. The good doctor picked it up mechanically and placed it on a chair. He was too astonished to speak. Just as he did so, the poundings commenced again with redoubled power, this time shaking the entire room. It must be remembered that during all this time Esther lay upon the bed, almost frightened to death by what was occurring. After this state of things had continued for about two hours, everything became quiet and she went to sleep. The doctor said he would not give her any medicine until the next morning, when he would call at nine and give her something to quiet her nerves; for she was certainly suffering from some nervous trouble. As to the sounds and movements of objects, he could not account for them, but thought if she became strong again they would cease. In the morning the doctor called as he had promised, and was much surprised to see Esther up and dressed, helping Olive to wash the dishes. She told him that she felt all right again, only she was so nervous that any sudden noise made her jump. Having occasion to go down into the cellar with a pan of milk, she came running up, out of breath, exclaiming that there was some one down in the cellar, for a piece of plank had been thrown at her. The doctor went down to see for himself, Esther remaining in the dining room; for it must be borne in mind that the cellar door opens into the dining room. In a moment he came up again remarking that there was nobody down there to throw a piece of plank, nor anything else. "Esther, come down with me," said he. So down they both went, when, to their great surprise, several potatoes came flying at their heads. That was enough. They both beat a hasty retreat. The doctor left the house, and called again in the evening, with several very powerful sedatives, morphia being one, which he administered to Esther about ten o'clock as she lay in bed. She still complained of her nervousness, and said she felt as if electricity was passing all through her body. He had given her the medicine, and had just remarked that she would have a good night's rest when the loud sounds commenced, only they were much louder and in more rapid succession than on the previous nights. Presently the sounds left the room and were heard on the roof of the house. The doctor instantly left the house and went out into the street, hearing the sounds while in the open air. He returned to the house more nonplussed than ever, and told the family that from the street it seemed as if some person was on the roof with a heavy sledge hammer pounding away to try and break through the shingles. Being a moonlight night he could see distinctly that there was not any one out on the roof. He remained until twelve. Everything becoming quiet again, he then departed, saying he would call the next day. When he had got as far as the gate, the sounds on the roof commenced again with great violence, and continued until he had gone about two hundred yards from the cottage, at which distance he could still hear them distinctly. The next week it became known throughout Amherst that strange things were going on at Dan Teed's cottage. The mysterious sounds had been heard by people in the street as they passed the house, and the poundings now commenced in the morning and were to be heard all day long. Esther always felt relieved when the sounds were produced by the unknown power. Dr. Caritte called every night, and sometimes during the day, but could not afford her the slightest relief. One night, about three weeks after the doctor's first visit, as he and the family were standing around her bed listening to the loud knockings, Esther suddenly threw her arms up towards the head of the bed, and seemed to be seized with a spasm, for she became cold and perfectly rigid. While in this state she commenced to talk, and told all that had occurred between herself and Bob McNeal on the night of the fatal ride. This was the first anybody knew of the affair, for she had never told of it, and Bob had never been seen in the locality after that night. When she came to her senses again, they told her what had been said by herself during the strange state from which she had just emerged. Upon hearing this she commenced to cry, and told them that it was all true; that he had threatened her with his revolver, but becoming frightened by the sound of wheels in the distance, had driven her home without offering her any further show of violence. "There!" exclaimed Olive, "Didn't I tell you that I felt it in my bones, that harm would come to you through that young man, and now you see he really is at the bottom of all this. Ah, it is Bob, who makes all these strange sounds about the house; I know he is the cause." Instantly three distinct reports were heard, shaking the whole house with their violence. "Do you know doctor," said Jane, "that I believe that whatever agency makes these noises, it can hear and understand what we are talking about, and perhaps see us." The moment she had finished the sentence, three distinct reports were heard as loud as before. "Ask if it can hear us doctor?" said Dan. "Can you, whatever you are, hear what we say?" asked Dr. Caritte. Again three reports were heard, which shook the entire house. "Why, that is very singular," remarked the doctor. "I believe Jane was right, it can hear." "Well, let us try again," said Dan. "If you can see and hear, tell us how many persons are in this room?" Esther did not know how many were present, for she was lying in the bed, with her face buried in the pillow trembling with fear. As Dan did not receive an answer, he asked again. "How many persons are in the room? Give us a knock on the floor for each one." Five distinct knocks were made by the strange force on the floor, and there were just five persons in the room, as follows:--Dr. Caritte, Dan, Olive, Esther and Jane, William Cox and John Teed having left the room after Esther had burried her face in the pillow. "Well, it certainly is strange remarked the doctor, but I must go, it is getting late." So he departed after saying he would call the next evening. The next evening the Doctor called and remained for about an hour, but as nothing occurred he departed feeling rather disappointed. For the next three weeks no one could tell when the manifestations would take place. Sometimes they would commence in the morning and continue all day, and at other times they would only take place after Esther had retired. It had now become a settled fact that Esther must be in the house or there would be no manifestations of any kind. They never occurred during her absence. About one month after the commencement of the manifestations, Dr. Edwin Clay, the well known Baptist clergyman, called at the house to behold the wonders with his own eyes. He had read some little account of them in the newspapers, but was desirious of seeing and hearing for himself, not taking much stock, as the saying is, in what other people told him about the affair. However, he was fortunate enough to have his desire fully gratified. He heard the loudest kind of knocks, in answer to his various questions, saw the mysterious writing on the wall, and left the house fully satisfied that Esther did not produce any of the manifestations herself, and that the family did not assist her as some people believed. He, however, was of the opinion that through the shock her system had received the night she went riding, she had become in some mysterious manner an electric battery. His theory being, that invisible flashes of lightening left her person, and that the knocks which every body could hear distinctly, were simply minute claps of thunder. He lectured on his theory, and drew large audiences as he always does, no matter what the subject is. Perfectly satisfied that the manifestations are genuine, he has nobly defended Esther Cox from the platform and the pulpit. Rev. R.A. Temple, the well known Wesleyan minister pastor of the Wesleyan Church in Amherst, has witnessed some of the manifestations. He saw, among other strange things, a bucket of cold water become agitated, and to all appearances boil, while standing on the kitchen table. As soon as people in the village found that such eminent men as Dr. Clay, Dr. Caritte and Rev. Dr. Temple took an interest in the case, it became quite fashionable for people in the village to call at Dan's little cottage to see Esther Cox and witness the wonderful manifestations. While the house was filled with visitors, large crowds often stood outside unable to gain admittance. On several occasions the village police force had to be called out to keep order, so anxious were people to see and hear for themselves. Many believed and still believe the whole affair a fraud, and others say that Esther mesmerizes people, and they think they hear and see things which never have an existence. Dr. Nathan Tupper is of this belief, although he has never witnessed a single manifestation. Dr. Caritte, who continued to be one of the daily callers at the cottage, would have a theory one day that would seem to account for the manifestations he had witnessed, and the next day something wonderful would occur and upset his latest theory completely, so that he finally gave up in despair and became simply a passive spectator. Things went on in this way until December, when Esther was taken ill with diphtheria, and confined to her bed for about two weeks, during which time the manifestations ceased entirely. After she had recovered from her illness, she went to Sackville, N.B., to visit her other married sister, Mrs. John Snowden, remaining at her house for about two weeks. While there she was entirely free from the manifestations. On returning to Dan's cottage the most startling part of the case was developed. One night while in bed with her sister Jane in another room, her room having been changed to see if that would put a stop to the affair, she told her sister that she could hear a voice saying to her that the house was to be set on fire that night by a ghost. The voice also said that it had once lived on the earth, but had been dead for some years. The members of the household were called in at once, and told what had been said. They only laughed and remarked that no such thing as that could take place, because there were no ghosts. Dr. Clay had said it was all electricity. "And," added Dan, "electricity can't set the house on fire unless it comes from a cloud in the form of lightning." As they were talking the matter over, to the amazement of all present, a lighted match fell from the ceiling to the bed, and would have set it on fire had not Jane put it out instantly. During the next ten minutes, eight or ten lighted matches fell on the bed and about the room, but were all extinguished before any harm could be done. In the course of the night the loud knockings commenced. The family could now all converse with the invisible power in this way. It would knock once for a negative answer, and three times for an answer in the affirmative, giving two knocks when in doubt about a reply. Dan asked if the house would be set on fire, and the reply was three loud knocks on the floor, meaning yes; and a fire was started about five minutes afterwards. The ghost took a dress belonging to Esther that was hanging on a nail in the wall near the door, rolled it up, and, before any of the persons in the room could remove it from under the bed, where the ghost had placed it before their very eyes, it was all in a blaze. It was extinguished, however, without being much injured by the fire. The next morning all was consternation in the cottage. Dan and Olive were afraid that the ghost would start a fire in some inaccessible place and burn the house down. They were both convinced that it really was a ghost, "for" said Olive, "nothing but the devil or a ghost with evil designs, could do so terrible a thing as start a fire in a cottage at the dead of night." Dr. Clay's theory might be true, but it was not clear to them how electricity could go about a house gifted with the cunning of a fiend. "It is true," said Dan, "that lightning often sets fire to houses and barns, but it has never yet been known to roam about a man's house, as this strange power does. And as Esther can hear it speak, and it does whatever it says it will, why I believe it to be a ghost, or else the devil." While Olive was churning in the kitchen one morning about three days after the fire under the bed, she noticed smoke coming from the cellar. Esther was seated in the dining room when Olive first saw the smoke, and had been seated there for the last hour, previous to which she had been in the kitchen assisting her sister to wash the breakfast dishes as was her custom. On seeing the smoke, both she and Esther were for the moment utterly paralyzed with fear. What they so dreaded had at last come to pass. The house was evidently on fire, and that fire set by a devilish ghost. What was to be done? Olive was the first to recover from the shock. Seizing the bucket of drinking water, always kept standing on the kitchen table, she rushed down the cellar stairs, and was horrified at the sight which burst upon her view. There in the far corner of the cellar was a barrel of shavings blazing almost to the floor above. In the meantime Esther had reached the cellar, and stood looking at the crackling flames in blank astonishment. The water Olive had poured into the barrel was not enough to quench the flames, for in the excitement of the moment she had spilled more than half of it on her way down. What was to be done? The house would catch and probably be burned to the ground, and they would be rendered homeless. "Oh! if Dan were at home, he could put it out," Olive managed to articulate, for both she and Esther were nearly suffocated with the dense black smoke with which the cellar was filled, and now the barrel itself had caught. The cellar was very small, and everything in it would soon be blazing unless the fire could be extinguished at once. "Oh! what shall we do," cried Esther, "what shall we do?" "Run out in the street and cry fire as loud as you can. Come, let's run at once or the whole house will burn down," exclaimed Olive, by this time wild with fear. So, both she and Esther ran up stairs and out into the street, crying "fire! fire!" Of course their cries aroused the whole neighborhood. At the moment a gentleman, a stranger in the village, who happened to be passing, instantly threw off his coat, rushed into the cottage, picked up a mat from the dining room floor, and was down in the cellar in a second. He put the fire entirely out, and then, without waiting to be thanked, walked out of the cottage and was soon lost to view in the distance; and, what is remarkably strange, nobody knows who he was or whence he came, for from that day he has not been seen. The news of the fire which the ghost had set in Dan's cellar soon travelled all over the country and created a great deal of curiosity. People who had set the whole affair down as a fraud began to think that perhaps it was all true after all, for certainly no young girl could set fire to a barrel of shavings in the cellar and be at that instant in another part of the house, under the watchful eye of an older sister, who was continually at her side. The fact that both the little boys were out in the front yard at the time the fire was kindled, and consequently could not have had anything to do with setting it, was also calculated to throw an air of mystery around the whole affair. The family believed that it had been started by the ghost. The fire marshals of the village seemed to be of the opinion that Esther set both fires herself; the villagers held various opinions. Dr. Nathan Tupper, suggested that if a good raw hide whip were laid over her back by a strong arm, the manifestations would cease at once. Fortunately for Esther, no one had the right or power to beat her as if she were a slave, and so the mystery still remained unsolved. For the next week manifestations continued to take place daily and were as powerful as ever. The excitement in Amherst was intense. If the cottage in which Dan lived should catch fire when the wind was blowing from the bay, the fire would spread, and if the wind was favorable for such a terrible calamity, the whole village would soon be reduced to ashes. As if to pile horror upon horror, one night, as Esther and the entire family were seated in the parlor, the ghost appeared. Esther started to her feet and seemed for the moment paralyzed with terror. In a second or two, however, she recovered her self-possession, and pointing with a trembling hand to a distant corner of the room, exclaimed in a hoarse and broken voice: "Look there! Look there! My _God_, it is the ghost! Don't you all see him? There he stands all in grey; see how his eyes are glaring at me and he laughs when he says I must leave the house to-night or he will start a fire in the loft under the roof and burn us all to death. Oh, what shall I do, where shall I go; the ground is covered with snow--and yet I cannot remain here, for he will do what he threatens; he always does." "Oh, I wish I were dead." After this exclamation, she fell to the floor and burst into an agony of grief. "Well," said Dan, after lifting her up, "Something will have to be done, and quickly, too. The wind is blowing hard to-night, and if the ghost does as he threatens, the house will burn down sure, and perhaps the whole village. You must go, Esther. Remember, I don't turn you out; it is this devil of a ghost who drives you from your home." They all knew none of the neighbors would shelter Esther, because they all feared the ghost. What was to be done? Heaven only knew. It suddenly occurred to Dan that John White would perhaps give her shelter, for he had always taken a deep interest in the manifestations, and had often expressed pity for the unhappy girl. So Dan, after putting on his heavy coat--for it was snowing fast, and the night was intensely cold--went to White's house. After knocking for some time, the door was opened by John White himself. He looked at Dan a moment in amazement, and then exclaimed in an inquiring tone: "What's the matter, Teed? Has the house burned to the ground or has the girl burst all to pieces?" Dan explained his mission in a few words. When he had finished, White thought a moment, and then said: "Wait until I ask my wife; if she says yes, all right, you may bring her here to-night." He asked his wife, and fortunately for the miserable girl, she said "yes," and that very night Esther Cox changed her home. Chapter IV. THE WALKING OF THE GHOST. When John White took Esther to his house to reside, he performed a charitable deed, which no man in the village but himself had the heart to do. Both he and his good wife showed, by the kindness with which they treated the poor unhappy girl, that Heaven had at least inspired two hearts with that greatest of all virtues--_Charity_. It was now January, 1879,--just four months since the manifestations first commenced. Esther had been at White's residence for two weeks, and had not seen anything of the ghost. She had improved very much in that short time, her nervousness having almost subsided, and she was contented and happy. Mrs. White, who found her of great assistance in the house, had become much attached to the girl, and treated her with the same kindness that she did her own children. Towards the end of the third week her old enemy--the ghost--returned. While Esther was scrubbing the hall at her new home, she was astonished to see her scrubbing brush disappear from her hand. When the ghost told her that he had taken it, she became much alarmed and screamed for Mrs. White, who, with her daughter Mary, searched the hall for it in vain. After they had abandoned their search, to the great astonishment of all, the brush fell from the ceiling--just grazing Esther's head in its fall. Here was a new manifestation of the ghostly power. He was able to take a solid substance from this material world of ours, and render it invisible by taking it into his mysterious state of existence; and, if he could take one object why not another; if a brush, why not a broom? But why speculate on so great a mystery? The ghost did it, and as we must draw the line somewhere, it is better to draw it here than to allow our minds to become dazed by such fellows as ghosts. Many other remarkable manifestations continued to take place almost daily for the next two weeks. The ghost could now tell how much money people had in their pockets, both by knocking and by telling Esther. He would answer any question asked in the above mentioned manner, and behaved himself very well indeed until the end of the sixth week, when his true devilish nature broke out again. He commenced setting fires about the house, and walking so that he could be heard distinctly. Of course John White would not run the risk of having his house burned down. So he persuaded Esther to remain during the day in his dining saloon, which stands opposite the well known book store of G.G. Bird, on the principal street. While standing behind the counter in the dining saloon, also while she worked in the adjoining kitchen, many new and wonderful things were witnessed by the inhabitants of Amherst and by strangers from a distance, and many plans were tried to prevent the manifestations. Among others, some one suggested that if she could stand on glass they would cease. So pieces of glass were put into her shoes, but as their presence caused her head to ache and her nose to bleed, without stopping the manifestations, the idea was abandoned. One morning the door of the large stove in the kitchen adjoining the saloon was opened and shut by the ghost, much to the annoyance of Mr. White, who with an old axe handle so braced the door that it could not be moved by any known mundane power, unless the axe handle was first removed. A moment afterwards, however, the ghost, who seemed never to leave Esther's presence while she was in the saloon, lifted the door off its hinges, removed the axe handle from the position in which it had been placed, and, after throwing them some distance into the air, let both fall to the floor with a tremendous crash. Mr. White was speechless with astonishment, and immediately called in Mr. W.H. Rogers, Inspector of Fisheries for Nova Scotia. After bracing the door as before, the same wonderful manifestation was repeated, in the presence of Mr. Rogers. On another occasion, a clasp-knife belonging to little Fred, Mr. White's son, was taken from his hand by the ghost, who instantly stabbed Esther in the back with it, leaving the knife sticking in the wound, which bled profusely. Fred, after drawing the knife from the wound, wiped it, closed it and put it in his pocket. The ghost took it from his pocket, and in a second stuck it in the same wound. Fred again obtained possession of the knife, and this time hid it so that it could not be found, even by a ghost. There is something still more remarkable, however, about the following manifestation: Some person tried the experiment of placing three or four large iron spikes on Esther's lap while she was seated in the Dining Saloon. To the astonishment of everybody, the spikes were not removed by the ghost, but instead, became too hot to be handled with comfort, and a second afterwards were thrown by the ghost to the far end of the saloon, a distance of twenty feet. During her stay at the saloon the ghost commenced to move the furniture about in the broad daylight. On one occasion a large box, weighing fifty pounds, moved was a distance of fifteen feet without the slightest visible cause. The very loud knocking commenced again and was heard by crowds of people, the saloon being continually filled with visitors. Among other well known inhabitants of Amherst who saw the wonders at this period, I may mention William Hillson, Daniel Morrison, Robt. Hutchinson, who is John White's son-in-law, and J. Albert Black, Esq., editor of the _Amherst Gazette_. Towards the latter part of March, Esther went to Saint John, New Brunswick, and while there was the guest of Captain James Beck, and remained at his house for three weeks under the protection of his wife. Her case was investigated by a party of gentlemen, well known in Saint John as men whose minds have a scientific turn. Doctor Alward, Mr. Amos Fales, Mr. Alex. Christie, Mr. Ritchie, and many others witnessed the manifestations, and talked with the ghost by the aid of the knocks on the wall and furniture, and, strange to relate, other ghosts came and conversed also; among them one who said his name was Peter Cox, and another who gave the name of Maggie Fisher. All claimed to have lived on the earth before they entered the land of ghosts, but none were apparently as strong and healthy as the old original fire fiend of the cottage, who now gave the name of Bob Nickle, and said that when he lived on the earth he had been a shoemaker. The ghost who called himself Peter Cox, claimed to be a relation of Esther's, and said he had been in ghost land about forty years; he was a quiet old fellow, and did all he could to prevent Bob Nickle and Maggie Fisher from breaking the articles which they threw, and from using profane language, a habit in which _they_ were fond of indulging. Dr. Alward and his scientific friends also conversed with the ghosts by calling over the alphabet, the ghosts knocking at the correct letters, and in that way long communications were spelled out to the satisfaction of those present. After remaining in Saint John about three weeks, Esther returned to Amherst, and accepted an invitation to visit Mr. and Mrs. Van Amburgh, who reside about three miles from the village. She remained eight weeks with them, during which period the ghosts allowed her to enjoy the calm repose of a life in the woods, the Van Amburgh farm being literally situated in the woods. At the expiration of the eighth week she returned to Amherst, and went back to Dan's cottage to reside, being employed during the day in White's Dining Saloon. The manifestations soon commenced again, and were as powerful as when the author commenced his investigation of the case. CHAPTER V. THE AUTHOR AND THE GHOSTS. I closed my engagement with the Dramatic Company of which I was a member, in Newfoundland, and went to Amherst, to expose, if possible, Esther Cox, the great Amherst Mystery. Where occasion requires allusion to myself, I shall simply say the author. At seven o'clock on the morning of June 21st, 1879, as the sun was shining brightly, and the cool breeze was blowing from the bay, the author entered the haunted house. After placing his umbrella in a corner of the dining room, and his satchel on the table, he seated himself in one of the easy chairs to await results. Esther and Olive were present. He had been in the room about five minutes when, to his great astonishment, his umbrella was thrown a distance of fifteen feet, going over his head in its flight. At the same instant a large carving knife came jumping over the girl's head, and fell near him. Not at all pleased with this kind of a reception on the part of the ghosts, he left the room and went into the parlor, taking his satchel with him, and there sat down paralyzed with wonder and astonishment. He had been seated only a moment when his satchel was thrown a distance of ten feet. At the same instant a large chair came flying across the room striking the one on which he was seated, nearly knocking it from under him. It suddenly occurred to him that he would take a walk, during which he could admire the beauties of the village. On his return to the cottage, the ghosts commenced their deviltry again with redoubled violence. He had no sooner entered the house than all the chairs in the parlor--and there were seven by actual count--fell over. Concluding not to remain in that room, he went to the dining room, when the chairs in that, his favorite room in every house, went through the same performance. Feeling hungry, not yet having had his breakfast, he sat down to a good substantial meal, Esther sitting directly opposite. After pouring out his coffee, she handed it to him with the remark, "Oh, you will soon get used to them; I don't think they like you." "No," he replied, "I do not think they do either. In fact, I am satisfied they do not; but, having come here to investigate, I shall remain until they drive me from the house." While eating breakfast the ghosts commenced to hammer on the table. By the system in use by the family when conversing with them, he carried on a long conversation, they answering by knocks on the bottom of the table. Before entering into the conversation, however, he sat so that Esther's hands and feet were in full view. The ghosts told the number of his watch, also the dates of coins in his pocket, and beat correct time when he whistled the tune of "Yankee Doodle." Chairs continued to fall over until dinner, during which there was a slight cessation of manifestations. After dinner, the author lay down upon the parlor sofa to take a nap, as is his custom in the afternoon. Esther came into the room for a newspaper. He watched her very closely, keeping one eye open and the one next her shut, so that she would think he was asleep. While watching her intently to see that she did not throw anything herself, a large glass paper weight, weighing fully a pound, came whizzing through the air from the far corner of the room, where it had been on a shelf, a distance of fully fifteen feet from the sofa. Fortunately for the author, instead of striking his head, which was evidently the intention of the ghost who threw it, it struck the arm of the sofa with great force, rebounding to a chair, upon which it remained after it had spun around for a second or two. Being very anxious to witness the manifestations, he requested Esther to remain in the room, which she did. After seating herself in the rocking chair, little George came into the room, when she placed the little fellow on her lap and sang to him. As the author lay there watching her, one of the child's copper-toed shoes was taken off by a ghost and thrown at him with great force, striking his head. The place struck was very sore for three or four days. The balance of the day passed quietly away. Evening came, and the author had a good night's rest in the haunted house of which he had heard so much. The next day being Sunday, everything was peaceful in the cottage, though why the ghosts should respect the Sabbath the author has never been able to ascertain; however they always remain quiet on that day. On Monday morning the ghosts commenced their mad pranks again, and seemed ready for anything. At breakfast, the lid of the stone-china sugar bowl disappeared from the table, and, in about ten minutes, fell from the ceiling. After breakfast; over went the table; then the chairs all fell over, and several large mats were pitched about the room. The author immediately left the room and went into the parlor, when, to his astonishment, a flower pot containing a large plant in full bloom was taken from its place in the bay window and set down in the middle of the room and a large tin can filled with water was brought from the kitchen and placed beside it. During the afternoon a large inkstand and two empty bottles were thrown at him. The ghosts also undressed little George, and, as if to make a final climax to the day's performance, Bob, the head ghost, started a small bon-fire up stairs, and he and the other ghosts piled all the chairs in the parlor one on top of the other, until they made a pile about six feet in height, when, as if in sport, they pulled out those underneath, letting all the others fall to the floor with a crash. On Tuesday morning when the author took his seat at the breakfast table, he placed the sugar bowl lid beside his plate, so that he might have his eyes on it. In a second it disappeared and fell, in exactly eight minutes by the clock, from the ceiling, a distance of fully twenty feet from the table. The ghosts got under the table, as on the previous morning, and were so obliging as to produce any sounds called for, such as an exact imitation of the sawing of wood, of drumming and of washing on a wash board. During the morning several knives were thrown at him; a large crock of salt was taken from the kitchen dresser and placed on the dining room table; the tea kettle was taken from the stove by one of the ghosts and placed out in the yard, as was also the beefsteak, pan and all, which was frying on the stove; and, after dinner, the table was upset. During the afternoon, while in the parlor, the author made the acquaintance of all the ghosts,--Bob Nickle, the chief ghost; Maggie Fisher, another ghost almost as bad as Bob; Peter Cox, a quiet old fellow of very little use as a ghost, because he never tries to break chairs, etc.; Mary Fisher, (who says she is Maggie's sister) Jane Nickle and Eliza McNeal. The three last are "no good" as ghosts, as all they do is stalk about the house and occasionally upset something. As there are only six ghosts all told, and they were all present, the author asked them numerous questions, all of which were answered by loud knocks on the floor or on the wall, just as he requested--all seeming anxious to converse. The first question the author asked was: "Have you all lived on the earth?" A.--"Yes." Q.--"Have you seen God?" A.--"No." Q.--"Are you in heaven?" A.--"No." Q.--"Are you in hell?" A.--"Yes." Q.--"Have you seen the devil?" A.--very loud--"Yes." Many other questions were answered, but the answers are not worth repeating. At the conclusion of the interview, one of the ghosts threw the author's bottle of ink from the table to the floor, spilling the contents on the carpet. The next day as the author and Esther were entering the parlor, both saw a chair fall over and instantly jump up again. Neither the author nor Esther were within five feet of the chair at the time. During the whole of the next day the ghosts stuck pins into Esther's person. These pins appeared to come out of the air and the author pulled about thirty from various parts of her body during the day. In the afternoon the family cat was thrown a distance of five feet by one of the ghosts, and almost had a fit from fright. She remained in the yard for the balance of the day, and ever afterwards while in the house seemed to be on the lookout for ghosts; possibly she saw and heard them on several occasions afterwards, for her tail often became quite large, as cats' tails always do when they are frightened or angry, after which she would leave the house in a hurry. The author saw Esther coming down stairs late in the afternoon, and when she had reached the hall a chair from his room came down after her. The only other person in the cottage at the time was Olive, and she was at that instant in the kitchen. On June 26th, two or three matches fell from the ceiling at the author's feet. Being a great smoker, he requested the ghosts to throw down a few more, which they did. He would simply say, "Bob, I would like a few matches, if you please." When down they would come from the ceiling. Forty-five were thrown during the day, and on another day during the afternoon forty-nine fell to the floor. It must be remembered that all the manifestations witnessed by the author took place in the broad light of day, and that the only other persons present were the various members of the family. On June 28th, the sound of a trumpet was heard by the author and all the family. It continued to be blown about the house from early morning until late in the evening. The sound was very distinct and was at times close to their ears. Late in the evening "Bob" let the trumpet fall in one of the rooms. It is composed of some metal very similar to German silver, and is now in the possession of the author, who intends to place it in a museum on his return to the United States. Where the ghosts got it no one knows. It had never been seen in Amherst, so far as had been ascertainable, until it fell upon the floor, and its true origin will doubtless always remain a mystery. It is hardly necessary that the author should weary the reader with a minute account of the manifestations produced by these ghosts during his residence of six weeks in the haunted house, he could easily fill a book containing twice the number of pages that this one does, with an account of what was done by the ghosts alone, without mentioning the name of a single living individual except Esther Cox; but I suppose the reader, by this time, is ready to cry "_quantum sufficit_." So by referring to a few more facts, he will end this chapter. One afternoon, while Esther was out walking, she called on Rev. R.A. Temple. During the visit he prayed with her, and also advised her to pray for herself. On her return to the cottage, one of the ghosts, either Bob or Maggie, cut her on the head with an old bone from the yard, and a moment afterwards stabbed her in the face with a fork. While the author lived in the house, scarcely a day passed that some article was not thrown by the ghosts. They would often steal small articles and keep them secreted--Heavens only knows where--for days at a time, and then unexpectedly let them fall in one of the rooms, to the amazement of every one. In that way, shoes and stockings, knives, forks and other articles too numerous to mention would be missed, sometimes for weeks, and on one occasion some copper coins were taken from Dan's pocket and placed upon the author's knee. It was a common thing for the ghosts to throw knives at the author, but fortunately they were all dull and he was never cut; he was, however, often struck by small articles, never sufficiently hard, however, to draw blood. During his stay in the house, Esther often went into a state very similar to the mesmeric sleep, during which she talked with people invisible to all present; among others, her dead mother. On coming out of this strange state she always said she had been to heaven among the angels. On several occasions, Bob, the head ghost, tormented her so at night that it was with difficulty she could remain in bed. On one particular occasion the author was called up by Dan at midnight so that he might behold for himself what was going on. After dressing, he went into Esther's room, and was horrified by the sight which met his gaze. There, upon the bed, lay the poor, unhappy girl swollen to an enormous size, her body moving about the bed as if Beelzebub himself were in her, while between her gasps for breath she exclaimed in agonizing sobs: "Oh, my God, I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!" "Oh, don't say that, Esther," plead Olive, "don't say that." "Now, Mr. Hubbell," said Jane to the author, "you see how much she suffers." "Yes, I see," said Hubbell, "but let us endeavor to hold her, so that this fiend cannot move her about the bed, and then, perhaps, she will not suffer so much." So Dan and himself tried to hold her so that she could not be moved, but in vain. "Well," said Hubbell, "one ghost is certainly stronger than two men. Are you sure nothing can be done to relieve her?" "No," replied Olive, "Dr. Caritte has tried everything without affording her the slightest relief. Medicine has no more effect on her than water." Jane, Olive, Dan and the author remained up with her for about three hours, during which time she continued to move about the bed, after which the ghost left her and she sank from sheer exhaustion into a state of lethargy. She had several attacks of this kind during the author's residence in the cottage, and on one occasion she was seen by Mr. G.G. Bird, Mr. Jas. P. Dunlap, Mr. Amos Purdy and several ladies; on another occasion by Dr. E.D. McLean, Mr. Fowler and Mr. Sleep. Towards the latter part of July the manifestations became so powerful that it was no longer safe to have Esther in the house. Fires were continually being started, the walls were being broken by chairs, the bed clothes pulled off in the day time, heavy sofas turned upside down, knives and forks thrown with such force that they would stick into doors, food disappeared from the table, finger marks became visible in the butter, and, worse than all, strange voices could be heard calling the inmates by name in the broad light of day. This was too much; if the ghosts continued to gain in strength they would take possession of the house and all in it, for there were six ghosts, and only five persons in the flesh all told, as follows: Dan, Olive, Jane, Esther and the author, not, of course, counting the two children--William Cox and John Teed having left the house before Esther went to St. John, literally driven away by ghosts. There was but one remedy, and that was that Esther Cox should leave the house even though her sisters loved her dearly. Simple hearted village maiden! Fate decreed that she should be torn from their home, but not from their hearts for the simple reason that her room was far more agreeable than her company. So one morning, after packing up all her worldly possessions, she kissed the little boys, embraced her sisters, shook hands with the rest, bade them all farewell, and departed never to return. CHAPTER VI. CONCLUSION. Esther is living with her friends the Van Amburgh's, on their farm in the woods. The ghosts do not torment her now. With the Van Amburghs she has a quiet, peaceful home. One thing is certain, if she returned to Dan's cottage manifestations would, in a short time, become as powerful as ever, and Heaven only knows where the matter would end. The author went to see her at the farm, On August 1st, 1879, and found her making a patch-work quilt, on which she stopped working every few minutes to play with the little children. She informed him that she read her Bible regularly every day, and was contented and happy. Before departing he advised her to pray earnestly that she might never again, be possessed by devils. She promised to take his advice. So hoping that her prayers would be answered, he bade her farewell forever. In Dan's little cottage all is now harmony and peace. Pretty Jane still tends her plants with loving care. Olive works as hard as ever, and so does honest Dan. And there may they reside for years to come, enjoying the blessings which the virtuous always receive from the hands of Providence. Reader, a word. This account of the "Haunted House," in which Esther Cox suffered so much, and the author had such a remarkable experience, is no fanciful creation of the imagination, but really what it is claimed to be,--"A True Ghost Story." THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's notes: Obvious spelling errors repaired. Quotation marks normalised. All other printing errors retained. 
6733	----	This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions. MEMOIR OF FATHER VINCENT DE PAUL, RELIGIOUS OF LA TRAPPE: TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH BY A. M. POPE, WITH A PREFACE BY THE RIGHT REVEREND DR. CAMERON, BISHOP OF ARICHAT. PREFACE. The reply of Maximilian to the wealthy courtier who tendered him a goodly purse of gold for a title of nobility, was worthy of that emperor: "I can enrich thee," he said, "but only thy own virtue can enoble thee" All true grandeur, excellence, and dignity, are the offspring of virtue. Even the most renowned oracles of paganism proclaim this, and the very persecutors of holiness are often constrained to pay homage to their victim. No wonder, then, that whenever we are privileged to find one of those rare mortals, whom virtue has unmistakably marked as her own, we lovingly attach an exceptional importance to everything connected with his history. Such assuredly was he whose "account of what befel" him during his first ten years in America, is now for the first time published in English. A brief sketch of the religious Order to which he belonged, of the life he led, and of the Monastery he founded, may give added interest to his own simple and edifying narrative. What Scripture terms "the world," and so emphatically denounces as such, is the poisonous source of the mother-evils described by St. John as "the concupiscence of the flesh, and the concupiscence of the eyes, and the pride of life." Flight from the contamination of this threefold inordinate love of pleasures, riches and honors, being essential to salvation, is most easily, most surely and most meritoriously achieved by those who, in answer to a Divine call, consecrate and give themselves wholly to God, by the practice of the evangelical counsels of chastity, poverty and obedience. Those who embrace this angelic profession form the choice portion of the fold of Christ. They rank as His spouses, and, by the holy ambition of their virgin love, console Him for the craven defections or the cold indifference of so many Christians. All Christians animated by the spirit of Jesus are religious, just as they are holy, and kings and priests (I Peter 2,9). Such is the unity of the marvellous body of Christ, the Church, whose soul is infinite love, that her every member shares, in some sense and measure, all her sublime prerogatives. But as God willed that in His family some goods should be common to all, so He likewise decreed that other goods should be reserved to comparatively few, and through these chosen and privileged ones benefit the rest. Hence, as besides this elementary royalty and priesthood conferred by baptism, there are, according to the express order of God superior and official royalties and priesthoods, in like manner besides the fundamental religion, which is the vital breath of every soul in a state of grace, there is a religion more eminent, more definite, more perfect. Thus as there is here below a sacerdotal and royal state, so likewise is there a religious state which is confined to those only who bind themselves by vows to a monastic life. It is evident, therefore, that when Catholics use the expression "religious Order," or term a monk or nun "a religious," they are perfectly justified in doing so, the cavillings of Dr. Trench to the contrary notwithstanding. Each religious order is characterized by the special purpose for which it was founded, and by the constitution and rule which its members are to follow. The observance of the Benedictine rule was greatly relaxed in the monasteries of France towards the close of the eleventh century, when St. Robert (1098) inaugurated a reform at Citeaux, which resulted in the establishment of the Cistercian Order. A monastery of this Order was subsequently (1140) founded in La Perche, France, by the Count of Perche, and was called La Trappe. In 1662 the commendatory abbot of La Trappe, Armand Jean le Bouthilier de Rance', a nobleman who abandoned wealth and a brilliant career, visited La Trappe, undertook a new reform of the Cistercian rule, and thus became the founder of that branch of this Order which became known as the congregation of La Trappe. In consequence of the Revolution of 1789, one of the Trappist Fathers, Dom Augustin conducted twenty-four of his brethren from France to Valsainte, in Switzerland. Here they decided to adopt a rule still more strict than that which they had hitherto observed. This step occasioned a division in the Trappist Order: some monasteries following the rule of Valsainte, others that of de Rance'. An appeal to Rome resulted in a decree dated October 3rd, 1834, by which all Trappist monasteries were placed under one government. The decree not having however had the desired effect, the Holy See decided in 1847 to sanction two distinct congregations, one to follow the constitution of de Rance', and the other to observe the rule of St. Benedict, with the primitive constitution of the Cistercian Order. To the latter congregation belong the Trappist monasteries of Canada and the United States, whose time-table on week days during winter is as follows:-- At two o'clock, a. m., the Trappists rise and proceed to their chapel, where they devote their time to the recitation of the Office, meditation, &c., till 7.45, when they have High Mass, followed by manual labor, which, with the interruption of only half an hour given to the recitation of Office and examen of conscience, continues till 2 p. m.; ten minutes more and they break their long fast of twenty-four hours with the lean and only repast of the day. At 6 p. m. begins spiritual reading, immediately followed by compline and other devotional exercises till 7, when they retire to their much needed rest on their hard straw mattresses. Perpetual silence is prescribed, unless in case of necessity, so that the Trappist's whole life is one of extraordinary austerity and of incessant recollection, reminding him at every turn of the shortness of life and the tremendous rigor of judgment. The time-table for summer varies in some minor practices and observances, while, according to that of Sundays and holidays, those religious in the latter case rise at midnight, and in the former at 1 a. m., and busy themselves till 7 o'clock, p. m. during winter, and 8 o'clock during summer in the praises of the Lord. James Merle was born at Lyons, France, the 29th October, 1768. His father was a much respected physician in that city. On the 7th of April, 1798, while the godless Revolution was carrying resistless devastation over the country, he privately received the holy order of priesthood at the hands of Mgr. C. F. D. Dubois de Sanzay, Archbishop of Vienne, and seven years afterwards he entered the Trappist Order, taking the name of Father Vincent de Paul, by which he has always since been known. In his memoir Father Vincent speaks of having bought a large tract of land near the sea in Nova Scotia, and of having built a house thereon. This was in Tracadie, where he resided for some years previous to his return to France in 1823. In 1824 he came again to Tracadie with another worthy priest of his Order, Father Francis, a native of Freiburg, together with three lay brothers, and the house above referred to became thenceforth the monastery of Petit Clairvaux. A few years later three other lay brothers were admitted, two of them from Halifax, and one from the United States. Until the Rev. John Quinn was appointed parish priest of Tracadie, (1837) Father Vincent had pastoral charge of the three missions of Tracadie, Havre au Boucher, and Pomquet, and the old people of the place still recount his innumerable acts of extraordinary zeal and devotion. "He scarcely ever had the stole off his neck during Lent," is the remark of one of them. He also made frequent excursions to Cheticamp, Arichat, and other parts of Cape Breton, to preach missions there, and to assist the dying. In his memoir he speaks of that sublime pilgrimage of the heart, the admirable devotion of the Way of the Cross, as one especially acceptable to God; and no wonder it bore marvellous fruit as conducted by him. At each station this holy servant of God did not content himself with reading the usual prayers: he gave expression to heavenly thoughts inspired by his own burning love of his crucified Saviour, producing a mysterious and lasting echo in all hearts. The church was always crowded on those occasions. To prepare children for their first communion, he devoted six entire weeks of instruction each year. His capacity for work was immense; and while hurry never appeared in his actions, he managed to glide through them with a masterly ease far out-stripping the speediest progress of ordinary mortals. A supernatural light seemed to supersede the necessity of recourse to the usual slow and laborious process of reasoning in seeing one's way, and to endow him with an intuition excluding all doubt, and with an instinct ever ready in performance. Thus for everything he found ample time, because no particle of his time was lost. He was a living, palpitating, breathing, vocal, acting temple of the Holy Ghost, and this Divine indwelling was, in a manner, visible to all. At the altar, during the holy sacrifice which he daily offered, it seemed to transfigure his countenance so as to impress his heavenly citizenship upon all beholders. In administering the sacrament, in instructing the people, in his incessant endeavors to keep or win them from sin, and to provide for all their spiritual wants, the same irradiation of holiness imparted the most extraordinary efficacy to his charity and zeal. So palpable was this impress of sanctity in his every-day-life, that no one could come in contact with him without perceiving it and feeling its inherent power. Such being the rare effulgence of Father Vincent's sanctity as seen amid the dust and darkness of the world, one can more readily realize the transcendent perfection and purity of his soul as nurtured and revealed in his divine communing in his own beloved cloister. No wonder, then, that when this admirable servant of God, fall of days and merits, was called away to his reward on the morning of New Year's Day, 1853, all felt that they had one intercessor more in heaven. No wonder that miraculous cures wrought through his mediation began soon to multiply. Nor was Father Vincent's reputation for sanctity confined to Catholics. Even Protestants not only acknowledged the heroism of his virtues, but also sought to possess some earth from his grave, and one of them, J. H., still living, was restored to health and usefulness by the application of this relic to his diseased and disabled limbs. The next Prior of Petit Clairvaux was the dauntless and holy Father Francis, whose advanced age obliged him in 1858 to resign his office into the hands of the sweet Father James, a native of Belgium, and a religious eminently qualified for the position. Such was the success of his administration that in 1876 the community was raised by Pius IX of blessed memory to the dignity of an abbey--an abbey, which, with its forty-one fervent religious, now wisely governed by the worthy Abbot Dominic, presents an example of heroic abstinence, mortification and prayer, well calculated to put the characteristic dissipation, effeminacy and dissoluteness of the age to blush, and to bring home to our minds that "the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God." (I Co. 3,19). JOHN CAMERON, _Bishop of Arichat._ MEMOIR OF FATHER VINCENT. [Some account of what befel Father Vincent de Paul, Religious of La Trappe, with observations made by him when in America, where he has spent about ten years, with the permission of his Superior, in obedience to whose orders he writes the following:] The reverend Father Abbot, of La Trappe, Dom Augustin, (De Lestrange) foreseeing that Bonaparte would seek to destroy the communities existing in Europe, resolved on sending a party of his religious to America, in order that they might establish themselves there and preserve their monastic state. In 1812, I, in company with two other brothers, was sent by him to the United States, there to found an establishment of our Order. We left Bordeaux on the 15th June, and on the 6th of the month of August we arrived at Boston. We had with us one of our Trappistines, whose object was also to found a community; with this intention she had preceded her companions, but now found herself alone, as passports were refused to the other sisters. We were welcomed by the worthy Mr. Matignon, parish priest of the town, who coaxed us to remain in the diocese of Bishop Cheverus. However as we had received orders to establish ourselves near Baltimore, after a few days rest I started for that town alone, leaving my brothers and the nun in Boston, intending to send for them when I should find a suitable site for the two projected establishments. I paid my respects to His Grace the Archbishop of Baltimore, who received me kindly, but appeared at a loss where to find a site such as we desired. After many unsuccessful efforts and researches, he established me temporally on a farm belonging to the Society of Jesus (of which he was a member) until such time as we could procure the sort of place we wanted; then as I thought that time might be long in coming, I summoned my brothers to me, and arranged for a suitable lodging for the nun. During our stay, a rich man of Baltimore, who was once a Protestant and had been converted, offered us 2000 acres of land in the mountains of Pensylvania, near a river called the Delaware. He was even generous enough to offer me the services of his son, who was also a recent convert, and who came with us to point out the property which, however, I was not able to inspect thoroughly as I remained there only one day. I returned soon after with two young men who were inclined to join our Order. They commenced a somewhat rude novitiate, for we fasted and kept silence on the way, going always on foot for want of money. After great suffering from fatigue and heat (as it was summer), we arrived at a little town, distant about sixty miles from Philadelphia, whence we had started on our tour of inspection. This little town, which was called Milford, was quite near to the land that was to be ours. On the way we passed through many Protestant villages whose inhabitants appeared to be anxious for the light of the true faith, and this budding town of Milford did not look askance at us, as almost all of its inhabitants came to mass on Sunday. After mass one of the young men aforementioned, who knew English well, expounded the catechism to them, and they listened with attention. The Protestant minister came afterwards to preach, but we were told that none of the people went to hear him which without doubt annoyed him greatly. One of the principal men of the place, a Protestant, as indeed they were all, begged me to remain with them, saying that they would subscribe me a pension, and that he would head the list with the sum of fifty dollars. But we had not come to this country to be missionaries, so we left Milford to go and inspect our land. Travelling through these immense and trackless forests was very difficult, and we often went astray. One day when I was alone with a child who served me in the capacity of guide, we were greatly puzzled. We wished to find a little hut that we had built in the woods in which to sleep; nightfall was coming on, and there seemed no chance of finding our camp before sundown. I said to the child: "here is a low, flat rock, on which I will spend the night." He replied that if I remained there I should be devoured by the bears, of which there were a great number on these mountains; we had already heard their cries and hideous howlings. At length, thanks be to God, we found the cabin, which was not a very safe refuge for us, as it was only a little hut built of young trees. The two novices and I slept there like Indians, either on the bare ground or on couches formed by heaps of the branches of trees. Having no provisions with us we were obliged for the first few days to eat what we could find in the woods, such as certain little blue berries that they call "bluets," and other wild fruits, which the people of the country despise. On the third or fourth day help came. A Jew and a Protestant appeared on the scene, bringing us potatoes. This Jew showed a leaning towards our religion, and the Sunday previous I had said mass in his house. I do not doubt that if we had remained longer with these people many would have been converted. There was one entire family, of father, mother and three children, whom I had instructed, and who were to receive baptism and embrace the Catholic religion. Unfortunately the woman was the victim of evil counsel at Milford, and was deterred from her good purpose. There were many people in Milford who were bitter enemies to the truth. I often said mass in our cabin. One day we made a cross and carried it in procession for nearly a mile: we sang psalms, and part of the way went barefoot, until we reached the spot where we planted the cross, which was our consolation and our safeguard, as there were in this desert a great number of rattlesnakes and other reptiles no less dangerous. When we left our retreat we would sometimes step upon them and would hear the noise that these serpents make with their rattles. At last having walked over a great portion of these two thousand acres of land during the two weeks that we spent there, we left these solitudes and went down to Philadelphia. [Footnote: It was not deemed advisable to accept this property, it being almost entirely rock or marsh land. Besides which it was not suitable for one of our establishments, communication with other places being too difficult.] Upon arriving at the town I told the Bishop how well-disposed were the people whom we had seen, and suggested to him to send some missionaries there, but he told me that he had none to send. If I had been free I would have returned at once to labor for the conversion of these poor people. After a year of crosses and difficulties in the way of our discovering a suitable and convenient place for our establishment, we found ourselves in Maryland, an excellent province, producing all the necessaries of life in abundance. It is near the sea, and near to the Potoxen, and not far from the Potomac, two great rivers that add to its commercial advantages and render it more flourishing. We thought we had at last found the country in which to succeed in establishing our foundation. I consulted His Grace the Archbishop of Baltimore, and the reverend gentlemen of the seminary of St. Sulpice, and in accordance with their advice, I decided to go there and commence the work. Three more brothers sent from France by our Reverend Father Abbot, arrived at this juncture and joined us. We bought the land and set ourselves to work to cultivate it. We built a house for ourselves, which consisted of trees placed one upon another--what is called in this country a _loghouse_. It was small, being only eighteen feet long, and as many wide. We shortly commenced another which would serve as a chapel. The negroes of the country--who are all Catholics--gave us a helping hand in this work On arriving here we found lodgings in a private house near our clearing, in which we remained until our _loghouse_ was fit to receive us. Maryland produces an abundance of Indian corn, the cultivation of which is the chief work of the negroes. We subsisted almost entirely upon this food, with potatoes and occasionally bread; wheat, however, and buckwheat grow very well. We arrived there at the beginning of the year 1813, and during the winter we were occupied in cutting down trees and preparing the land for work in the spring, so that when that season arrived we had an acre and a half of land under cultivation. Part of this we planted with potatoes, another part was a garden where we sowed different vegetables, and we also laid out an orchard of young fruit trees. So far everything looked well, but when summer came, and while we were working most zealously we all fell ill with fever, and many of us were attacked with dysentery. I attribute these maladies to many causes,--first to the miasma or poisonous vapors exhaled from newly cleared land, then to the great heat and the bad water that we had to drink, which, though it had been pure enough in the winter and spring, had become bad by reason of a multitude of little insects that were perpetually drowning themselves in it. Another reason that contributed to render us ill was the number of different sorts of flies by which we were devoured day and night. There were among others two species of flies which in this country they call _tics_. Some of them are large, others are small, they fasten themselves to the skin and so penetrate into the flesh that one can only remove them by pulling them to pieces, even then a part remains and causes an insupportable itching. We were dying one after another in this place when our Rev. Father Abbot on his way from Martinique, with several religious, arrived at New York. He summoned our community to him, as well as that of the Rev. Father Urbain, which a short time previously had united with ours, so that these three little communities now formed but one, under our chief Superior, who thus in a moment effected a foundation such as we had spent years of fruitless effort endeavoring to establish. Our new monastery was established in the country near New York, and did much good. Thirty-three poor children (almost all of them orphans) were brought up there, and were given all the necessaries of life, even to their clothes. Protestants came to see the good work and two ministers were converted. These gentlemen came sometimes to see us, and assisted at our religious ceremonies. They liked to converse with our Reverend Father Abbot, who won them by his frank and polite manner. In addition to the work of this monastery, our Reverend Father Abbot supported and directed another house of our Order which he had also founded, and which was productive of much good. This was a community of nuns. There was yet another convent, one belonging to the Ursulines quite near, that is to say about three or four miles from our monastery, which our community supplied with a chaplain. I was obliged to go there every Sunday to say mass and to confess the nuns. When we arrived in their neighborhood they were without a priest; we could not leave them in such need, so that I, ill though I was, had to say two masses on Sundays, one in the church of the Ursulines, the other in that of our sisters. However, this was to me a cause of rejoicing, although I was fatigued after my voyages and overwhelmed by the work with which I was charged, I was compensated and consoled by the good that I could be the means of doing. I remember having received the abjuration of Protestantism of three young ladies who were boarders at the Ursuline Convent, and who had the happiness of becoming Catholics. Although we were in a Protestant country, our Reverend Father Abbot undertook to have the procession of the Blessed Sacrament on the festival of Corpus Christi, thinking it might do some good. He had several repositories built in a field adjoining our house, these he decorated in the best style possible and managed to have a canopy and boys to swing censors and others to throw flowers before the Blessed Sacrament. When the time for the procession arrived we saw our Reverend Father bearing Jesus Christ in his hands and walking under the dais borne by four religious in dalmatics accompanied by the community and by several strangers singing hymns and canticles. Numbers of children preceeded the Blessed Sacrament, exercising the solemn functions which had been allotted to them. This infantine band, clad in white surplices girded with different colors, resembled angels and presented a spectacle at once beautiful and edifying to the beholder. The Protestants who were present appeared to be much pleased with the procession. Our Reverend Father Abbot wished with all his heart to be able to continue the good work thus commenced, but he was obliged to abandon it for want of pecuniary means, and perhaps also because of the ill-will of many who offered opposition to his projects; besides which King Louis XVIII had been restored to the throne of France, and religion was being re-established in that country. Almost all our brothers were dispersed here and there throughout Europe, and it would be necessary to reunite them. Persuaded, besides, that he would receive more help in France than in the United States, and in short, reflecting that there would perhaps be more good to be done yet in the old world than in the new, (the Revolution having been the cause of such wickedness and having done so much harm) our Father Abbot decided that he and his community would return to France. He embarked in the autumn of 1814, and took with him from New York the greater number of our Brothers and all our Sisters, leaving only six Brothers and myself behind, with orders that we should join him in France after I had arranged our business matters and recovered my strength, for I had still within me the germ of that malady of which mention has been made in speaking of Maryland where I contracted it, as did the others. It left me with a slow fever, that lasted for a long time. At this junction two of our Brothers died, a lay Brother and an oblate. This latter had been almost a millionaire he having acquired a large fortune in the West India Islands; he lost it, however, in the negro rebellion, and retired to La Trappe, where he died poor enough. Belonging to the house in which we were living was an orchard which we had made our cemetery, here we had buried our two brothers; but, as we were going to leave this spot and did not wish to expose their bodies to be perhaps profaned by heretics who might buy the ground and not wish to have them there, we determined to exhume them. They had been buried about a fortnight, and the weather was warm, so we provided ourselves with incense to burn in case there might be a foul odour. This precaution, however, was not necessary, as there was no smell perceptible, they were as fresh, so to speak, as if they were still alive. We remarked especially that the body of Brother Jean Marie, (the lay Brother) was supple. I touched it myself, and saw that it was really so, for while I held him his legs swayed as would those of a person in life. Near the town there was a little cemetery well walled in, and intended for the poor. As our brothers were poor in fact, and by profession, I had them laid there, and in the same spirit of poverty interred them side by side in the same grave. We accompanied these good brothers to the tomb, offering our prayers for their repose, and all was finished before daylight. About the middle of the month of May, 1815, our business being concluded, we left New York, and fifteen days later arrived at Halifax, without having experienced bad weather. After two week's delay in searching for another vessel, we at length found one, and by means of the recommendation of Mr. Burke, then pastor of the town, and since Bishop, we were taken on board with our seven trunks without being obliged to pay anything for our passage. The ship was a transport called the "Ceylon," and was delayed by contrary winds. The second day after we embarked the wind still being from a wrong quarter, I was stupid and imprudent enough to go ashore to see about some business that was not of grave importance--when lo! the wind veered round suddenly and became favorable. The ship sailed, but Father, Vincent remained and lost his passage! I thus found myself alone in a strange country, and without means. I made every effort to discover some way of overtaking the ship, but in vain. It was impossible to do so, and I felt very sad at the thought of my brothers being carried so far away from me. My Superior in France, to whom I made known this event, wrote to me that as God had permitted it, I could remain until farther orders, and occupy myself with the salvation of the Indians; for which object I accordingly labored up to the time of my leaving Nova Scotia, that is to say up to the month of October, 1823. These labors, however, did not prevent my working for the good of our Order, as we shall see later. Mr. Bourke having gone to Ireland, we were only two priests for the town of Halifax and its suburbs, where there were many Catholics, without counting the Mic-macs, who are the Indians inhabiting Nova Scotia. These Indians were called to the Faith about four centuries ago. French priests or Jesuits coming at the peril of their lives, brought them the light of the Gospel. Many of these ministers of our Lord fell victims of their own zeal and charity, being murdered by this nation, then pagan and barbarous. Since these Indians became acquainted with the true religion they have never been known to conform to any other, but have preserved their firmness in the faith up to the present day in spite of the danger of perversion to which they are so often exposed, more especially since they have lived among the English, and in spite of their ignorance, for it is difficult to teach them. Their language which they call "Mic-mac," is a jargon without rule. They have been taught to read in it, but only by means of hieroglyphics. A figure or a sign which they write themselves on bark or on paper, may sometimes signify only one word, sometimes again it stands for a whole phrase. Some have thought they detected Arab words amongst this language, but I think it bears more resemblance to that of children just learning to speak without being able to understand what they say. For example for the "_yes_" they say [long-e] (ay); for "_no_" they say "mena." The accent of the Mic-mac is soft and slow. I have remarked that, they do not convey their ideas well in any other language. When one translates Mic-mac for them into French or English, they often appear dissatisfied, and one can see from their manner that the true sense is not given. What renders their faith more remarkable and meritorious is, that they confess through the medium of an interpreter, and they avail themselves of the first they find, no matter who, provided he knows their language. They are often interpreted by their relatives, even the oldest by the youngest. Mr. Mayar, a French priest who was formerly missionary to these parts and who died in Halifax full of merit before God, was deeply regretted by these Indians. By means of great application, and by the aid of light from heaven, he accomplished the task of translating into their language a number of the prayers and chants of the church, so that they now sing the _Kyrie_, the _Gloria in Excelsis_, the _Credo_, &c, even the _Te Deum_, on the Roman or Parisian tone, (for this worthy priest came from Paris). They know many hymns of the Blessed Virgin, which they sing equally well, also the prose _Dies Irae_. They sing mass fairly well, especially the tone Royal, and the mass for the dead. Some persons may be surprised at this, and perhaps harbor a doubt of it, but I can testify as a witness to its truth. More than a hundred times they have sung it for me. So recently as the month of August, 1823, I was in a parish called Havre-a-Bouchers, when twenty-six canoes filled with Indians arrived there; they came to have their children baptised, and for confession, &c. There were eight singers among them, and during the week that they remained, they sang mass for me each day, and one might say conducted themselves like canons or like Trappists! They have clear voices. These poor Indians might shame some of our European Catholics by their zeal and their piety; they will go fifty or even a hundred leagues to find a priest and to receive the Sacraments, and as it often happens that they have no provisions when they arrive, they pass two or three days without eating, occupied only with their souls and forgetful of the wants of the body. While in Halifax, which is the capital of Nova Scotia, I found myself overladen with work. The priest who was with me being in very delicate health and often indisposed, most of the work fell to me. He was at length obliged to go away for change of air and was absent for a month, during which time it fell to me to baptize, confess, marry, visit the sick in town and country, and be on my feet day and night, besides saying mass on Sundays and Holy days. Although I knew very little English, I preached twice in that language in the Catholic church of the town, where there were about two thousand Catholics, of whom the greater number were Irish. Soon I felt constrained to go further into the Province of Nova Scotia to minister to the wants of the poor, neglected inhabitants. The first place to which I went was a parish called Chezzetcook, composed of French Acadians, who were without a priest. It is seven leagues from the town (Halifax) and when it possessed a missionary the Indians had been accustomed to go there. They were not long in learning of my presence, and came from a circuit of fifteen or twenty leagues. I had a transparancy representing the suffering souls in purgatory, which our Revered Father Abbot had made. The figures expressing different shades of grief and of the desire as well as the hope of seeing God, combined with the brilliant and real looking flames, were well calculated to produce an impression. I showed it to them and explained it by means of one of their interpreters who knew French. At once penetrated with compassion and charity for the suffering souls in purgatory they began to weep, and to look up the money they had with them so as to have the Holy Sacrifice offered on behalf of these suffering souls, and that without my having said anything to give them the idea. They all wear the cross, some have it hung round their necks, others fasten it on their breast. It is seldom that an Indian leaves home without his beads; they generally have them and do not neglect to say them, sometimes repeating the chapelet several times a day, as well as in the middle of the night, when they rise to pray. They observe all the fasts of the Church, and the penances imposed on them they generally perform on Fridays. On that day in a spirit of penitence, and in memory of the passion of Jesus Christ, a man will hold out to his wife the backs of his hands, which the wife strikes with a rod, giving twenty, thirty, or fifty blows. She then in turn presents her hands and receives the same chastisement from her husband. This chastisement is dealt out indiscriminately, children are thus chastized by their parents, and what is surprising, the little Indians when struck on the hands do not withdraw them, no matter how much they feel the pain. I have seen them bleeding, yet in spite of that they were firm and motionless. Their religion is not only exterior, they have it in their heart as will be seen by the following fact: The feast of St. Anne is a great festival for the Indians, and I made a point of being at Chezzetcook on that day. Two hundred Indians assembled, most of them came in a spirit of devotion, but some of them had evil designs, for they mediated killing their king and all his family. I discovered this plot in time, and learnt the cause with astonishment. It was that they believed that the chief and all his family would change their religion, that they had become Protestants, or that they intended so to do. This is how it came about. Some heretics called Methodists, had done all in their power to attract the king of the Indians to their sect, going so far as to give him all sorts of provisions, and other valuables, such as cows, pigs, farming implements, &c. One of these Methodists was sent among the Indians to learn their language, and so corrupt them more easily. In this way the report got about that their Chief, Benjamin (which was the name of the king) had joined the Methodists with all his family. Mr. Mignault, parish priest of Halifax, and myself knew this to be false, for Benjamin himself, whom we had warned against the dangers that threatened him, had replied: "The potatoes, cows, and the other provisions of Bromlet (which was the name of the Methodist who had given him the things) are good, I have taken them and made use of them, but his religion is worthless, I will have none of it." In consequence of this we assembled the Indians in the church of Chezztecook, which was not large enough to hold them all, and we made the king repeat his profession of faith in their presence, so that they should no longer doubt his sincerity. He did this in a most edifying manner. His example was followed by all his officers, who also made their profession of faith. We remarked in particular one of his brothers who was conspicuous by the touching beauty and eloquence of his speech, and by the earnestness of the gestures which he employed. Some fragments of his discourse were rendered into our language by an Acadian interpreter, who understood Mic-mac pretty well. "How," said he, "could we leave our religion that will save our souls if we follow it, this religion that comes from God, whose son died on the cross for our salvation? Shall we lose our souls that have cost Him so dear, for which he suffered so much, and which he shed all his blood to purchase? No, better die than change our faith and do such a great wrong." I had written to Mr. Mignault to come so as to render the affair more imposing and dignified, and he arrived in good time. He carried a large crucifix, which at the conclusion of the ceremony the Indians came to venerate. The missionary then said a few words of instruction, after which the Indians embraced each other as brothers and friends, in token of general satisfaction and peace. I heard all their confessions, and a large number had the happiness of receiving Holy Communion. On the eve of St. Anne's feast, they made a bonfire, and while the wood burned they fired off guns and danced around the fire, clapping their hands in imitation of musical instruments. This lasted for a great part of the night, however, they had previously said their evening prayers, and sung hymns and canticles. We can obtain almost anything from them in the name of our holy religion, so great is their attachment to it, as will be seen by the following: One day while I was in Halifax, a number of Indians came to the presbytery to complain to me of the Governor who resided in the town. They clamored for the guns and powder which had been promised to them, and which they were accustomed to receive every year from the English Government in addition to their gifts of woolen blankets. The missionaries distributed, or saw to the distribution of these latter. I was obliged to go myself to see the Governor on the subject of this small rebellion, for the Indians wore a threatening air. His Excellency begged me to pacify them and to tell them that their demand would soon be granted. I returned and said a few words in the name of religion, which at once quieted them. Another time some barbarous and fanatical miscreants set a number of Indians against us, making them believe that we only drew them around us in order to do them harm, and to emperil their safety. This they apparently believed, for we were warned that they would attempt our lives. I spoke to them instructing them as well as I was able. At last by the arguments of the religion to which they are so attached, I turned them from their wicked purpose. I am sure that afterwards they experienced a lively remorse for having entertained such a thought. Formerly, that is to say, before priests came among them, they had the barbarous custom of killing their fathers and mothers when they became old and infirm. Many of the bludgeons and war clubs with which they killed their parents have been found quite recently. Now, however, they take care of them until their death, respecting and loving them. It is thought that before they had any knowledge of religion they were cannibals. How is it that this people who were formerly so unnatural and so barbarous are to-day so different, so humane, and quiet and tractible? What has rendered them so docile and submissive; in short, what has worked this happy change if not the Catholic religion? Protestants, as we have shown above, have tried to civilize them, and to imbue them with different sentiments, even going so far as to live among them and entering into their pursuits, but their undertakings have always failed, each attempt has met with the same result It is only the true religion and its priests that have power to convert and civilize these savages and make them useful members of society. Each year they have masses said for different intentions, and in this they give evidence of generosity and nobleness of sentiment. The first mass that they recommend is for the human race, that is for all men living; the second is for the souls in purgatory; the third for all Indians and others who have died during the year; the fourth to thank God for all benefits received from His hand during the year, and the fifth to offer up to Him the coming year so that he may bless it. For this object they save their money, sometimes to the end of the year, sometimes to the feast of St. Anne, when they have an opportunity to come to their religious duties. This, however, does not prevent their having a special mass said, should any of their near relatives die. They generally recommend high masses for these general intentions, and for thanksgiving. Before the French took possession of Nova Scotia, which they called Acadia, the Indians lived only by hunting and fishing, and had no clothing, but such as they made of the skins of wild beasts. Their houses were hut-like in form, as they are at the present time, for they have not changed their ancient manner of living. I have often slept in their cabins, which are very uncomfortable for civilized people, such as Frenchmen, although the Indians prefer them to our houses. A proof of this is that, notwithstanding the length of time they have lived among Europeans, they have not made up their mind to imitate them. This may possibly arise from idleness, for it would cost them much labor as well as time and money were they to erect houses such as ours. They are not rich enough to employ workmen, but in less than a day, without expense and with little labor, they can build the house in which they live, sleep, cook, &c., and which is much less trouble for them. They cut fifteen or twenty little trees of about the same size as the arm of a youth of fifteen. From these they remove the branches, if there be any, and make them into posts of nine or ten feet in length. They then plant them in the earth at equal distances, in the form of a circle, placing them so that they may incline inwards, so that the base is much larger than the summit. An opening is left at the apex sufficient to admit of the escape of the smoke from the fire, which is always made in the middle of the cabin. They then cover these poles with the bark of trees, leaving an open space for the entrance. If they are not too poor, they cover this space with some pieces of old blankets. Their houses are built in the shape of a sugar loaf, their bed is the naked earth, or some small branches of trees, shreded fine, that serve as a mattrass. These cabins are never more than fifteen or twenty feet in diameter. Their cookery consists chiefly in suspending above their fire some eels or hares that they have killed. These they eat almost before they have changed color, (what the Acadians term _boucare_). There are some who have kettles, and who cook their fish in water, with potatoes, which vegetable for some time past the Indians of Nova Scotia have planted, and which now forms almost their principle nourishment. Many have boats in which they go codfishing. Although they are generally rather idle, they occupy themselves nevertheless at work which requires attention and a certain kind of application, such as making pretty boats out of bark and pretty boxes of different shapes and colors, and elegant and highly ornamented baskets. For this ornamentation they use the quills of the porcupine, an animal very common in America. These quills they die black, red, blue, &c. They make these colors themselves by means of certain barks which they boil in water. They then fasten the colored quills on the bark of their boxes in tasteful and varied patterns. This is generally considered to be women's work. That of the men is heavier, such as the making of churns and other wooden utensils for domestic use. They tan the skins of the animals they kill and make their shoes or moccasins out of them. These are very thin and do not last long. As, regards their dress, both men and women are oddly attired. Their clothes are fashioned somewhat after the manner of ours, but the sewing is all on the outside and the stitches are very large. The selvedge of the cloth, (which they are always careful to secure when buying it) also shews on the outside, from their shoulders to their heels, and is considered ornamental. The squaws' dresses are similar, with the addition of a hood, which, when turned up, completely covers their head. The more elegant are ornamented with ribbons, flowers, beads, &c. It is more particularly when they come to their devotions that they decorate themselves thus. The men also at such times dress themselves with more than usual care. They live very peaceably together, willingly lend to each other, and have almost everything in common. If one receives a gift of anything, bread for example, all the others, men and women, regard it as a present made to all, and are as grateful as if each had received it, consequently there is no such thing as jealousy among them. A beautiful example for all Christians! We will now speak of their dexterity. It is wonderful to see them manage their bark canoes, which are extremely light. These little boats are narrow at both ends, a little wider in the middle, and generally about nine or ten feet long. They move with surprising quickness in the midst of the angry waves. Two persons are sufficient to propel them, and it can be done by one. When fishing eels they stand at the end of their canoes and spear the eels with a long stick, to the end of which is fastened a sharp pointed iron. This instrument they call _higogue_. They are so long sighted that they can see to the bottom, of water twenty feet in depth. They wait until the fish rise, then spear them as they go along. Their dexterity is such that they seldom miss their aim. I have often gone with them; we have journeyed together by sea and by land. When there are _portages_, that is to say lands to cross, in order to regain the sea or lakes, they put their canoes on their heads and carry them to the water, and if they are overtaken by rain or by bad weather, they turn them over and take shelter underneath them. Without counting the Indians who in 1818 numbered many thousand souls in Nova Scotia and in Cape Breton, which Province alone, is almost as large as France, there were at least twelve hundred and fifty Catholic families scattered over these two large Provinces. At that time we numbered only seven priests, two of whom were very infirm, which was the reason of my being obliged to leave the Halifax mission and to repair to a place two hundred miles from there, on the coast of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and in the neighborhood of Cape Breton, This part of Nova Scotia (to which I was sent by Bishop Burke on his return from his visit to Europe, where he had been made Bishop of Sion and Vicar Apostolic of this Province), was without a priest, although it contained a great number of Catholics. On my arrival I found three parishes abandoned and deprived of the precious consolations of religion. Many children were brought to me for baptism, and I had numerous confessions to hear, &c. They came from great distances to take me to visit the sick who had ample time to die before I could get near them. I was given especial charge of three parishes composed of Acadians and of natives of France, to whom the English Government had given land, and who still remain in this country. The Acadian portion of my charge having intermarried with the Indians, had become half savage, and had adopted many of the Indian customs. [Footnote: Le peuple Acadien s'etant allie avec les Sauvages, est devenu moitie Sauvage, et a pris beaucoup de leurs manieres.] There is a tribe of the Indians called _Micmacs_ in one of these three parishes that is named Pomquet (an Indian word) and I was in a position to observe them as they were only ten miles from Tracadie, which was my ordinary place of residence. They there possessed a considerable property given to them by the Government. They cultivated it, planted potatoes and cut hay. When I arrived among them I found great disorder. Many had given themselves up to drunkeness, and they were without a chief. One day I assembled them together and spoke to them strongly about these matters. Since then I have seen with pleasure that they have not opposed me, but that they have chosen among themselves a chief whom they obey,--not all of them unfortunately, for there are some of them who are wicked and have always given me much trouble; their love for brandy is their ruin. I have often crossed an arm of the sea in order to visit other Micmacs who live in Cape Breton. This Cape is surrounded by little islands, and there is there a lake seven leagues in length and five or six in width; on which I was once shipwrecked. We were two priests in a bark canoe, paddled by two Indians, and were carrying the consolations of religion to many families of Indians who lived on the other side at the foot of a mountain. A storm suddenly arose, a long stick, which served as a mast and carried a sail, was broken, and during the two hours that the bad weather continued, we momentarily expected to be engulfed by the immense waves that rose like hills and fell, breaking against our feeble bark, although the pilot endeavored to avoid them as much as possible, while the other Indian tried to break their force by means of his paddle. One of these Indians, the elder of the two, and the more experienced, trembled, fearing every moment that we should be lost, and he was not so afraid for us as we were for ourselves. However, thanks to Providence, and to the wood of the True Cross that I had with me, we were delivered from danger, and arrived safely in port. We found a new plantation made by the Indians, that is to say, some tracts of cultivated land, some animals and some frames of houses. The Indians received us with great joy, especially when they learned that we were two priests who came to visit them; but in nearing their habitations we were exposed to great danger from the horns of a bull that was ferocious and was in the habit of rushing at passers by. God delivered us from this peril also, although the animal in question was quite near to us. These Indians set before us for our supper, tea, milk, butter, potatoes and some fruit that resembled small apples (petites pommes). We were hungry and tired. We ate with good appetites, and were anxious to retire for the night. But what beds! Appropriate truly for a Trappist. They were made of grass and of branches of trees thrown on the ground. And what a house! It had no chimney and scarcely any roof, so that we were all night exposed to the snow and rain which was falling. My companion who was suffering from lung complaint was injured by this, while for my part, I shivered all night and could not get warm, although quite near to a fire that had been kindled in the centre of the cabin. The next morning we rose before daybreak and baptized several Micmac children, (for these Indians were of the same nation as those of Nova Scotia) and confessed others. After that we prepared to re-cross the lake, which was not easy, as the sea was still very high. Another time that I started on a mission to this same Cape (Breton) the Indians who conducted me in a canoe perceived three monstrous fish called _maraches_, and they were frightened, as these fish are very dangerous. Their teeth are made like gardiners' knives, for cutting and boring, or like razors slightly bent. They are extremely voracious, and often follow boats, attacking them with violence. Bark canoes cannot resist them, they rend them open with their teeth, so that they sink to the bottom, which is why the Indians have such a terror of them. Happily for us these fish did not follow us, we arrived, thank God, in good health. Tracadie was usually my starting place when I left for the Indian mission of Cape Breton. I had from eighteen to twenty leagues to journey by water, making long circuits and paddling round twelve or fifteen little islands, and passing near many others. Nevertheless it only takes one day to make the journey in a bark canoe, that is if the wind be not contrary. The Micmacs of the Cape (Breton) knowing that I was on the road and would soon arrive at the mission [Footnote: This place is called "Mission" or "The Mission of the Bras d'or," because it is there that the missionaries are accustomed to confess, baptize and administer the Sacraments to the Indians, and to those who present themselves to receive them. It is a pretty little island on which they have built a nice chapel, and a house sufficiently commodious for the priest.] would all gather there to the number of five or six hundred. On the occasion referred to above, three canoes came to meet us. (I was then accompanied by another missionary). This was to do honor to us, to show respect and gratitude. When we approached near to the island two of these canoes were sent on ahead to announce to the king that we would arrive immediately, The king had all his braves armed (for they all have guns) and the moment we landed he commanded them to fire, after which he formed them into two lines and made them kneel to receive our benediction; they then rose and we passed between them. They accompanied us to the church where we chanted the _Te Deum_, or rather it was chanted by themselves in thanksgiving for our arrival. This is about the ordinary ceremony to honor the arrival of a missionary. When the mission was opened, after having implored the light of the Holy Spirit, they all confessed, and a great number received Holy Communion. I made the Stations of the Cross partly in their own Micmac language. I know that they understood me by the signs that they made, as well as by their devout appearance in following the procession. Afterwards each one came to make the Stations himself the best way he could. This went on for six days, during which time I left the pictures of the Stations in the church. I put a high indulgence on their crosses, crucifixes, beads, &c., by virtue of a power that I received from Rome since I came on this mission. Some Indians had given bad example and had openly sinned; these made public reparation, promising to correct themselves and praying the king, who was present in the church, to punish them, if they again fell into the same fault. I was obliged to leave, and had not time to erect fourteen large crosses which I had intended to place in the middle of the island to serve as a Calvary. They, themselves, made three crosses, probably by this time they have set them up (as I instructed them how to do) before leaving. The Cape Breton Indians are the best of all the Micmacs, they are sober, obedient to their priests, exact in the observance of the smallest articles of religion (if indeed there be any small). It is true that they are ignorant, but this is pardonable in them because of the difficulty of their language. One day I had given Communion to an old squaw who was ill. They were all alarmed as she was not fasting when she received; they thought that both the priest and the squaw had been guilty of great disrespect to the Blessed Sacrament. In order to quiet them, I said to them in Micmac: "_Kijidou_," which means: "Be easy, there is no harm in that, it is permitted, I know what I have to do." Immediately they looked at each other and smiled, their consciences at rest. The missionary who was with me once said to them: "I want you to make me a road in the woods one or two miles long." The next day, very early in the morning, one or two hundred Indians, each armed with a hatchet, began to cut down the trees, and at the close of the day the road was finished. This incident alone will serve to illustrate their good will and devotion. During the five years and a half in which I worked at the holy ministry in this second mission, I had consolations and God delivered me from many dangers besides those of which I have spoken. One winter when I went to one of the three Acadian parishes to hold a mission there, I fell between two large cakes of very thick ice; this was on the sea, for every winter in this part of the world the water freezes sufficiently to allow a man and even a horse and sleigh to pass over it. A young man with whom I was travelling, came to my assistance, and by his help, but more by the help of God, I drew myself out. I was safe, but very wet and benumbed with cold. Some days after I was seized with a violent sore throat, which I attributed to the accident that had happened to me a short time previously. Many times I have been on foot and on horseback night and day, going on sick calls in the most severe weather. I have walked upon the frozen sea on one day, and have passed the same place on the day following and seen that it would not then bear me, and should I have attempted to cross it then, I would have perished. When the navigation was open, almost all the journeys rendered necessary, by the wants of my people, I made by sea, sometimes going in a boat, sometimes in a larger vessel. Besides the general risk that one always runs on this perfidious element, I have often experienced bad weather and long and perilous passages, but the Lord has preserved me in the midst of the waters. I must not omit to mention a most critical moment when Monseigneur Plessis, Bishop of Quebec, with several other priests and myself were in danger of losing our lives in 1815, while going by sea to Chezzetcook, a parish situated twenty-one miles from Halifax, and of which I have already spoken. Monseigneur, two priests and myself, were in the same boat, we had just quitted a long boat that had brought us from the town to the harbor. We were about landing, but had still some breakers to avoid. Two totally unexperienced young Englishmen who were rowing us led us suddenly into grave danger. The sea rose very high, and we found ourselves crossing the breakers, so that we momentarily expected to have our boat upset and ourselves sent head over heels into the midst of the waters. All who saw us, or knew of our situation, thought that we ran the greatest risk; but we held on, thanks to Providence, who arranges all, and nothing was lost but my hat, which was struck by a breaker and carried into the sea. Not only has divine Providence often delivered me in like dangers that I can call to mind, but also we were protected in the tempest which we experienced in the beginning of December, 1823, when we were coming from America to France. If I have been exposed to danger on the sea, I have also on land, but God made the elements; He dwells therein, He is their master. I have fallen three times from the back of a horse, at great risk of being killed or of breaking a limb, and I have twice been robbed by thieves who broke into the house in which I usually resided; they took the little money I had, my clothes, etc., but I was absent from home when they executed their evil deed. God permitted it, may His holy name be blessed! There are in the parish of Tracadie and its environs twenty or thirty-six families of negroes, of whom the greater number are Protestants. Besides being heretics they are rascals, given to all kinds of vice. I have often visited them, and upon every occasion that offered, tried to instruct them in spite of the danger that I ran of being ill-treated and perhaps killed by them, for there are some among them who are bad at heart and capable of evil deeds. I had some experience of this when I lived near them. Recently one of these negroes, remarkable among the others for his age and his pretended learning, fell ill. I went to see him thinking that my visit would not displease him. There were a number of blacks round his bed, who were singing hymns and praying. They offered me a chair. I seated myself near the sick man and commenced to speak to him of death, of judgment and of the truth faith, of the only true religion in which we can save ourselves. Finally I said to him that he would be dammed if he died in his false belief. At these words the other negroes turned on me with fury; by their animated features, by their eyes flashing with anger, and by their horrible cries, I knew that I was not safe with them, and that I could do no good there, so I left the house. They followed me, crying out against the priests. A young ecclesiastic who accompanied me was very frightened, and I myself expected to be assaulted by them. There was one in particular more enraged than the others, and who screamed most loudly. He said that if a hundred or a thousand priests should speak to him of religion he would not believe one of them. I returned there some days afterwards with another priest who was conversant with English (for the sick man could not speak French). After some hours conversation with the missionary, the sick man asked him if he would come to him again when he sent for him. Soon after this I left the country, but I have reason to think that he sent for me. I do not know what is the result for his soul, whether he is converted or whether he remains in error, for the above incident occurred just before my return to France. During the five years and a half that I have spent at Tracadie, which is in Nova Scotia, I have had the consolation of seeing four or five families of these Protestant negroes embrace the Catholic religion. Many other persons also of different nations and sects have changed their faith, to the great edification of the children of the true Church. It has been found necessary to build new churches and to enlarge others, to enable them to hold their congregations, which have so increased in number, either by conversions, by the multiplying of the old Catholic families, or by the number of strangers who came every day to settle in this country, and who bring the true faith with them. For some time I was the only missionary there, and obliged to traverse forty or fifty leagues by land and by sea. I found every where colonies who were Catholic, as well as many persons who were not. If some zealous priests would go to carry spiritual help to all these people who are in a measure abandoned, they would perform a great act of charity and win much merit; but they must be prepared to suffer many miseries, hunger, cold, persecution, poverty, &c, and to risk their lives often both on land and sea. The principal nourishment of the people of the country consists of potatoes and salt meat, water or spruce beer (biere de Pruche) is their ordinary drink. They love rum which is common enough, and is not expensive-- but on the other hand it is dangerous and unhealthful to soul and body. A very small quantity of this liquor will make a man lose his reason, and quite inebriate him. It is this unhappy and deadly drink that ruins the Indians in this country as in all others. The climate of Nova Scotia and of Cape Breton is very cold during the winter (which lasts six months), and sometimes very hot in summer. From time to time we hear of persons having their hands and feet frozen, and even parts of their faces. I myself have seen many who were obliged to have their hands or feet amputated, they having mortified from the effects of the cold. Another danger that one has to face is that of being surrounded by the snow when it is drifted by the wind, as sometimes happens on the Alps, on the side of Mont Cenis and Simplon. This is what is called a "snow storm." In these eddies of snow one cannot see the road on which to travel, not even a house fifteen feet distant The snow, driven with force by the wind, fills your eyes, nostrils and mouth, and prevents you from breathing, so that you are really in danger of perishing. Every winter a tremendous quantity of snow falls, so that one is obliged to use snow-shoes in order to travel. In spite of all these drawbacks it is a healthy country, and one which produces all necessary grain and vegetables, such as wheat, bearded wheat, rye, kidney beans, beans, turnips, cabbage, potatoes, &c, and even good fruit, such as apples, pears and plums. As to the fruit, in some townships it is very good, in others it is small, while as to vegetables, potatoes succeed the best. These latter are very fine in Nova Scotia and in Cape Breton. A proof of the country not being a bad one is, that every one lives well there. Strictly speaking, there are no poor, for one never sees a beggar. It has been remarked that those who work well, and are rather industrious, live in comfort, without being exactly rich. Again, the people have fish at their doors, for living as they do near the sea and the lakes, they can have all kinds, such as herring, mackerel, salmon, eels and codfish in abundance. It is true that the winter is long and severe, but there is plenty of wood with which to keep warm. A consideration that ought to overweigh all the troubles and dangers which have been mentioned, is the great work that may be here done for religion among so many souls that are abandoned and given over to ignorance for want of priests to instruct them. More particularly among the Indian people, who deserve that we should try to save them, because of their good faith and fine natural character. It occurred to me to group them into villages as soon as I got to know them well; for that purpose I have bought a large tract of land near the sea, there to form a religious establishment which will serve to civilize them and to make them still better Christians. They will establish themselves near us, and we will be at hand to see them and to instruct them. I have built a house on this land, hoping that the Government or some charitable and generous soul will assist in erecting a chapel and some other buildings, that we shall need, in order to carry out our project, and to effect the good that we hope for. My Superior consents, and encourages me to return to America for this laudable undertaking, and in order to work for the salvation of those Indians who know not God, such as the Esquimaux. These latter are a barbarous and cannibalistic people. Recently they made a descent on some European fisherman in the woods that they inhabit, which are not far from the banks of Newfoundland, a little to the north. The Indians having let fly several arrows at the fishermen, the latter replied by some shots from their guns. One of the Indians was killed, the others saved themselves by flight. Our fishermen seized a squaw who remained near the dead body of the Indian; probably they had lived together, and she regarded him as her husband. She was taken to St John's Newfoundland, and the Governor having been notified gave orders to the merchants of the town to allow this Indian woman such wearing material as pleased her. It was noticed that she fancied everything of the most gaudy description. The colors, red in particular, pleased and delighted her, consequently the material she chose was principally red. They prepared something for her to eat and offered her food which had been cooked; she, however, scorned that, and seized upon a raw fowl which she devoured without removing the feathers. A Frenchman who was there and saw her, told me that her nails and teeth were extremely long. Instead of keeping her among civilized beings, she was taken to the woods where she had been found. This was probably by order of the Governor. It is very difficult to civilize this kind of Indian. They are very fierce, and their language, which is not the same as that of the Micmacs, seems to present great difficulties. Still these souls have been created by God and bought by Jesus Christ, and the more abandoned, and the further from the religion of heaven they seem to be, so much the more do they call for our compassion. We have succeeded in civilizing many barbarous nations and in rendering them Christian and Catholic, we may equally, with the help of God, bring others to the knowledge of the true religion, and since pretended philosophers have abandoned the faith, it must, according to the divine oracle, go to other men. If this faith is extinguished for many, who have deserved the misfortune in closing their eyes to its light, it goes to others who will render themselves worthy by allowing this divine truth to enlighten them. Thus faith is never lost, if it leaves us, it is our own fault. To return to our Micmacs of Nova Scotia,--it does one good to reflect on what they were formerly and what they are now. Formerly they were ferocious idolaters, now they are gentle and they know the true God. If the Government had chosen to help us we could have done for the Esquimaux what the early missionaries did for the people of which we speak; and even these latter for whom we have worked would, without doubt, have become much more civilized. We would have ventured to promise to make of them, not only well instructed and perfect Christians, but also good laborers and good workmen, in a word, good citizens who would be useful to society and not a burden to the State as they have hitherto been. The way in which they have profited by the few lessons that they have received from us on agriculture is a proof of the success that we should have had. We have worked with them and our example has encouraged them. It is well that they know how to farm a little, for instance, how to plant potatoes, for the country is beginning to be populous, and they do not find enough game to subsist upon, and there are times when they cannot fish. It is then charitable as well as necessary to teach them to gain their livelihood in some other way. But all that is only a small part of the good that we propose to do; to work efficaciously at the saving of their souls, to render them humble, sober, industrious, charitable, &c., from religious principles which is the way by which we hope to complete and perfect the good work. Not having succeeded so far in making an establishment of any consequence, by reason of want of means, we have contented ourselves with forming a little school for girls, more especially for the young Micmac squaws. This school is taught by three excellent women, natives of the place, who live as religious of the third order of La Trappe, until such time as they can establish a house of the first order. They have already gone through a year of novitiate at the convent of the Ladies of the Congregation of Montreal, in Canada, which congregation was founded by Sister Bourgeoys, as one reads in the history of the discovery of that great country. These three women are stationed in the parish of Pomquete, one of the three parishes with which I am especially charged, and of which mention has been made at the beginning of this narrative. It is a good little parish, composed of French people, born most of them at St Malo, Dinan or Grandville. When I left these poor people in order to return to France, they were inconsolable, fearing they would have no priest. They called a meeting to discuss what they should do in the event of so sad a situation. Many were resolved to follow me with the hope of bringing me back, or of returning with another priest. All were agreed to pay the passage of the missionary who should come to them, as well as to undertake to supply all that might be necessary for food or raiment while he should be with them. One man named Dominique Phillippar, born in Paris, and a resident of Pomquett for about thirty years, was chosen for an important errand. He was to accompany me to France, and to entreat the Reverend Father Abbot, my Superior, that I or some other member of our Order might return with him. In case that could not be managed, we were by his recommendation and through his instrumentality to address ourselves to the Bishop, asking for some zealous priests who were willing to consecrate themselves to the North American missions, and to minister to people who had no spiritual help. His place was secured in the ship that took me to France, but as he had not arrived from his parish when we set sail, he lost his passage, the ship having sailed a day earlier than was expected. Doubtless the good man experienced poignant regret. He was ready to journey almost two thousand leagues (including going and coming) in order to get a priest. This fact illustrates the faith and zeal for religion existing in the Catholics of these countries. I hope that God who is often satisfied with our good will and who permitted this event, will inspire some good ecclesiastics with the desire of going to the aid of these poor souls who so well deserve assistance. When we arrived in America we found most Catholics well disposed. Their religion was obscured, but they seemed to be impressed with the first invitations or instructions that we gave them; of this they gave exterior proof, such as building churches, erecting crosses on the roadside, establishing Calvaries, and making the way of the cross, a devotion which touches the heart and bears excellent fruit. I, myself, have often been witness of the good effect produced by the Stations, and it is not long since one of my parishoners who was given over to drunkenness was completely converted after assisting at this devotion. He threw himself at my feet dissolved in tears, made his confession, and since that time he has always been extremely sober and filled with the fear of God. I often make the Stations in the different places where I go to hold missions, and as I have remarked a change for the better in the manners and in the amusements, the dancing, vanities, &c, of the people, I attribute it to the grace attached to the devotion of the way of the cross. Those who have resolved to go over to those countries will do well to procure the faculty for establishing this precious devotion everywhere. _Ut in nomine Jesu omne genu flectatur caelestium, terrestrium et infernorum. Ad Philippenses, 2 10_. "At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow, whether in heaven, or on earth, or in hell." [Footnote: The Procession of the most Holy Sacrament made by the Indians of Cape Breton and the Bras d'Or has not been mentioned in these pages, as it took place since this narrative was written.] * * * * * TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. The foregoing very imperfect translation of Father Vincent de Paul's quaint narrative, is published at the request of the leading clergy of Antigonish County, that section of Eastern Nova Scotia in which the holy Trappist so long lived and labored. The original from which the translation was made, was printed in France in the year 1824, and, as far as is known, is the only copy in Canada. It was for many years lying _perdu_ in the old convent of the Trappistine Sisters, in Tracadie, Nova Scotia, where it was discovered in the autumn of 1883. It is interspersed with corrections and footnotes in the pious monk's own handwriting and was printed at a private press, in the Trappist Monastery at Bellefontaine, France. Father Vincent's labors were, generally speaking, confined to the district over which he presided, but occasionally in cases of urgent need, he would be sent for to administer the Sacraments to the dying in Prince Edward Island. Old Catholic residents along the northern and eastern shores of King's County, will tell how, with Father Vincent seated in the prow, the smallest boat would ride safely over an angry sea. His apostolic zeal it was that kept the Faith alive in Eastern Nova Scotia, in the days when, with the exception of a few French missions, it lived only in the hearts of the poor Micmac Indians. Before his death, however, he had the happiness of seeing the Catholic religion firmly rooted in the land he so loved, by the arrival and establishment there of the loyal Highlanders, who by their energy and perseverance have changed the desert through which Father Vincent made his perilous journeys into a beautiful and fertile country. To the Right Rev. Dr. Cameron for his kindness in writing the preface, to the Rev. Clergy for their liberal patronage, and to the Trappistine Sisters for the loan of the original copy of Father Vincent's book, are due the most grateful thanks of THE TRANSLATOR. Charlottetown, P.E. Island, 18th June, 1886. [Transcriber's Note: The words "mattrass," "preceeded," "shreded," "tractible," and "transparancy" appear thus in our print copy; also, "Pomquet" is variously spelled as "Pomquet," "Pomquett," and "Pomquete"; we have retained these spellings as they appeared in the published work.] 
6735	----	This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions. OVER THE BORDER ACADIA THE HOME OF "EVANGELINE" BY Eliza Chase "Here lies the East...does not the day break here?" JULIUS CAESAR, II CONTENTS. THE BAY OF FUNDY THE BASIN OF MINAS PORT ROYAL ANNAPOLIS DIGBY HALIFAX GRAND PRÉ CLARE L'ISLE DES MONTS DESERTS CHRONOLOGY. DATE 1604. De Monts' first landing on Eastern coast. (May 16) 1604. De Monts and suite arrive at Port Royal. (about June 1) 1606. De Monts returns from France with supplies for his colony. 1606. Port Royal abandoned. 1610. Return of De Poutrincourt. 1612. Jesuit priests sent oat from France. (Founding of St. Sauveur colony at Mt Desert) 1613. Destruction of Port Royal by Argall. (after breaking up settlement at Mt. Desert) 1628. Scotch colony broken up at Port Royal. 1634. Port Royal held by French under De Razilly. 1647. Feud between La Tour and D'Aulnay. 1654. Port Royal under Le Borgne yields to English. 1684. Incursions of pirates. 1690. Sir Wm. Phipps captures and pillages Port Royal. 1691. Port Royal held by French under De Villebon. 1707. Unsuccessfully besieged. 1710. Bombarded by seven English ships; the fort yields, name changed to Annapolis Royal. 1713. Treaty of Utrecht, ceding Acadia to the English. 1727,1728. Oath of allegiance exempting French Acadians from taking arms against France. 1744. Port Royal bombarded and besieged three months. 1745. De Ramezay's unsuccessful attack. 1755. Forts Beau-Séjour and Gaspereau taken by Moncton. 1755. Dispersion of the "Neutrals". 1763. Return of exiles, and founding of coast settlements. Treaty between France and England 1781. Annapolis Royal surprised and taken by two war ships. 1850. Last occupation (by military force) of old fort at Annapolis. INTRODUCTION In the rooms of the Historical Society, in Boston, hangs a portrait of a distinguished looking person in quaint but handsome costume of antique style. The gold embroidered coat, long vest with large and numerous buttons, elegant cocked hat under the arm, voluminous white scarf and powdered peruke, combine to form picturesque attire which is most becoming to the gentleman therein depicted, and attract attention to the genial countenance, causing the visitor to wonder who this can be, so elaborately presented to the gaze. A physiognomist would not decide upon such representation as a "counterfeit presentment" of the tyrannical leader of the expedition which enforced the cruel edict of exile,-- "In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas; where Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pré Lay in the fruitful valley." Yet this is Lieutenant-Colonel John Winslow, great-grandson of one of the founders of the Plymouth Settlement. Could _he_ forget that his ancestors fled from persecution, and came to this country to find peaceful homes? It was not his place to make reply, or reason why when receiving orders, however; and it seems that the task imposed was a distasteful one; as, at the time of the banishment, he earnestly expressed the desire "to be rid of the worst piece of service" he "ever was in." He said also of the unhappy people at that time, "It hurts me to hear their weeping and wailing." So we conclude that the pleasant face did not belie the heart which it mirrored. It is a singular coincidence that, for being hostile to their country at the time of the Revolution, his own family were driven into exile twenty years after the deportation of the unhappy French people. Have not even the most prosaic among us some love of poesy, though unacknowledged? And who, in romantic youth or sober age, has not been touched by the tragic story of the dispersion of the people who "dwelt together in love, those simple Acadian farmers,-- Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows, But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance." Of the name Acadia, Principal Dawson says in "Canadian Antiquities--, that "it signifies primarily a place or region, and, in combination with other words, a place of plenty or abundance; ..." a name most applicable to a region which is richer in the 'chief things of the ancient mountains, the precious things of the lasting hills, and the precious things of the earth and of the deep that coucheth beneath', than any other portion of America of similar dimensions." We naturally infer that the name is French; but our researches prove that it was originally the Indian _Aquoddie_, a pollock,--not a poetic or romantic significance. This was corrupted by the French into _Accadie, L'Acadie, Cadie_. So little originality in nomenclature is shown in America, that we could desire that Indian names should be retained; that is, when not too long, or harsh in sound; yet in _this_ case we are inclined to rejoice at the change from the aboriginal to the more musical modern title. Though a vast extent of territory was once embraced under that name, it is now merely a rather fanciful title for a small part of the Province of Nova Scotia. Acadia! The Bay of Fundy! There's magic even in the names; the very sound of them calling up visions of romance, and causing anticipations of amazing displays of Nature's wonders. Fundy! The marvel of our childhood, filling the mind's eye in those early school days with that astounding picture,--a glittering wall of green crystal, anywhere from ten to one hundred feet in height, advancing on the land like the march of a mighty phalanx, as if to overwhelm and carry all before it! Had it not been our dream for years to go there, and prove to our everlasting satisfaction whether childish credulity had been imposed upon? Our proposed tourists, eight in number, being a company with a leaning towards music, bound to be harmonious, desiring to study the Diet-tome as illustrated by the effects of country fare and air, consolidate under the title of the Octave. The chaperone, who we all know is a dear, is naturally called "Do"(e); one, being under age, is dubbed the Minor Third; while the exclamatory, irrepressible, and inexhaustible members from the Hub are known as "La" and "Si." Having decided upon our objective point, the next thing is to find out how to reach it; and here, at the outset, we are surprised at the comparative ignorance shown regarding a region which, though seemingly distant, is in reality so accessible. We are soon inclined to quote from an old song,-- "Thou art so near and yet so far," as our blundering investigations seem more likely to prove how not to get anywhere! But we set to work to accumulate railroad literature in the shape of maps, schedules, excursion books; and these friendly little pamphlets prove delightful pathfinders, convincing us how readily all tastes can be suited; as some wish to go by water, some by land, and some by "a little of both." Thus, those who are on good terms with old Neptune may take a pleasant voyage of twenty-six hours direct from Boston to the distant village of Annapolis, Nova Scotia, which is our prospective abiding place; while those who prefer can have "all rail route," or, if more variety is desired, may go by land to St. John, New Brunswick, and thence by steamboat across the Bay of Fundy. At last the company departs on its several ways, and in sections, that the dwellers in that remote old town of historic interest may not be struck breathless by such an invasion of foreigners. The prime mover of the expedition, having already traveled as far east as Bangor, commences the journey at night from that city. Strange to say, no jar or unusual sensation is experienced when the iron horse passes the boundary; nor is anything novel seen when the train known as the "Flying Yankee" halts for a brief breathing spell at MacAdam Station. A drowsy voice volunteers the information: "It is a forsaken region here." Another of our travelers replies, "Appearances certainly indicate that the Colossus of _Roads_ is absent, and it is to be hoped that he is mending his ways elsewhere." Then the speakers, tipping their reclining chairs to a more recumbent posture, drift off to the Land of Nod. With morning comes examination of travelers' possessions at the custom house, with amusing exhibitions of peculiarly packed boxes and bags, recalling funny episodes of foreign tours, while giving to this one a novel character; then the train speeds on for seven hours more. THE BAY OF FUNDY. Ere long singular evidence of proximity to the wonderful tides of the Bay of Fundy is seen, as all the streams show sloping banks, stupendously muddy; mud reddish brown in color, smooth and oily looking, gashed with seams, and with a lazily moving rivulet in the bed of the stream from whence the retreating tide has sucked away the volume of water. "What a Paradise for bare-footed boys, and children with a predilection for mud pies!" exclaims one of the tourists; while the other--the practical, prosaic--remarks, "It looks like the chocolate frosting of your cakes!" for which speech a shriveling look is received. This great arm of the sea, reaching up so far into the land, and which tried to convert Nova Scotia into an island (as man proposes to make it, by channeling the isthmus), was known to early explorers as La Baie Françoise, its present cognomen being a corruption of the French, _Fond-de-la Baie_. Being long, narrow, and running into the land like a tunnel, the tide rises higher and higher as it ascends into the upper and narrowest parts; thus in the eastern arm, the Basin of Minas, the tidal swell rises forty feet, sometimes fifty or more in spring. In Chignecto Bay, which extends in a more northerly direction from the greater bay, the rise has been known to reach seventy feet in spring, though it is usually between fifty and sixty at other times. Here, in the estuary of the Petitcodiac, where the river meets the wave of the tide, the volumes contending cause the Great Bore, as it is called; and as in this region the swine wade out into the mud in search of shell fish, they are sometimes swept away and drowned. The Amazon River also has its Bore; the Indians, trying to imitate the sound of the roaring water, call it "pororoca." In the Hoogly it is shown; and in a river of China, the Teintang, it advances up the stream at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour, causing a rise of thirty feet. In some northern countries the Bore is called the Eagre. Octavia says this must be because it screws its way so _eagerly_ into the land, but is immediately suppressed, and informed that the name is a corruption of Oegir, the Scandinavian god of the sea, of whom we learn as follows:-- Odin, the father of the gods, creator of the world, possessing greatest power and wisdom, holds the position in Scandinavian mythology that Zeus does in the Greek. Like the Olympian Jupiter, he held the thunder bolts in his hand; but differed from the more inert divinity of Greece in that, arrayed in robes of cloud, he rode through the universe on his marvelous steed, which had eight feet. This idea was characteristic of a hardy race living a wild outdoor life in a rigorous climate. Oegir, the god of the sea, was a jotun, but friendly to Odin. The jotuns were giants, and generally exerted their powers to the injury of man, but, not being gifted with full intelligence, could be conquered by men. The first jotun, named Ymer, Odin subdued, and of his flesh formed the earth, of his bones the mountains; the ocean was his blood, his brains the clouds, while from his skull the arch of the heavens was made. We resolved to witness the singular spectacle of the Oegir of Fundy; but, not receiving answer to our application for accommodations at Moncton, proceeded on our way, consoling ourselves with the thought that we could see a bore any day, without taking any special pains or going much out of our way. The Basin of Minas! What a "flood of thoughts" rise at the name. Fancy paints dreamy and fascinating pictures of the fruitful and verdant meadow land, the hills, the woods, the simple hearted, childlike peasants; upright, faithful, devout, leading blameless lives of placid serenity: "At peace with God and the world." It seemed that there must be some means of crossing the beauteous Basin whence the broken hearted exiles sailed away so sadly; and that any tourist with a particle of romance or sentiment in his composition would gladly make even a wide detour to visit it. Therefore we were surprised to learn that railroad schedules said nothing of this route, and that it seemed almost unknown to summer pleasure seekers. Not to be deterred, however, what better can one do than write direct for information to Parrsboro,--a pretty village, which is the nearest point to the Basin. Thus we learn that a short railway, connecting with the Intercolonial, will convey us thither, though not a road intended for passenger service. "It will only add to the novelty and interest of our tour," we say. We rather hope it will prove a very peculiar road, and are prepared for discomfort which we do not find; although, at Spring Hill, the point of divergence from the main line, such a queer train is waiting, that one exclaims, "Surely we have come into the backwoods at last!" The car is divided in the middle, the forward part devoted to baggage, while in the rear portion, on extremely low backed and cushion less seats, beside tiny, shade less windows, sit the passengers. And such passengers! We mentally ejaculate something about "Cruikshank's caricatures come to life." With much preliminary clanking of chains, a most dolorous groaning and creaking of the strange vehicle, a shudder and jar, the train is in motion, and slowly proceeding through densely wooded and wild country,--a coal and lumber district, where only an occasional log house relieves the monotony of the scene,--log huts which look as if they have strayed away from the far South and dropped down in this wilderness. At intervals, with a convulsive jerk which brings to their feet some new travelers on this peculiar line, the train halts to take on lumber; and one of our tourists remarks, "This old thing starts like an earthquake, and stops as if colliding with a stone wall;" and continues: "Do you think the poet who longed for 'a lodge in some vast wilderness', would have been satisfied with this?" Without waiting for a reply, the next remark is: "We are looking for summer accommodations; don't you think we could find board cheap here?" The prosaic one, ignoring such an attempt at pleasantry, replies, "Five dollars per thousand feet, I have been told." When the conductor, in a huge straw hat and rough suit, sans collar or cravat, comes to collect tickets, the satirical one asks, "Will he punch them with his penknife, or clip them with a pair of old scissors?" We have "Heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day," and conclude that the S. H. & P. R. R. resembles it somewhat; and that, although there is a "general flavor of mild decay" about it in some respects, it will not be in danger of wearing out from high rate of speed; but who cares about _time_ when on a holiday? At last, in the distance, a range of blue hills becomes visible, with a faint, far gleam of water; and, as the blue line abruptly descends to the glistening streak below, we know in an instant what that promontory must be, and ecstatically quote with one voice,-- "Away to the northward Blomidon rose," regardless of geography, as that Cape happens, in this case, to be south of us. Having received information by mail that "hosses and carages" are to be found at Parrsboro, and that the sailing of the steamer is "rooled by the tide," eager looks are cast about on alighting at that charming village, the natives of which, to our surprise, are not backwoodsmen or rough countrymen. Mine host, genial and gentlemanly, becomes visible; and we are soon bowling merrily along through the neat village, the picturesque country beyond, and are set down at a refreshingly old-timey inn directly on the shore of the Basin of Minas, which bursts suddenly upon the view, amazing one by its extent and beauty. We exclaim in surprise, "Why, it looked no larger than one's thumb nail on the map!" THE BASIN OF MINAS A curving beach with rolling surf, a long and very high pier, showing the great rise of the tide,--at this point sixty feet in the spring,-- and directly before one the peculiarly striking promontory of Blomidon, with the red sandstone showing through the dark pines clothing his sides, and at his feet a powerful "rip" tossing the water into chopped seas; a current so strong that a six-knot breeze is necessary to carry a vessel through the passage which here opens into the Bay of Fundy. This is the place where schedules said nothing of a boat to convey the tourist across the inland sea--of thirty miles' width--to the railroad on its south shore,--the line which bears on its rolling stock the ominous initials W. A. R, but passes through the most peaceful country nevertheless. Yet our genial host's assurances that such a vessel will come are not to be doubted; and, after a dainty repast, a group sits on the pier, watching ghostly ships and smaller craft emerge from and vanish into the mist. As the mists disperse and the moon comes out clearly, it reveals the "Hiawatha" approaching,--a graceful propeller of five hundred tons burden, and one hundred and some odd feet in length. Partridge Island, which is close at hand, commands exceptionally fine views, as Blomidon does also; the famous Capes d'Or and Chignecto, seven hundred and thirty to eight hundred feet high, with Advocate Harbor, are within pleasant driving distance. There are twenty varieties of minerals on Blomidon; as many more, with jaw-testing names, on Partridge Island "and thereabout"; so in this locality a geologist would become quite ecstatic. Some of the finest marine scenery of the Provinces, as well as lovely inland views and the noted and singular Five Islands, can be seen within a radius of twenty miles. "No country is of much interest until legends and poetry have draped it in hues that mere nature cannot produce," says a pleasant modern writer. Geologists believe that the range of hills known as the North Mountain was once a long narrow island, and that a shoal gradually formed near Blomidon, in time filling in until that headland became part of the mainland. This striking cape, five hundred and seventy feet high, one would naturally expect to find associated with strange wild myths of the aborigines; and "Ye who love a nation's legends, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen," attend then! It seems that this was the favorite resort of Glooscap, the Indian giant, who, like "Kwasind the Strong Man," in "Hiawatha," entered into a fierce combat here with the Great Beaver (Ahmeek, King of the Beavers, is spoken of in that same poem), and contended with the gigantic creature in similar manner, throwing huge masses of rock, which, falling in the water, became, in this case, the Five Islands. The Indian legend says that at this point a stupendous dam was built by the Great Beaver; and because this was flooding the Cornwallis valley, Glooscap, whose supernatural power was unlimited, broke and bent it into its present shape, forming Cape Blomidon, afterwards strewing the promontory with gems, some of which he carried away to adorn "his mysterious female companion." Here also he held a wonderful feast with another giant; and, ordinary fish not sufficing to satisfy their enormous appetites, the two embarked in a stone canoe, sailed out into the Great Lake of Uniras, as they called the Basin, and there speared a whale, which they brought to the shore and devoured at short notice. The approach of the white man causing the Indian giant to desert his old haunts, he sailed out on the great water and vanished from sight; but some day, when men and animals live together in peace and friendship, he will return and resume his royal sway on the Basin of Minas. Before his departure he gave a farewell feast to all the animals, who swarmed from all over the country, turned his dogs into stone, and left his kettle overturned in the shape of an island near Cape Spencer, across Minas Channel. Since that time the loons, who were his hunters, wander sadly about the wildest lakes and rivers, searching for their master, uttering their dolorous cries; and the owls keep up their part of the lament, crying "Koo koo skoos," which, being Indian language, they evidently learned from the giant, and, being interpreted, signified "I am sorry." The crown of France is adorned with a fine amethyst from Blomidon; and those early explorers, De Monts and Co., "found in the neighborhood" (of Parrsboro) "crystals and blue stones of a shining colour, similar in appearance to those known by the name of Turkeese." One of the company, "having found a beautiful specimen of this kind, broke it into two pieces, and gave one to De Monts, and the other to Poutrincourt, who, on their return to Paris, had them handsomely set by a jeweler, and presented them to the King and Queen." At the base of Cape d'Or there is a very powerful current with great maelstroms; this is known as the Styx, and through these terrible whirlpools two fishermen were carried this season (1883), one losing his life; while the other, an expert swimmer and athlete, was saved by less than a hair's breadth, and afterwards described most thrillingly his sensations on being drawn into and ejected from the frightful vortices. Just at daybreak, when Blomidon looks out all glowing from the gauzy veil of mist, as the lazy zephyr wafts it aside, and the placid water repeats the glorious tints of radiant clouds, we regretfully take our departure. Cape Sharp and Cape Split, bold promontories which stand like mighty sentinels guarding the entrance to the Bay of Fundy, appear in clearest azure and violet; while the mountains of the north shore are sharply defined in pure indigo against the brilliant sky, as the propeller steams away. The sail across, two hours and a half in length, is a vision of ideal and poetic beauty, all too brief; and as we step ashore we feel tempted to quote, "Take, oh boatman, thrice thy fee!" At this point (Hantsport) we take the W. and A. R. R, and in a few hours are set down at the place which we have been so long planning to reach; the place of which our host, who is probably not familiar with the history of St. Augustine, Florida, wrote proudly as "the oldest town in North America." It certainly is one of the oldest settlements in North America, having been founded in 1604, and, until 1750, it was the capital of the whole peninsula of Nova Scotia: Annapolis,--the old Port Royal, the historical town which has been the scene of so many struggles and bitter contentions; but is now the very picture of peace and utterly restful quiet. Here the Eight settle down for a long sojourn; basking in the delicious atmosphere, devoting themselves to searching out the most picturesque views, in a series of rambles, drives, and excursions, and visiting all points for miles around, to which history and romance have added charms almost as great as those of river and mountain which they always possessed. Those of our party who hail from the city of Brotherly Love naturally feel a special interest in Acadia and the sad story of Longfellow's heroine; as a patent for the principality of Acadia, which included the whole American coast from Philadelphia to Montreal, was given by the "impulsive and warmhearted monarch," Henry IV. of France, to Pierre du Guast, the Sieur de Monts, constituting him governor of that country, and giving him the trade and revenues of the region. Consequently some of the ancestors of our Philadelphia friends were Acadians, though not French peasantry. There also:-- "In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country." In that sedate and sober city was-- "the almshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands, Now the city surrounds it, hut still, with its gateway and wicket Meek in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord,--'The poor ye have always with you'" There the sad exile's weary search was at last rewarded; the long parted lovers were reunited, though but for a moment on the verge of the grave; and thus was ended-- "the hope and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience," The city almshouse stood, we are told, at the corner of Twelfth and Spruce Streets; but the belief is quite general (and we incline decidedly to that) that our beloved poet intended by his description to portray the quaint building formerly known as the Friends' Almshouse, which stood in Walnut Place (opening off of Walnut Street below Fourth), and which was torn down in 1872 or 1873 to give place to railroad and lawyers' offices. The entrance from the street, by "gateway and wicket", as the poem says, led through a narrow passage way; and there faced one a small, low roofed house, built of alternate red and black bricks (the latter glazed), almost entirely covered by an aged ivy which clambered over the roof. The straggling branches even nodded above the wide chimneys; at both sides of the door stood comfortable settles, inviting to rest; and the pretty garden charmed with its bloom and fragrance. The whole formed such a restful retreat, such an oasis of quiet in the very heart of the busy city, that one was tempted often to make excuses for straying into the peaceful enclosure. In a book printed for private circulation in Philadelphia some years ago, there is an item of interest about the Acadians. The author narrates that she and a young companion, in their strolls to the suburbs, where they went to visit the Pennsylvania Hospital (Eighth and Pine Streets, now in the heart of the city), were timid because obliged to pass the place where the "French Neutrals" were located. These people, because they were foreigners, and there was some mystery about them which the girls did not then understand, inspired them with fear; though Philadelphia residents of that time testify that the homeless and destitute strangers were in reality a very simple and inoffensive company, when, "friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city." Through the influence of Anthony Benezet, a member of the Society of Friends, they were provided with homes on Pine Street above Sixth, where the two little wooden houses still stand; one, when we last saw it, being painted blue. What a picturesque company of adventurers were those French noblemen, who, turning their backs upon the luxuries and fascinations of court life, sailed away to this wild and distant land, where, in the pursuit of gain, fame, or merely adventure, they were to suffer absolute privation and hardship; consorting with savages in place of the plumed and pampered denizens of palaces. After a probably tempestuous voyage across the bleak Atlantic, and a merciless buffeting from Fundy in the spring of 1604, the prospective Governor of the great territory known as Acadia was sailing along this coast, which presents such a forbidding aspect from the Bay, making his first haven May 16. At that time, we can readily imagine, in this northern region the weather would not be very balmy. Even now the wild rocky shore stretches along drearily--though with certain stern picturesqueness--as far as eye can reach, and then must have been even less attractive, as it showed no sign of habitation. Champlain was somewhat familiar with these shores from former voyages, and so had been chosen as pilot; but De Poutrincourt and Pontgravé, other associates of Pierre du Guast, the Sieur de Monts, doubtless looked askance at each other, or indulged in the expressive French shrug as the cheerless panorama parsed before them. On that 16th of May, at the harbor where the little town of Liverpool is now situated, De Monts found another Frenchman engaged in hunting and fishing, ignoring, or regardless of, the rights of any one else; and without ado this interloper (so considered by De Monts) was nabbed; the only consolation he received being the honor of transmitting his name, Rossignol, to the harbor,--a name since transferred to a lake in the vicinity. After a sojourn of two weeks at another point (St. Mary's Bay), the explorers proceeded northward; and at last a particularly inviting harbor presented itself, causing the mental vision of the new Governor and his company to assume more hopeful aspect, as they turned their course thither and pronounced it "Port Royal"! PORT ROYAL Here they managed to exist through the winter with as much comfort as circumstances would admit of; but with the return of summer were on the wing again, in search of more salubrious climate and more southerly locality for the establishment of a colony, sailing along the coast of Maine and Massachusetts as far as Cape Cod. Attempts were made to establish settlements, but the natives proved unfriendly; the foreigners had not a sufficient force to subdue them; and, as De Monts was obliged to return to France, De Poutrincourt and his companions established themselves again at Port Royal. Here, to while away the long winter, the gay adventurers established a burlesque court, which they christened "L'Ordre de Bon Temps"; and of the merry realm each of the fifteen principal persons of the colony became supreme ruler in turn. As the Grand Master's sway lasted but a day, each one, as he assumed that august position, prided himself on doing his utmost to eclipse his predecessor in lavish provision for feasting. Forests were scoured for game; fish were brought from the tempest-tossed waters of the Bay, or speared through the ice of L'Équille; so the table fairly groaned with the luxuries of these winter revelers in the wilds of Acadia. With ludicrous caricature of court ceremonial, the rulers of the feast marched to the table, where their invited guests, the Indian chiefs, sat with them around the board; the squaws and children squatting on the floor, watching for bits which the lively company now and then tossed to them. "They say" that an aged sachem, when dying, asked if he should have pies in heaven as good as those which he had eaten at Poutrincourt's table! To the Indians, the greatest delicacy of all on the table was bread. This, to them a dainty viand, they were always ready to consume with gusto; but were invariably averse to grinding the corn, although promised half of the meal as recompense for their labor. The grinding was performed with a hand-mill, and consequently so laborious and tedious that the savages would rather suffer hunger than submit to such drudgery, which they also seemed to think degrading to the free sons of the forest. Proverbially fickle are princes; and of this De Monts was convinced on his return to France, for during his absence he had lost favor with his sovereign, Henry IV., who revoked his commission; still he succeeded, after many difficulties, in procuring supplies for his colony, and arrived just in time to prevent his people from leaving Port Royal discouraged and disheartened. One member of the little community of Frenchmen was Lescarbot, a lawyer, who was talented, poetical, and did much to enliven the others during the absence of their leader, who, on his return, was received by a procession of masqueraders, headed by Neptune and tritons, reciting verses written by Lescarbot. Over the entrances to the fort and to the Governor's apartments were suspended wreaths of laurel and garlands surrounding Latin mottoes,--all the work of the pastimist (if one may coin such a word). The relief and encouragement brought by De Monts were but temporary, and in the spring (1606) news was received that nothing more could be sent to the colonists, and they must be disbanded. Imagination portrays the strange picture presented at this time in this remote region, the gay French courtiers vanishing from the sight of their Indian comrades almost as suddenly and mysteriously as they had appeared but three years before, and leaving their dusky boon companions lamenting on the shore. The eyes of the savages--that race who pride themselves on their stoicism--were actually dimmed with tears as they watched the vessel fading away in the distance. For four years "ye gentle sauvage" pursued the even tenor of his way, and consoled himself as best he could for the absence of the lively revelers who had cheered his solitude; then, presumably to his delight (in 1610), he saw Poutrincourt returning. That nobleman had promised the king to exert himself for the conversion of the Indians. Three years later a company of Jesuits sailed for this port with the same object in view; but, losing their reckoning, they founded settlements at Mt. Desert instead. Madame de Guercheville, a true woman indeed, who was honored and respected in a dissolute court where honor was almost unknown, had become a zealous advocate of the conversion of Indians in America; and through her means and influence several priests of the Jesuit order were sent out in 1612 to this settlement. The sachems, with members of their tribes living at Port Royal, were baptized, twenty-one at one time, with much show of rejoicing typified by firing of cannon, waving of banners, blaring of trumpets. Some doubt is expressed whether the savages fully understood what it was all about, and what their confession of faith fully signified; as one chief, on being instructed in the Lord's Prayer, objected to asking for bread alone, saying that he wished for moose flesh and fish also; and when one of the priests deliberately set to work, with notebook and quill, to learn the language of the aborigines by asking one man the Indian words for various French ones (to him totally incomprehensible), the savage, with malice aforethought, purposely gave him words of evil signification, which did not assist the Frenchman in enlightening other members of this benighted race. Perceiving the trick which had been played upon him by the savage, who had been so perplexed by his questioning, the priest declared that Indian possessed by the Devil! However, with all its discouragements, this was the opening of the work of the Jesuits in America; in which even those who might have thought their zeal at times mistaken could not but respect them for the noble heroism, displayed during so many years, in their work of civilizing and enlightening the savages. Even in these olden times there were turbulent marauders abroad; and one such, Argall, from Virginia, after destroying the settlement at Somes Sound (Mt. Desert), pounced upon this peaceful station, destroying the fort and scattering the colonists (1613). The section known as Virginia was granted in 1606 to the London and Plymouth Companies; and as that portion embraced the country between 34 degrees and 43 degrees north latitude, it seems that Argall pretended that the French at Port Royal were interlopers, usurping his rights; but as De Monts had received in 1604 a charter for the country deemed as lying between 40 degrees and 46 degrees north latitude, Argall had no right to dispossess De Monts or his successor. Notwithstanding that a member of Argall's company speaks of him as "a gentleman of noble courage", that does not prevent us from considering him a rascal; for at this time France and England were at peace, and he was unauthorized in his base and tyrannous invasion of Port Royal. Before his attack on this quiet, peaceful station, he had shown greatest treachery at Somes Sound, Mt. Desert, where he stole Saussaye's commission and cast adrift in an open boat fifteen of the colonists. Poutrincourt's son, Biencourt, was now Governor of Acadia, and stationed at Port Royal. He endeavored to make terms with Argall, and offered to divide with him the proceeds of the fur trade and the mines; but this was refused, and the settlement broken up, some of the unfortunate Frenchmen joining Champlain at Quebec, some scattering into the woods among the Indians, while others were carried to England and from thence demanded by the French ambassador. Thus, after only a little more than eight years from the time of settlement, the colony was entirely broken up. En passant: A friend of ours, who with his family passed a summer in New Hampshire, "at the roots of the White Mountains", as someone expressed it, surprised an old farmer by asking the names of hills in sight from that particular locality. The reply was, "I dono, and I dono as I care; but you city folks, when you come here, are allers askin' questions." We conclude that we are liable to be classed in a similar category; and, in fact, the Dabbler when sketching one day is asked, "Ain't some of your party writing a book?" The interrogator's mind is set at rest by being answered that the reason we have become animated notes of interrogation is because we are interested in the history of the old town; but it is fearful to think for what that innocent lad is responsible: putting notions in people's heads, and causing this volume to be inflicted on a suffering world! To return to our subject. The olive branch was not yet to be the emblem of this spot, now so peaceful, for a colony of Scotch people were next routed (1628), and the place left in ruins, when a season of quiet ensued; but this was virtually the commencement of the French and English wars in North America, continuing, with slight intermissions, until the treaty of 1763, by which France gave up her possessions in America. In 1634 Port Royal fell into French hands again, when Claude de Razilly was Governor, and here for a short time lived La Tour, one of his lieutenants, who kept up such bitter feuds with D'Aulnay, who held like position to his own, and whose story Whittier relates in his poem, "St. John, 1647". Madatae de la Tour must have been one of the earliest advocates of women's rights, as she so bravely held the fort of St. John in her husband's absence. "'But what of my lady?' Cried Charles of Estienne On the shot-crumbled turret Thy lady was seen Half veiled in the smoke cloud Her hand grasped thy pennon, While her dark tresses swayed In the hot breath of cannon, Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone Saw the cross-blazoned banner Float over St John. Alas for thy lady! No service from thee Is needed by her Whom the Lord hath set free: Nine days, in stern silence, Her thralldom she bore, But the tenth morning came And Death opened her door'" Hannay says she was "the first and greatest of Acadian heroines,--a woman whose name is as proudly enshrined in the history of this land as that of any sceptered queen in European story." For a long series of years this post of Port Royal was the bone of contention between the French and English; the fort, being held for a time by one power, then by the other, representing the shuttle-cock when these contending nations battled at her doors. In 1654 the place was held by the French under Le Borgne. An attack by the English was successful, though the French were well garrisoned and provisioned. In De Razilly's time La Tour, who might have been satisfied with his possessions at St. John, assailed it; then English pirates took the fishing fleet (1684); next Sir William Phipps captured and pillaged the fort in 1690. Shortly after this, pirates from the West Indies plundered the place; and in 1691 it again fell into the hands of the French under De Villebon. It was still to undergo two sieges in 1707, when, under Subercase, the besiegers were repulsed; and in 1710 seven ships with English marines bombarded the fort for several days. The garrison at last, being in starving condition, were forced to yield; and the victors christened the place Annapolis Royal, in honor of their sovereign then reigning in Great Britain. The subjugation of this part of "New France" made Nova Scotia an English province; and for a time this realm might have answered to the description of Rasselas's Happy Valley; the thrifty, honest people relieved from "wars and rumors of wars", and taking up the quiet, contented routine of every-day life. "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife They kept the noiseless tenor of their way." But in 1744 the reign of siege and terror began again, and the town was destroyed by bombardment and incendiary fires, when, for nearly three months, Laloutre and Duvivier besieged the fort. The garrison, augmented by troops from Louisburg, and assisted by provisions and men from Boston, finally repulsed their assailants. The next year there was another assault under De Ramezay, which was unsuccessful; and after the dispersion of the Acadians (1755), the much-fought-over place was allowed to remain in quiet until 1781, when two American ships-of-war sailed up the river at night. Their forces, taking the fort by surprise, robbed the houses, after imprisoning the people in the old block-house. Since that time the English have retained possession of this much disputed territory; the fort has been unarmed and unoccupied (by military force) since 1850, when the Rifle Brigade were stationed here; but the tedium of garrison life proving still more irksome here, and desertions being frequent, the fort was abandoned as a military post. ANNAPOLIS What a fascination there is about that old fort at Annapolis!--"the hornet's nest", as it was called in the olden time; the stronghold which withstood so many sieges, and was the subject of constant contentions in by-gone years. The hours slip by unnoted when one sits, on the ramparts dreaming and gazing on the broad sweep of river, the distant islands, the undulating lines of the mountain ranges. The sleepy looking cows wander lazily about, cropping the grass on the embankments, and even clamber over the ancient archway. One peoples the place with imaginary martial figures, and is almost startled when the stillness is broken by a rustle and approaching footsteps, and turns, as if expecting to see glittering uniforms appearing through the crumbling arch; but it is only old Moolly, who deliberately walks into the inner enclosure, and, if "our special artist on the spot" has left his sketch for a moment, probably puts her foot in it, with the air of one who should say, "Who are you who dare invade my realm?" The quaint barrack building, with its huge chimneys and gambrel roof, is now occupied by several families; and a whitewashed fence encloses a gay garden. The small magazine, built of creamy sandstone sent from France for the purpose, still remains, and its excessively sharp roof shows above the ramparts; but the massive oaken door stands open wide and is green with age; the roof is decidedly shaky; and the shingles hang loosely, so that one would think that only a moderate gale would send them flying like a pack of cards. The block-house, built of massive logs and heavy planks of English oak, stood within the past year by the bridge over the moat; but, unfortunately, a person without reverence for antiquities has razed it, thereby obtaining his winter fuel cheaply; and he now turns an honest penny by selling canes, etc., of the wood. When we indignantly ask some of the town's-people how they could have permitted this, they reply, "Oh, it was getting rotten, and would have tumbled down some day;" but we judge, by pieces which we see of the sound, tough fibred oak, that it might have stood for fifty years more without injury; while a little judicious propping and repairing, perhaps, would have preserved it for a longer period than that. Poor Annapolitans, who had no Centennial Exhibition to teach them the value of historical relics and "old things". On the Maine Central Railroad, quite near the track at Winslow, we passed, on our way here, an old block-house, which is carefully preserved. Not long ago, the Canadian Government received orders that all buildings, except the barrack and magazine, must be removed from the fort enclosure; yet a garrulous old Scotchman still resides there in a tiny house, and plies his trade as cobbler. His delight is to regale strangers with preposterous "yarns", and accounts of his adventures in her Majesty's service; accounts which must be taken with considerably more than the proverbial grain of salt, but to which we listened with delight and amazingly sober countenances. When asked how it happens that he still remains in the fort grounds, he answers, "I writ out home, to Angland, to say that I served in the arrumy fur thurty yeer, and I know the ould gurrul will let me stay." (There's respect for a sovereign!) He talks wisely of the "bumpruf", a word which we have some difficulty in translating into _bomb proof_; and we are, apparently, overpowered with wonder as he explains how "with a few berrls av pouther they cud send ivery thing flying, and desthroy the whole place, avery bit av it." Presumably misled by our simulated credulity, he goes on to describe a well in front of the magazine, and says, "When they wanted to get red av throoblesome preesoners, ploomp they'd go in the watter, and thet was the last av 'em'" Suffice it to say, that the oldest inhabitant has no recollection of the slightest trace of such a well. The underground passage has fallen in; only the entrance being now visible and accessible Old Gill says, "I as the last man iver in it; and I got caught there with the wall fallin' in, and they were twinty fower hours gettin' me out," (a li[e]kely story!) adding, "Oh, I was a divil in them days!" and "I found in there a bit av a goon wrinch" (gun wrench); and Mr. So and So, from Halifax, "gev me some money fur it, an' he lapped it up in his han'kerchef like as if it had ben goold." We are told of an ancient house "of the era of the French occupation," and go to see it; but learn, though it looks so aged, that it was built upon the _site_ of the French house, and is not the old original. The owner has reached the ripe age of ninety-four, and is a remarkable man, with the polished manner of a gentleman of the old school In such a climate as this, one would naturally expect to find centenarians. He tells us many interesting things about old times here, and his grandson brings out a barrel of Acadian relics to show us. We are interested in noting the differences between these ancient implements and those in use at the present time; here is a gridiron, with very long handle and four feet (a clumsy quadruped), and we see in fancy the picture of home comfort, as the busy housewife prepares the noonday meal, where-- "Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a lull commanding the sea, and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it" Here, too, are ox chains, a curiously shaped ploughshare, an odd little spade used in mending the dikes, and digging clay for bricks, and also the long and heavy tongs of the "blacksmith". "Who was a mighty man in the village and honored of all men For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people." These implements were discovered at Frenchman's Brook on this farm, only three years ago, and were then found apparently as bright and strong as if just placed there. They were covered with brush, but a foot or two below the surface; and seem to have been hurriedly hidden by the exiles, who, finding them too weighty for conveyance, secreted them, probably with the hope of returning sometime. What a study for an artist the group would have made, as they stood examining the misty iron, and talking of the unhappy people so ruthlessly sent into banishment! For background, the quaint, unpainted house, black with age, the roof of the "lean-to" so steeply sloping that the eave-trough was on a line Avith the heads of the group Beyond lay the lovely valley, with the winding Équille on its serpentine way to join the greater river; the whole picture framed in the long range of wooded and rugged hills. Higginson thinks there has been too much sentimentalizing over the fate of the Acadians; and one member of our party so evidently considers that our enthusiasm savors of the gushing school-girl, that we are cautious in our remarks. But the old man's grandson, holding his pretty child on his shoulder, and looking across the valley to his pleasant dwelling, says, "Oh, it was cruel to send them away from their homes!" to which all earnestly assent. Clambering up the hill back of the old house, we come upon the site of an ancient French church, and commend the taste of those who chose such an admirable location. Here we find, to our delight, that local tradition has buried two fine old bells. Bells! What a charm there is about them! One of the earliest recollections of our childhood is of a bell, which, being harsh and dissonant, so worked upon our youthful sensibilities as to cause paroxysms of tears; and now in these later years we are sure that should some genie set us down blindfolded in any place where we had ever remained for a time the mere tones of the bells would enlighten us as to our whereabouts. "Those evening bells! Those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth and home and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime." After the Port Royal settlement was broken up by Argall in 1613, tradition says this church crumbled away into ruin, and, as the supporting beams decayed, the bells sank to the ground, where, from their own weight and the accumulations of Nature's _débris_ they became more and more deeply embedded until lost to view. Silver bells, from France, they say. Of course! Who ever heard of any ancient bells which were not largely composed of that metal? It is a pretty myth, however, which we adopt with pleasure; though common sense plainly says that silver would soon wear away in such use; that the noble patrons of a struggling colony in a wild country would not have been so extravagant as that; and that bell metal is a composition of copper and tin which has been in use from the time of Henry III. The people of Antwerp have special affection for the "Carolus" of their famous cathedral; and that bell is actually composed of copper, silver, and gold; but it is now so much worn that they are not allowed the privilege of hearing it more than once or twice a year "Kings and nobles have stood beside these famous caldrons" (of the bell founders), "and looked with reverence on the making of these old bells; nay, they have brought gold and silver, and pronouncing the holy name of some saint or apostle which the bell was hereafter to bear, they have flung in precious metals, rings, bracelets, and even bullion." Possibly these old bells of Annapolis, the secret of whose hiding place Nature guards so well, were made by Van den Gheyn or Hemony of Belgium, who from 1620 to 1650 were such famous founders that those of their works still extant are worth their weight in gold, or priceless, and are noted the world over for their wonderful melody. If so, when they "Sprinkled with sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation and scatters blessing among them," it was no doubt with silvery tone; and, as it is well known that bells sound best when rung on a slope or in a valley where there is a lake or river, doubtless this wide and lovely stream carried the music of the mellow peal, and returning voyagers heard the welcome notes; as the sailors of the North Sea, on entering the Scheldt, strain their ears to catch the faint, far melody of the chimes of the belfry of Antwerp, visible one hundred and fifty miles away. Another day we make an expedition to see the Apostle Spoons, and are received, as invariably everywhere, with cordial hospitality. These spoons would, I fear, cause the eye of an antiquary to gleam covetously. They have round, flat bowls about two and a half inches in diameter; narrow, slender, and straight handles, terminating, the one with a small turbaned head, the other with a full length figure about one inch long; the entire length of the handles being about four and a half inches. In the bowl of one the letters P L I are rudely cut; and on both is stamped something which, they say, under magnifying glass resembles a King's head In the spring of 1874 or 1875 these were turned up by the plough, in a field two miles beyond the town, the discovery being made in the neighborhood of the supposed bite of an old French church. The farmer's thrifty housewife was making soap at the time the spoons were unearthed; and as they were much discolored, "the old lead things" were tossed into the kettle of lye, from whence, to her amazement, they came out gold, or, at least, silver washed with gold. These spoons, they say, were used in the service of the church; but it is more likely that they were the property of some family, and probable that they were dropped by their owners--then living beyond the present site of Annapolis--when, at the time of the banishment of the Acadians, they were hurried away to the ships on the Basin of Minas. An apostle spoon was often a treasured heirloom in families of the better class, and at the advent of each scion of the family tree was suspended about the neck of the infant at baptism, being supposed to exert some beneficent influence. Especially in the East, about the seventh century, we find that a small vessel, or spoon, sometimes of gold, was used in the churches These were eucharistic utensils, by means of which communicants conveyed the sacred elements to the mouth; but this custom was forbidden and done away with, though probably the tradition of such usage suggested the spoon, which became general in Greek and most Oriental churches many years after. The supposition is, that in those churches, after the wafer had been put into the wine in the chalice, the spoon was used to dip out such portion as was to be reserved for administering the last sacrament to the dying, or to those who were too ill to attend the service in the church. In all churches of the East, except the Armenian, the spoon is used in administering the sacrament. Curious customs also existed in ancient times in reference to baptism. Honey mixed with milk or with wine was given to the one who had just received this rite, to show that he who received it, being a, newly born child spiritually, must not be fed with strong meat, but with milk. This became a regular part of the ritual, and was closely adhered to. The old customs of festivals of rejoicing, public thanksgivings, wearing of garlands, singing of hymns, and giving presents, are well known and familiarly associated with baptismal festivities. The presentation of apostle spoons at christenings was a very ancient custom in England. A wealthy sponsor or relative who could afford it, gave a complete set of twelve, each with the figure of an apostle carved or chased on the end of the handle; while sometimes a poor person presented only one, but on that was the figure of the saint for whom the child was named. Sometimes this rudely molded little figure represented the patron saint of the sponsor or the donor. In 1666 the custom was on the decline. An anecdote relating to this usage is told of Shakespeare. The latter "stood godfather" to the child of a friend; and after the ceremonies of the christening, as the poet seemed much absorbed and serious, the father questioned him as to the cause of his melancholy. The sponsor replied, that he was considering what would be the most suitable gift for him to present to his god-child, and that he had finally decided. "I'll give him," said he, "a dozen good latten spoons, and thou shalt translate them." This was a play upon the word Latin. In the Middle Ages a kind of bronze used for church and household utensils was known as "latten"; and the same name was applied in Shakespeare's time to thin iron plate coated with tin, of which domestic utensils and implements were made. In Johnson's "Bartholomew Fair" one of his characters says, "And all this for the hope of a couple of apostle spoons, and a cup to eat caudle in." In a work of Middleton, entitled "The Chaste Maid of Cheapside", one of the characters inquires, "What has he given her?" to which another replies, "A faire high standing cup, and two great 'postle spoons, one of them gilt." The hat, or flat covering on the head of the figure,--that which we call a turban in one of these at Annapolis,--was a customary appendage and usual in apostle spoons; the intention being thereby to protect the features of the tiny heads from wear. Whatever the history of these at Annapolis, there can be no doubt of their genuineness, and, in a perfect state, they are extremely rare. In our antiquarian researches we are naturally drawn to the old cemetery, adjoining the fort grounds; but learn that the oldest graves were marked by oaken slabs, which have all disappeared, as have also many odd stone ones. But among those still standing one records that some one "dyed 1729"; another states that the body below "is deposited here until the last trump"; and one, which must be the veritable original of the "affliction sore" rhyme, ends: "till death did seize and God did please to ease me of my pain." Still another bears this epitaph, _verbatim et literatim_-- "Stay friend stay nor let thy hart prophane The humble Stone that tells you life is vain. Here lyes a youth in moulding ruin lost A blossom nipt by death's untimely frost O then prepare to meet with him above In realms of everlasting love." The stone-cutter's hand must have been as weary when he blundered over the word humble as the poet's brain evidently was when he reached the line which limps so lamely to the conclusion. Near this recently stood a stone, "With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked," on which the representation of Father Time was carved in such peculiar manner that from pose and expression the figure might have passed for a lively youth rather than the dread reaper, and was irreverently known to the village youths as "Sarah's young man", a title suggested by a popular song of the day. In a remote corner we find the tomb of "Gregoria Remonia Antonia", "a native of Spain"; and afterwards learn her story,--an episode in the life of the Iron Duke which does not do him honor. Did _la grande dame_, the Duchess, ever know of the fair foreigner who supplanted her, the dame o' high degree, in her husband's affection? Did the beautiful Spanish maiden dream, when the brilliant English General wooed her, that he was doing her and another woman the greatest wrong? Little did the fascinating Spaniard think that the so-called "nobleman" would compel her to marry another; and that other a rough, illiterate man, who would bring her to this wild, strange, far-away country, and that here she should be laid to rest "after life's fitful fever." Is it to be wondered at that her fiery Southern spirit rebelled, that her wrongs embittered her, and that her life here was unhappy? To add to the romance, one who attended her in her last illness tells us that when the garrison gave a ball, the slender little Spanish lady loaned or gave "pretty fixins" to the young girls to wear, and appeared herself in rich silks and plumes; that she gave to her attendant in that illness a wonderful box "all done off with,--well--this here plated stuff, you know"; and that when the end was drawing near, the faint, weak voice, with its broken English (at best so difficult to understand), tried to make "Char-loet-tah" comprehend where she must look for something hidden away which she wished her nurse to have in recognition of her services. But alas! the hoarded treasure was not found until months after the poor soul was gone, and then fell into the very hands which the sad alien had most desired should not touch it. The old adage about a sailor's right to have "a sweetheart in every port" is still cited in these days of boasted advancement in culture, religion, morals; and it is the same old world to-day as that which lauded and bowed down to him whom it called "his Grace" (despite what we consider his graceless actions); the same world, alas! ignoring the open and evident fact when he steps aside from the narrow path of honor and rectitude; while, should she swerve in the least, pouring out mercilessly its harshest taunts, or overwhelming her with pitiless scorn. This, because woman should hold an exalted position, and "be above suspicion"? Then why do not the so-called "lords of creation", as they might and ought, set an example of noble uprightness to "the weaker vessel", guiding, guarding, upholding her through "the shards and thorns of existence"? The Spanish girl, left an orphan by the wars in which the dashing and gallant English officer figured so proudly, fell to the care of two aunts, who, belonging to that indolent, pleasure loving race of sunny Spain, perhaps left the poor girl too much to her own devices, and thus she may have been more easily beguiled. "Look here, upon this picture, and on _this_": first, the gay little senorita, holding daintily in her tapering fingers a cigarette, which she occasionally raises to her "ripe red lips", afterwards languidly following with her lustrous black eyes the blue wreaths of smoke as they float above her head and vanish in the air; next, the withered crone, with silver hair, wrinkled skin, and no trace of her early beauty, sitting in the chimney corner, and still smoking, though now it is a clay pipe,--to the amazement and disgust of the villagers. Yet we, believing in the only correct interpretation of _noblesse oblige_, and that he only is truly noble who acts nobly, have only pity for the poor soul who here laid down life's weary burden twenty-two years ago at the age of seventy-two, and scorn for him who rests in an honored grave, and is idealized among the world's heroes. How amusing it is to hear the people speak of us invariably as "Americans", as if we were from some far-away and foreign country, and to hear them talk of England as "home"! The hearty cordiality, natural manner, and pleasantly unworldly ways of the people are most refreshing; in "a world of hollow shams", to find persons who are so _genuine_ is delightful; and thus another charm is added to give greater zest to our enjoyment. One, half in jest, asks a Halifax gentleman how they would like to be annexed to the United States, and is quite surprised at his ready and earnest reply: "Annexed? Oh, yes, we'd be glad to be;... we wouldn't come with empty hands; we have what you want,--fisheries, lumber, minerals; we'd not come as paupers and mendicants.... It will come, though it may not be in our day.... The United States would not wish to purchase,--she has done enough of that: we would have to come of our own free will; and we would, too!" Then there is the elderly Scotch gentleman, who appropriately hails from the place with the outlandish name of Musquodoboit. He tells us that during the "airly pairt" of his residence in America he visited in the States, and that he has seen "fower Preesidents" inaugurated. Of his first attendance at such a ceremony he says: "An' whan I see thet mon, in hes plain blek coat, coomin' out amang all o' thim people, an' all the deegnetirries in their blek coats tu, an' not a uniforrum amoong thim, I said, 'This is the coontry fur me,'--it suited my taste. An' how deeferint it wud be in Yerrup, where there wud be tin thausind mooskits aboot, to kep 'im from bein' shot." On our way here we were told: "Oh, you'll find Annapolis hot!" It might perhaps seem so to a Newfoundlander; but to us the climate is a daily source of remark, of wonder and delight. It is balmy, yet bracing; and though there may be times when at midday it is decidedly warm,--as summer should be,--the nights are always cool, and we live in flannel costumes and luxuriate. Warner speaks of "these northeastern lands which the Gulf Stream pets and tempers"; yet he passed through this dear old town without stopping, remarking only that he could not be content for a week here, and felt no interest in the place apart from its historic associations. Let him stop next time and investigate. We flatter ourselves that we could enlighten him somewhat. Our friends at various shore and mountain resorts report constant fogs; yet we can testify that in nearly seven weeks' residence here there were but two mornings which were foggy, and on those days the gray screen was rolled away at noon. "aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended" That singular feature spoken of in Longfellow's poem is shown here: the mists rise from the Bay and rest lovingly, caressingly, on the crests of the long range of mountains, giving them the appearance of comfortable warmth under this downy coverlet on cool nights; but this fleece very rarely descends to the valley. Dr. O. W. Holmes must have had such a place as this in mind when he said:-- "And silence like a poultice came To heal the blows of sound," and surely tympanums most bruised by the world's clangor and jar could not fail here be soothed and healed; and the writer of "Oh, where shall rest be found?" would have received answer to his query here also. The quiet is astonishing: there are no farm sounds even; and, though the hours pass so pleasantly that we "take no note of time", we can tell when Saturday comes, for then numbers of log-laden ox-carts plod slowly into the village from the back country. The bells on the animals' necks tinkle precisely like the sound of ice when carried in a pitcher of water; and consequently do not jar upon one's ear in this quietude as the clanking herd-bells which we hear in some farming regions of the States. At night the only break in the profound stillness is when the tide is ebbing, and the Equille can be heard rushing under the bridge a quarter of a mile away. We cannot discover the meaning of that word, and so consult a foreign relative, who fells us that at Dinard, in France, they catch the _équille_,--a small fish, also called a _lançon_, because it darts in and out of the sand, and in its movements is something like an eel. That certainly describes this peculiar stream, for surely it would be difficult to find one with a more circuitous course. It forms two horseshoes and an ox-bow connected, as we see it from our windows; and when the tide is out diminishes to a rivulet about two feet in width. At flood it is more than twice the width of the Wissahickon, and when the high tides of August come its magnitude is surprising. Then we understand why the hay-ricks (which we wickedly tell our friends from the "Hub" resemble gigantic loaves of Boston brown bread) are on stilts, for, regardless of dikes or boundaries, this tortuous creek spreads over its whole valley, as if in emulation of the greater river of which it is a tributary. Haliburton says that for a time this was called Allan's River, and the greater one was named the Dauphin; but we are glad that the old French name was restored to the serpentine creek, as it is so much better suited to its peculiar character. The great event of the week is the arrival of the Boston steamer, when all the town turns out and wends its way to the wharves. The peculiar rise of the tide (thirty feet) is here plainly shown, as one week the passengers step off from the very roof of the saloon, and next time she comes in they disembark from the lowest gangway possible and climb the long ascent of slippery planks to the level above. The river shows curious currents and counter-currents, as bits of _débris_ are hurrying upward in the middle of the stream, while similar flotsam and jetsam rush away as rapidly down stream along both shores. The queer old tub of a ferry boat, with its triangular wings spreading at the sides,--used as guards and "gang planks",--is a curiosity, as it zigzags across the powerful current to the village on the opposite shore. But "the ferryman's slim, the ferryman's young, and he's just a soft twang in the turn of his tongue"; and in our frequent trips across he probably makes a mental note when he hears us lamenting that we cannot get lobsters, for one day he sends to our abiding place four fine large ones, and will not receive a cent in remuneration. Another time, when waiting for the farmer's you to guide us to the "ice mine",--a ravine in the mountains where ice remains through the summer, --a delicious lunch, consisting of fresh bread, sweet milk, and cake, is unexpectedly set before us, and the generous farmer's wife will not listen to recompense. A modern writer says: "A great part of the enjoyment of life is in the knowledge that there are people living in a worse place than that you inhabit;" but it does not add to our happiness to think of those who could not come to this lovely spot; and we commiserate the Can't-get- away Club of the cities. We would not change places with any of the dwellers at the fashionable resorts at springs, sea, or mountains,--no, indeed! though they no doubt would elevate their noses, and set this place down at once as "deadly dull", or "two awfully slow for anything"! Doubtless those also of our friends to whom we tell the plain, unvarnished truth, if they come here will be disappointed, as they will not see with our eyes. One cannot expect the luxuries of palatial hotels at five dollars per day; such would be out of place here. At our abiding place, which looks like a gentleman's residence, and is, as one of the Halifax guests says, "not a bit like an 'otel", there is an extensive garden, from which we are regaled with choice fresh vegetables daily; and we have _such_ home-made butter (The bill of fare "to be issued in our next"). A Frenchman might think that "we return to our muttons" frequently; still, as that viand suggests at least the famous English Southdown in excellence, we are resigned. A noted wit has said: "Doubtless God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but doubtless God never did;" and if one is so fortunate as to come to this country in proper season he can feast on that delectable fruit in its perfection,--that is, the wild fruit, so much more delicious and delicate in flavor than after its boasted "improvement" by cultivation. If one arrives before the close of the fisheries, salmon, fit for a royal banquet, graces the table; while even in July and August he may enjoy shad; and strange enough it seems to Philadelphians to be eating that fish at such time of year. There are in the town a number of inns, and summer guests are also made welcome and comfortable in many of the private residences. In one of the latter--a large old-fashioned house, with antique furniture--three sisters reside, who possess the quiet dignity and manner of the old school; and here one would feel as if visiting at one's grandfather's, and be made pleasantly "at home". We are surprised to find that this old town has generally such modern and New Englandish aspect; and are told that it has twice been nearly destroyed by fire, even in modern times; therefore but few of the quaint buildings remain. Some of these are picturesque and interesting, the one combining jail and court house being a feature of the main street. The window of one of the cells faces the street; and the prisoner's friends sit on the steps without, whiling away the tedium of incarceration with their converse. The oldest dwelling in the town stands on St. George's Street, nearly opposite the old-fashioned inn known as the Foster House. Its walls were originally made of mud from the flats, held together by the wiry marsh grass, which, being dried, was mixed in the sticky substance as hair is in plaster; but as these walls gave way from the effects of time the seams and cracks were plastered up, and by degrees boarded over, until now the original shows only in one part of the interior. The houses throughout this region are almost invariably without blinds or outside shutters, and consequently look oddly to us, who are inclined to screen ourselves too much from "the blessed sunshine". Bay windows are popular. We saw one small house with four double and two single ones, giving it an air of impertinent curiosity, as the dwellers therein could look out from every possible direction. The ancient dormer windows on the roofs have given place to these queer bulging ones, which, in Halifax especially, are set three in a row on the gray shingles, and bear ludicrous resemblance to gigantic bee-hives. In some of the shops, at the post office and railroad station, our money is taken at a small discount; but in many of the shops they allow us full value for it. In one the proprietor tells us of the sensation caused here once by the failure of a Canadian bank, and the surprise of the town's-people--whose faith seemed shaken in all such institutions-- when he continued to take United States bank bills. He says: "I told 'em the United States Government hadn't failed, that I believed in it yet, would take all their money I could get, and be glad to have it, too!" To continue the impression of being in a foreign land, we must attend service at the five or six different churches, and hear the prayers for the Queen and Royal Family. In the first place of worship, where the Octave augments the congregation, Victoria and many of her family are mentioned by full name and title, in sonorous and measured tones; in the next the pastor speaks of "Our Sovereign, and those under her and over us;" in another "Our Queen" is simply referred to; and some ministers who are suspected of being tinctured with republicanism sometimes forget to make any special allusion to her Majesty. In our walks up the main street, which is not remarkably bustling or busy, we see long rows of great old hawthorn bushes bordering the road, and giving quite an English touch to the scene; and everywhere gigantic apple trees, which would delight an artist, so deliciously gnarled and crooked are they. I am not aware that astronomy is a favorite study with the inhabitants, but have no doubt that _cidereal_ observations are popular at certain seasons,--as this country is a famous apple growing district, and that fruit, is sent from here to England and the States in vast quantities. Octavius says, "If you would know what ann-apol-is, you should come here in the fall," but is at once frowned down by the other seven for this atrocity. The valleys of Annapolis and Cornwallis yield an average crop of two hundred thousand barrels of apples. Dealers in Bangor who paid 87 per barrel in Boston for this fruit, have afterwards been chagrined on discovering that it came from Annapolis originally, and that they could have procured the same from that place direct at $2.25 to $3 per barrel. Very lovely is the view from a hill outside the village, and there also is the Wishing Rock,--one of the most noted objects of interest, as a guide book would term it. "They say" that if one can run to the top without assistance, or touching the rock with the hands, then whatever one wishes will "come true". This feat it is almost impossible to accomplish, as the stone has been worn smooth by countless feet before ours; still the youthful and frisky members of our party must attempt the ascent, with a run, a rush, and a shout, while the elders look on, smiling benignly. The dikes of L'Équille form a peculiar but pleasant promenade; and along that narrow, circuitous path we frequently wander at sunset. These embankments remain, in great part, as originally built by the Acadians, and are formed of rubbish, brush, and river mud, over which sods are closely packed, and for most of the season they are covered with tall waving grass. This primitive sea wall is six or eight feet in width at the base, and only about one foot wide at the top, so it is necessary for him "who standeth" to "take heed lest he fall"; otherwise his enthusiasm over the beauties of the prospect may receive a damper from a sudden plunge into the water below. There is a fine new rink in the village; and in the mornings those of us who are novices in the use of rollers have a quiet opportunity to practice and disport ourselves with the grace of a bureau, or other clumsy piece of furniture on wheels! Then we go to the wharves to witness the lading of lumber vessels. Some of the logs floating in the water are so huge as to attest that there are vast and aged forests somewhere in her Majesty's domains in America; and the lumbermen, attired in rough corduroy, red shirts, and big boots, balance themselves skillfully on some of the slippery trunks, while with pole and boat-hook propelling other great ones to the gaping mouths in the bow of the vessel. Then horse, rope, pulley, and windlass are brought into play to draw the log into the hold and place it properly among other monarchs of the forest, thus ignominiously laid low, and become what "Mantalini" would style "a damp, moist, unpleasant lot." From the wharf above we look down into the hold, and, seeing this black, slimy, muddy cargo, say regretfully, "How are the mighty fallen!" as we think of the grand forests of which these trees were once the pride and glory, but of which ruthless man is so rapidly despoiling poor Mother Earth. We have brought with us those aids to indolence which a tiny friend of ours calls "hang-ups", expecting to swing them in the woods and inhale the odors of pine; but the woods are too far away; so we are fain to sit under a small group of those trees at the end of the garden and gaze upon the peaceful valley. "There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighteth the village street, and gildeth the vanes on the chimneys," we sit, when "Day with its burden and heat has departed, and twilight descending Brings back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead." There we sit and talk of the romantic story, comparing notes as to our ideal of the heroine; and such is the influence of the air of sentiment and poetry pervading this region, that we decide that Boughton's representation of her, "When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide Flagons of home-brewed ale,... Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand Pré," is too sturdy, as with masculine stride she marches a-field; and that Constant Meyer's ideal more nearly approaches ours. The one depicts her in rather Puritanical attire; the other, studying authentic costume, they say, shows her "Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom Handed down from mother to child, through long generations," and seated by the roadside, as, "with God's benediction upon her, a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- Shone on her face and encircled her form." All along the roads we notice a delicate white blossom, resembling the English primrose in shape, and one day ask an intelligent looking girl whom we meet what it is called; she does not know the name, but says the seed was accidentally brought from England many years ago, and the plant "has since become quite a pest",--which we can hardly understand as we enjoy its grace and beauty. We notice that our pleasant informant follows a pretty fashion of other belles of the village,--a fashion which suits their clear complexions and bright faces; that is, wearing a gauzy white scarf around the hat, and in the dainty folds a cluster of fresh garden flowers. The artist Boughton says. "The impressionist is a good antidote against the illusionist, who sees too much, and then adds to it a lot that he does not see." If he had ever visited this place we wonder what his idea would be of this quaint poem, supposed to have been written in 1720, which we have unearthed. We have acquired quite an affection for this pleasant old town, and shall be loath to leave. If our friends think we are too enthusiastic, we shall refer them to this old writer to prove that we have not said all that we might; as he indulges in such airy flights of fancy and such extravagant praise. His description would lead one to expect to see a river as great as the Mississippi, and mountains resembling the Alps in height, whereas in reality it is a quiet and not extraordinary though most pleading landscape which here "delights the eye". ANNAPOLIS--ROYAL The King of Rivers, solemn calm and slow, Flows tow'rd the Sea yet fierce is seen to flow, On each fan Bank, the verdant Lands are seen, In gayest Cloathing of perpetual Green On ev'ry Side, the Prospect brings to Sight The Fields, the Flow'rs, and ev'ry fresh Delight His lovely Banks, most beauteously are grac'd With Nature's sweet variety of Taste Herbs, Fruits and Grass, with intermingled Trees The Prospect lengthen, and the Joys increase The lofty Mountains rise to ev'ry View, Creation's Glory, and its Beauty too. To higher Grounds, the raptur'd View extends, Whilst in the Cloud-top'd Cliffs the Landscape ends Fair Scenes! to which should Angels turn their Sight, Angels might stand astonished with Delight Majestic Grove in ev'ry View arise And greet with Wonder the Beholders' Eyes. In gentle Windings where this River glides, And Herbage thick its Current almost hides, Where sweet Meanders lead his pleasant Course, Where Trees and Plants and Fruits themselves disclose, Where never-fading Groves of fragrant Fir And beauteous Pine perfume the ambient Air, The air, at once, both Health and Fragrance yields, Like sweet Arabian or Elysian Fields Thou Royal Settlement! he washes Thee, Thou Village, blest of Heav'n and dear to me: Nam'd from a pious Sov'reign, now at Rest, The last of Stuart's Line, of Queens the best. Amidst the rural Joys, the Town is seen, Enclos'd with Woods and Hills, forever green The Streets, the Buildings, Gardens, all concert To please the Eye, to gratify the Heart. But none of these so pleasing or so fair, As those bright Maidens, who inhabit there. Your potent Charms fair Nymphs, my verse inspire, Your Charms supply the chaste poetic Fire. Could these my Strains, but live, when I'm no more, On future Fame's bright wings, your names should soar. Where this romantic Village lifts her Head, Betwixt the Royal Port and humble Mead, The decent Mansions, deck'd with mod'rate cost, Of honest Thrift, and gen'rous Owners boast; Their Skill and Industry their Sons employ, In works of Peace, Integrity and Joy. Their Lives, in Social, harmless Bliss, they spend, Then to the Grave, in honor'd Age descend. The hoary Sire and aged Matron see Their prosp'rous Offering to the fourth Degree: With Grief sincere, the blooming offspring close Their Parent's Eyes, and pay their Debt of Woes; Then haste to honest, joyous Marriage Bands, A newborn Race is rear'd by careful Hands: Thro' num'rous Ages thus they'll happy move In active Bus'ness, and in chastest Love. The Nymphs and Swains appear in Streets and Bowers As morning fresh, as lovely as the Flowers. As blight as Phoebus, Ruler of the Day, Prudent as Pallas, and as Flora gay. A Spire majestic roars its solemn Vane, Where Praises, Pray'r and true Devotion reign, Where Truth and Peace and Charity abound, Where God is fought, and heav'nly Blessings found. The gen'rous Flock reward their Pastor's care, His Pray'rs, his Wants, his Happiness they share Retir'd from worldly Care, from Noise and Strife, In sacred Thoughts and Deeds, he spends his Life, To mo'drate Bounds, his Wishes he confines, All views of Grandeur, Pow'r and Wealth resigns, With Pomp and Pride can cheerfully dispense, Dead to the World, and empty Joys of Sense, The Symphony of heav'nly Song he hears, Celestial Concord vibrates on his Ears., Which emulates the Music of the Spheres The Band of active Youths and Virgins fan, Rank'd in due Order, by their Teacher's Care, The Sight of all Beholders gratify, Sweet to the Soul, and pleasing to the Eye But when their Voices found in Songs, of Praise, When they to God's high Throne their Anthems raise, By these harmonious Sounds, such Rapture's giv'n, Their loud Hosannas waft the Soul to Heav'n: The fourfold Parts in one bright Center meet, To form the blessed Harmony complete. Lov'd by the Good, esteemed by the Wise, To gracious Heav'n, a pleasing sacrifice. Each Note, each Part, each Voice, each Word conspire T' inflame all pious Hearts with holy Fire, Each one in Fancy seems among the Throng Of Angels, chanting Heav'n's eternal Song. Hail Music, Foretaste of celestial Joy! That always satiasts, yet canst never cloy: Each pure, refin'd, extatic Pleasure's thine, Thou rapt'rous Science! Harmony divine! May each kind Wish of ev'ry virtuous Heart Be giv'n to all, who teach, or learn thine Art: May all the Wise, and all the Good unite, With all the Habitants of Life and Light, To treat the Sons of Music with Respect, Their Progress to encourage and protect. May each Musician, and Musician's Friend Attain to Hymns divine, which never end. Being a musical company, the Octave accept this peroration without criticism, and do not seem to consider it an extravagant rhapsody, though they are so daring as to take exception to other parts of the queer old poem. As we have come here for rest, we are not disturbed at finding that trains, etc., are not always strictly "on time". We are summoned at 7:15 A.M., but breakfast is not served for more than an hour after; we engage a carriage for two o'clock, and perhaps in the neighborhood of three see it driving up in a leisurely manner. The people are wise, and do not wear themselves out with unnecessary rush and hurry, as we do in the States. The train advertised to start for Halifax at 2 P.M. more frequently leaves at 3, or 3.30; but then it has to wait the arrival of the steamboat which, four times per week, comes across from St. John. The express train requires six hours to traverse the miles intervening between this quiet village and that not much livelier town, while for the accommodation train they allow ten hours; but when one comes to see beautiful country one does not wish to have the breath taken away by traveling at break-neck speed. We know that some of our party are capable of raising a breeze, and we are on a gal(e)a time anyhow; still, this is a remarkably breezy place, the wind rising with the tide, so we understand why there are so few flowers in the gardens,--the poor blossoms would soon be torn to pieces; but the windows of the houses generally are crowded with thriving plants gay with bloom, giving most cheery effect as one strolls about the town. In our excursion to the Bay Shore we halt to water the horses at a neat little cottage on the summit of the North Mountain, and even here the little garden (protected from the winds by a fence) is all aflame with a wonderful variety of large double and gorgeous poppies. From this point, also, we have our first view of the wide Bay, shimmering in the hazy sunlight far below, and can faintly trace the rugged hills of New Brunswick in the distance. Rapidly descending, we follow the coast for several miles, finally stopping at a lonely house on the rocky and barren shore,--such a wild spot as a novelist would choose to represent a smuggler's retreat; but the family would not answer his purpose in that respect, for they are homely and hospitable, agreeing at once to provide stabling for our horses and to sell us some milk for our lunch. They drop their net mending, come out _en masse_, and, on learning that some of us are from Philadelphia, greet us like old friends, because their eldest daughter is living in that distant city. The best pitcher is brought out for our use, the whole establishment placed at our disposal, and, finding that we will be so insane as to prefer to picnic under the few straggling pines by the water instead of using their dining-room, several march ahead to show the way to the rocky point; and we form a long and, of course, imposing procession. As we gaze along this barren and lonely shore, Octavia exclaims, "Imagine the amazement of De Monts when he sailed along this iron-bound coast and suddenly came upon that wonderful gateway which leads into the beautiful Annapolis Basin and the fertile, lovely region beyond!" and we all agree that it is a shame that the embouchure should now be known by the vulgar title, Digby Gut, instead of its old cognomen, St. George's Channel. "Why couldn't they call it the Gap or the Gate?" one exclaims; "that wouldn't be quite so dreadful." One evening some of our pleasant acquaintances in the town come to take us to Lake La Rose, away up on the South Mountain; and there we embark and glide over the placid water in the moonlight, rousing the echoes with song, and vainly endeavoring to uproot the coy lilies, which abruptly slip through our fingers, and "bob" down under the water as if enjoying our discomfiture. But as Dame Nature tries her hand at painting in water-colors, treating us to a series of dissolving views, the shower forces us to hurry back to the village again. Before leaving this "vale of rest", we must see the widely extended panorama from the Mackenzie road, where hills beyond hills stretch away to the horizon, and the lovely valley spreads itself like a map below. The bird's-eye view from Parker's Mountain must also be seen, and many other excursions accomplished. The old cannon of Lower Granville also is "one of the sights". This ancient piece of ordnance was fired in old times to notify the quiet country folk when news was received from England. At such times relays, seven to ten miles apart, mounted in hot haste and carried the messages on until Digby was reached; and from thence a vessel conveyed the news to Boston. As we are talking of all we have seen in this region, and of our various enjoyments, Octavia exclaims, "Some persons thought we could not be content here for a week; yet more than six have slipped away, and I'm sure I don't want to go! I shall tell my friends that though we are 'remote', the rest of the quotation does not apply, for we are neither 'unfriended', 'melancholy', nor 'slow'!" How often has it been our fate, when among the mountains of New Hampshire, to see the grand ranges disappearing behind a thick curtain of smoke, which, daily growing denser, at last almost completely blots out Nature's pictures, so there is no use in undertaking excursions for the sake of fine views. The explanation is invariably "fires in the Canada woods"; and here, in this "cool, sequestered vale", we have an opportunity of seeing forest fires before we take our departure for other fields of observation. After sunset we are apparently almost surrounded by volcanoes, as the lurid flames leap up into the deepening blackness of the night; and when we lovers of Nature, distressed afterwards by seeing vast tracts all scarred and desolate, exclaim, "Why didn't they stop it? Why did they allow it?" echo answers, "Why?" One day we learn that a mill on L'Équille is threatened, and expect that there will be some excitement; but a very old-fashioned fire engine, with clumsy hand power pumps, goes lumbering by, followed by men and boys, who walk in a leisurely and composed manner. The mill is saved by some means, however; and we rejoice, as it is, so to speak, historical, standing in a place favored for such purposes since Lescarbot's time; even Argall (in 1613), when demolishing other buildings of the village, having spared the mill which occupied the site of the present one. In our various wanderings we visit the Indian settlement at the head of this crooked stream, but find its residents too civilized to be very picturesque. We are interested in learning what the Canadian Government does for their welfare, and wish a similar policy could be instituted in the States. Here, as with us, liquor is their curse. The once famous chief of the Micmacs lives at Bear River, and is addicted to the bottle. One day a young girl, who was a summer guest at this place, sat down on an overturned canoe which this chief (now known as James Meuse) had just completed; and, as the bark bent with her weight, the wily Indian pretended that the boat was irretrievably ruined. The girl's father, asking what amount would compensate for the damage, received reply, "Ten, twenty, dollar"; and receiving thirty dollars from the generous stranger, Redskin remarked afterwards that he "wished more girl come sit on boat", and probably turned the money into liquid fire, and poured it down his throat in a short space of time. As there is a heavy fine for selling liquor to Indians, one of that race will never divulge from whom he has received it, however intoxicated he may be. Another Indian sachem noted in history--Membertou--lived to the age of one hundred and four, and was buried at Annapolis, then Port Royal, with military honors, as befitted the companion of soldiers. At Poutrincourt's table he was a daily and honored guest in that olden time, and, when the "Order of Happy Times" was instituted there, of course became a _member too!_ Query: Did that ancient convivial society offer suggestions to the famous old "State in Schuylkill Club" of Philadelphia when they were organizing so many years after? DIGBY. In the drive to Digby, twenty-one miles, we pass along all the ins and outs of the shore of Annapolis Basin, finding the succession of views on that curiously land-locked harbor a perfect study and delight, and more picturesque than on the trip to the same place by steamer, as we discover later. There we see a bright-eyed, pretty little maiden, who wears a gay red handkerchief in place of a hat, and makes a picture as she drives her cow over a bit of moorland. Driver says she is "one of the French people", and that her name is Thibaudia, which, with its English signification (a kind of heath), seems appropriate for one living in the wilds, and deliciously foreign and suggestive. We wonder if old Crumplehorn understands French, and conclude that she is a well educated animal, as she seems to obey directions without needing a touch of willow branch to punctuate them. Sometimes it seems that the names conferred On mortals at baptism in this queer world Seem given for naught but to spite 'em. Mr. Long is short, Mr. Short is tall, And who so meek as Mr. Maul? Mr. Lamb's fierce temper is very well known, Mr. Hope plods about with sigh and groan,-- "And so proceed ad infinitum" At one point on our route, when we are passing through a lonely and apparently uninhabited region, our jolly driver, "Manyul", remarks, "Here's where Nobody lives."; and one replies, "Yes, evidently; and I shouldn't think any one would wish to." But a turn of the road brings a house in sight; and driver says, "That's his house, and his name is actually Nobody" (Charles, I believe). We quote, "What's in a name!" and conclude that if he is at all like the kindly people of this region whom we have met he may be well content to be nobody, rather than resemble many whom the world considers "somebodies", but who are not models in any respect. Our driver is quite a character in his way, and in the winter he "goes a loggin'". On learning this we ply him with questions in such manner as would surprise a lawyer, eliciting in return graphic pictures of camp life in New Brunswick wildernesses, and the amusements with which they while away the long evenings in their rough barracks. He describes their primitive modes of cooking, their beds of fragrant spruce boughs overlaid with straw,--"Better 'n any o' your spring mattresses, I tell _you_!"--the queer box-like bunks along the wall where they "stow themselves away", and where the most active and useful man is, for the time at least, literally laid on the shelf. Octavius, thinking how much he would enjoy "roughing it" thus, asks what they would charge to take a young man to board in camp; and driver indignantly replies, "_Nothin'_! Do you suppose we'd charge board? No, _indeed_! Just let him come; and if we didn't give him a good time, and if he didn't get strong and hearty, then we'd be ashamed of ourselves and _sell out_." Here we approach a cove which driver calls the Joggin (as it makes a cut or jog-in, we presume); and beyond, a wide arm of the Basin is spanned by a rickety old bridge, at least a quarter of a mile long, named in honor of her Majesty,--hardly a compliment to that sovereign, we think. The boards are apparently laid down without nails, and rattle like a fusillade as our vehicle rolls over them. Here and there planks are broken or gone entirely, showing the green swirling water beneath. Our chaperone, having more faith in her own feet than those of the horses, dismounts and walks across; while we, being naturally reckless and romantic, are willing to risk our necks for the sake of the charming views. The village of Digby stretches along the shore, and from the hills surrounding it the Basin with its islands, the Gap, and Annapolis River, are charming. Disciples of old "Izaak" would be likely to meet with greater success here than at Annapolis; as the current of the river at the latter place is so strong that, as a general thing, only the "old salts" are anglers; and they being most of the time out in the Bay or off on cruises, it follows that fish are scarce in the market. An "ancient and fish-like smell" pervades the atmosphere in some parts of the village where the herring--humorously known as "Digby Chickens"--are spread on racks to dry; but this odor, the odd little shops and restaurants, the clumsy and queer lumber boats, the groups of tars gossiping about doorways and wharves, only add to the nautical character of the place, and suggest reminiscences of "Peggoty", "Ham", and others of Dickens's characters. We ignore the pleasant embowered hotel "in bosky dell", far up the street this time, though we visit it in a later sojourn; and, "just for the fun of it", take lunch in one of the peculiar little restaurants; where, seated at a minute table in one of the tiny calico curtained alcoves, we partake of our frugal repast (the bill of fare is extremely limited), amusing ourselves watching the odd customers who come to make purchases at the counter across the room, and "making believe" that we are characters in an old English story. On the bluff beyond the village, beneath great old Balm of Gilead trees whose foliage is perpetually in a flutter from the breeze through the Gap, there are several cannon, which it seems could not possibly have any hostile intent, but appear to be gratifying a mild curiosity by peering across the Basin and up the river beyond. The long and very high pier stretches far out into the Basin, and upon it picturesque groups unconsciously pose for us, adding to the effect of the picture. That the climate is salubrious and conducive to longevity we are convinced after visiting the cemetery, where one tomb records the demise of a man at the age of one hundred and two! A peculiar taste for wandering among the tombs we have acquired in this summer jaunt. Here we see the tomb of one recorded proudly as "descended from the noble families of Stuart and Bruce", who, tradition says, was supposed to have held the position of servant to said scions of nobility. One who was known as a scoffer during life here is virtuously represented ah "a sincere worshipper of Eternal, Almighty and ever just God"; reminding us of the popular adage, "lying like an epitaph". Twice have we seen one stone made to do service for two in an amusing manner: on the upper part the usual, "Sacred to the memory of," etc.; then half-way down had been carved a hand pointing to one side, and under it the words "There lies"; while the name, age, etc., of the later decedent was inscribed below the first. One old tomb we were with this epitaph:-- "Tho' gready worm destroy my skin And gnaw my wasting flesh When God doth build my bones agen He'll cloath them all afresh." and another:-- "What says the silent dead He bids me bear my load With silent steps proceed And follow him to God." We notice that the English rule of the road maintains here, and our driver turns to the left when other vehicles are approaching. Captain C., who is from the States, tells us that he did not know of this custom, and in his first drive nearly collided with another vehicle, the driver of which thereupon used strong language. On being informed that he had almost overturned the conveyance of the Governor of Prince Edward's Island, the rash Yankee, undismayed, remarked, "Well, I don't care who he is, he don't know how to drive!" HALIFAX Of course, as we are in the neighborhood, we must see the locality to which--in mild and humorous profanity--States people are sometimes assigned; and therefore proceed to Halifax and thoroughly "do" that sedate, quiet, and delightfully old-fashioned city. _En route_, as the train passes beyond Windsor, one says, "Here we are out of sight of land"; and we then understand that it must have been some one from this locality who christened the valley of Annapolis the Garden of Nova Scotia; for here a scene of utter sterility and desolation meets the view: not a foot of earth is to be seen, but rocks are piled in wild confusion everywhere. A few dead trees stand among the _débris_, emphasizing the loneliness; and Conductor says when the world was created the "leavings" were deposited in this dreary tract. By special arrangement with "Old Prob", there are none of the prevailing fogs during our stay; and Aurora Borealis gets up a special illumination. Regiments of red-coats, with torches and band,--aware doubtless of the presence of such distinguished strangers,--march past our hotel in the evening. Though we are quartered in what is called the best hotel, it is a musty, fusty, rusty old building; and we agree with our friends among the residents (who vie with each other in showing us true English hospitality) who say they need an enterprising Yankee to start a good new hostelry, and "to show 'em how to run it." Just at this time of year the city is full of summer tourists, many of whom come direct from Baltimore by the ocean steamships, which touch at this port; but, as we are subject to _mal-de-mer's_ tortures, we rejoice that we came by "overland route". Though our friends have engaged rooms for us beforehand, we are fortunate in securing apartments on the fourth floor, where peculiar coils of rope by the windows at once attract our attention. These, on examination, we find have big wooden beads (like the floats of a seine) strung on them at regular intervals; and this peculiar arrangement is a primitive fire escape, which we are positive that no creature but a monkey could use with safety. The prevailing fogs, and the use of soft coal, cause the buildings to appear dingy and rusty; but we like them all the better for that, as the city has a more foreign air, and, in some parts, quite strongly suggests Glasgow. In the Parliament building we study the old portraits, concluding that the wigs must have been uncomfortable. Octavius wickedly hints that there _is_ a fashion among ladies of the present time!--but as he does not tread on our toes, we ignore this insinuation, and turn our attention to the elaborate ornamentation of the woodwork--which is all antique hand-carving--in the council chambers; and are much interested in some rare old books in the Library,--among them a copy of the Psalms, three hundred years old; and another, with music, dated 1612. Here also we see and are actually allowed to handle a book,-- "PRESENTED TO THE LEGISLATIVE LIBRARY OF NOVA SCOTIA IN MEMORY OF HER GREAT AND GOOD HUSBAND BY HIS BROKEN-HEARTED WIDOW VICTORIA R." and of course are duly overpowered at beholding the valuable autograph of that sovereign. In one of the churches we are informed that a certain balustrade "is from America, and is all _marvel_" but do not find it marvelously beautiful nevertheless. Of the gardens the natives are justly proud, as in this moist atmosphere plants, trees, and flowers flourish remarkably; still, we are not willing to concede that they are "the finest in America", as we have been told. We conclude, as we pass the large Admiralty House, with its spacious and beautiful grounds, that Sir Somebody Something must find it a comfortable thing to be "monarch of the sea, the ruler of the Queen's nave," and may with reason say,-- "When at anchor here I ride, my bosom swells with pride," while Halifax herself, with her famous harbor, in which the navy of a great and powerful nation could find safe anchorage, with room to spare, might justly finish out his song with the appropriate words concluding the verse:-- "And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts!" Then the Citadel, the very name of which revives reminiscences of Quebec, and suggests something out of the every-day order of summer jaunts. As we ascend the hill to the fortress, the first thing attracting our attention is amusing. The "squatty" looking clock tower, which appears as if part of a church spire, had been carried away by a high wind and dropped down on this embankment. Octavius says, "What a jolly place for coasting, if it were not for the liability of being plunged into the harbor at the foot!" as we mount the hill. At the gate we are consigned to the care of a tall soldier, whose round fatigue cap must be _glued_ to his head, or it certainly would fall off, so extreme is the angle at which it inclines over his ear. A company of soldiers are drilling within the enclosure, their scarlet coats quite dazzling in the bright sunlight and in contrast with the cold gray granite; while others, at opposite angles of the walls, are practicing signals with flags, the maneuvers of the latter being quite entertaining as they wave the banners, now slowly, now rapidly, diagonally, vertically, horizontally, or frantically overhead, as if suddenly distraught. Probably this exercise could be seen in any of our forts; but as we are now beyond the borders of the United States, every detail interests us, and we have become astonishingly observant. The gloomy and massive bomb proof walls of the soldiers' quarters appear quite prison-like, with their narrow windows; and our guide, speaking of the monotony of garrison life, rejoices that in a few months his term of service will expire, and then he "will go to the States". "The States" seem to be a Land of Promise to many people of this region; and, though this is gratifying to our national pride, we cannot but see that many make a mistake in going to "America"; as, for instance, the young girls of Annapolis, who, leaving comfortable homes, the away to Boston, where, if they can get positions in an already crowded field, they wear themselves out in factories; or, having a false pride which prevents them from acknowledging failure and returning home, they remain until, broken down by discouragement and disappointment, compelled to accept charity. On this account the service at Annapolis is not what might be desired; and Octavius humorously wonders, when the "green hand" persistently offers him viands from the wrong side, "how he is expected to reach the plate unless he puts his arm around her." "But we digress." As our party, with other sight seers who have joined the procession, promenade about the fort, a culprit in the guardroom catches sight of the visitors as they pass, and, evidently for their hearing, sings mischievously,-- "Farewell, my own! Light of my life, farewell! For crime unknown I go to a dungeon cell" We conclude, as he is so musical about it, that he does not feel very much disgraced or oppressed by his imprisonment, though some one curiously inquiring "why he is there", learns that it is for a trifling misdemeanor, and that punishments are not generally severe; though the guide tells of one soldier who, he says, "threw his cap at the Colonel, and got five years for it; and we thought he'd get ten." From the ramparts the picture extending before us southeastwardly is very fine indeed, as, over the rusty houses shouldering each other up the hill so that we can almost look down the chimneys, we look out to the fortified islands and points, with the ocean beyond. Point Pleasant, thickly wooded to the water's edge, hides the strangely beautiful inlet from the harbor known as the North West Arm, which cuts into the land for a distance of four miles (half a mile in width), suggesting a Norwegian fiord; but that, and the country all about the city, we enjoy in a long drive later. On the return, regardless of the gaze of passengers astonished at our unconventional actions, we sit on the platform of the rear car, while "Pleasantly gleams in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas." and the model conductor plies us with bits of information, which we devour with the avidity of cormorants. GRAND PRÉ. Finally the brakeman shouts "Grand _Pree_;" and Octavia remarks, "Yes, indeed, this is the _grand prix_ of our tour," as the party step off the train at this region of romance. The gallant conductor, with an air of mystery, leads the way to a storage room in the little box of a station, and there chops pieces from a clay-covered plank and presents us as souvenirs. "Pieces of a coffin of one of the Acadians, exhumed at Grand Pré fourteen months ago, near the site of the old church," we are told; and when he continues: "A woman's bone was found in it", one unromantic and matter-of-fact member of the Octave asserts, "Evangeline's grandmother, of course"; while another skeptically remarks, "That's more than _I_ can swallow; it would give me such a spell o' coughin' as I couldn't get over"; but the conductor and others staunchly avouch the genuineness of the article, affirming that they were present "when it wus dug up." The "forest primeval", if it ever stood in this region, must have clothed the distant hills which bound the vast meadow, and now are covered with a dense growth of small trees which are _not_ "murmuring pines". A superannuated tree in the distance it is said once shaded the smithy of "Basil Lajeunesse", that "mighty man of the village"; and only stony hollows in the ground mark the site of the house of "Father Felician" and the village church. It was to this spot, then, that the wondering peasants were lured by stratagem, when,-- "with a summons sonorous Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head stones Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them, Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor Echoed the sound of their brass drums from ceiling to casement,-- Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers." After refreshing ourselves with pure, clear, and cold water from the old well,--made by the French, and re-walled a few years ago,--we turn away, with "a longing, lingering look behind", and continue our drive through the great prairie, which resembles the fertile meadow land along the Connecticut River. We stop a few moments near a picturesque little church of gray unpainted wood, and look off over the verdant fields to the point where a distant shimmer of water catches the eye, and the hills bound the picture. Near at hand, on the right, the trunk of an aged apple tree, "planted by the French", shows one green shoot; and about the church are Lombardy poplars, which, though good sized trees, are perhaps only shoots from those planted by the Acadians, in remembrance of such arboreal grenadiers of their native land. The old French dike is surmounted by a rough rail fence, and is now far inland, as hundreds of acres have been reclaimed beyond,-- "Dikes that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant Shut out the turbulent tides" Our lamented American poet never visited this region which he describes so delightfully; his reason being that, cherishing an ideal picture, he feared reality might dissipate it. Yet an easy journey of twenty-eight hours would have brought him hither; and we, feeling confident that he could not have been disappointed, shall always regret that he did not come. As an appropriate close to this sentimental journey, we drive through the secluded Gaspereau valley, along the winding river, which is hardly more than a creek, toward its wider part where it flows into the Basin, which stretches out broad and shining. With such a view before us, we cannot fail to picture mentally the tragic scenes of that October day in 1755, when the fleet of great ships lay in the Basin, and "When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, Exile without an end, and without an example in story," those whom Burke describes as "the poor, innocent, deserving people, whom our utter inability to govern or reconcile, gave us no sort of right to extirpate," were torn from their happy homes, and "Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean." In the midst of these peaceful scenes was perpetrated a cruel wrong, and an inoffensive people banished by the mandate of a tyrant! In that beautiful poem, parts of which one unconsciously "gets by heart", or falls into the habit of quoting when sojourning in this lovely region, Basil the blacksmith says:-- "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau-Séjour nor Port Royal;" and having held an impromptu history class on the subject of the last mentioned, we turn our attention to the other fortified points of which "the hasty and somewhat irascible" sledge-wielder spoke. By the treaty of Utrecht in 1713 Acadia was ceded to the English; but the French colonists, in taking the oath of allegiance to their new rulers (1727-28), were promised that they should not be required at any time to take up arms against France. They were now in the position of Neutrals, and by that name were known; but this placed them in an awkward predicament, as they were suspected by both contending powers. The English hated them, believing their sympathies to be with the French; while even their countrymen in Canada were distrustful of them, urging them to withdraw. The English colonists, fearing the extension of the French possessions, and having Puritanical aversion of Roman Catholicism,--of which the Neutrals were devout adherents,--entered upon the expedition against the French forts with the zeal of fanatics, seeming in some instances to consider their incursions in the light of religious crusades. These "men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands", whose descendants are to this day childlike and simple hearted, could not understand these political distinctions, and naturally clung to the pleasant farms which they had reclaimed from the sea and cultivated so diligently, being most reluctant, of course, to leave those "Strongly built houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows, and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway." The French dominions were guarded by a chain of forts extending all along the Atlantic coast, from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico. That on Cape Breton Island, which protected the approach to the St. Lawrence, was considered invincible, its walls being thirty feet high, forty feet thick, and surrounded by a moat eighty feet in width. Boston sent out a fleet of forty-one vessels and three thousand men to Cape Breton, to assail the "Gibraltar of America", as the fort of Louisburg was called. Forces from New Hampshire and Connecticut joined the expedition at Canso; and this remarkable fortress, whose fortifications alone cost five million dollars, was besieged, and capitulated after forty-nine days, yielding to untrained soldiers; the victory owing to "mere audacity and hardihood, backed by the rarest good luck", as one English writer says. The conquerors themselves were amazed at their success when they discovered the great strength of the fort. Their victory was, in fact, due largely to maneuvers which deceived the French regarding the strength of their forces. This was ten years before the dispersion of the French Neutrals was effected; and during those years the Acadians, being zealous Catholics and devoted to the mother country, naturally but almost unconsciously were drawn into the disputes between France and England; and it is not to be wondered at, if, as some authorities state, there were three hundred of their young men found in arms when the English attacked Fort Beau-Séjour. The French had built Forts Beau-Séjour and Gaspereau on the neck connecting the peninsula of Nova Scotia with the mainland, to guard the entrance to their territory. A few hotheaded youths, who thought they were honestly serving their country and people by taking up arms in defense, might have been forgiven, particularly as it is known that some were pressed into the service, and that the oath which they had taken years before absolved them from taking arms against France, but did not pledge them against serving in her defense. These forts were taken by Lieutenant-Colonel Moncton in June, 1755, the garrison of Beau-Séjour being sent to Louisburg on condition that they should not take up arms in America for six months. Prince Edward's Island--then called St. John's Island--fell into the hands of the English when Cape Breton was taken, and the inhabitants were sent to France. In the summer of 1755 matters seemed to be culminating, and the bitter dissensions were brought to a crisis. The Neutrals were again called upon to take the oath, the following being the form in which it was presented to them: "Je promets et jure sincerement, en foi de Chrétien, que je serai entierement fidele et obeirai vraiment sa Majesté Le Roi George, que je reconnais pour le Souverain seigneur de l'Acadie, ou nouvelle Ecosse--ainsi Dieu me soit en aide." But this was not the "reserved oath", as the former one was called; and the Acadians, feeling themselves bound by the old pledge, asked exemption from this, and requested the restoration of arms which had been taken from them, agreeing also to keep faithfully the old form of oath. Deputies from the settlements near Port Royal (which were above, below, and almost on the site of the present town of Annapolis), at Pisiquid (now Windsor), Minas, etc., were sent to Halifax, where a long conference was held; but the deputies still declining to accept the new oath, they were imprisoned, and the deportation of the Acadians decided upon. In order to do this artifice was resorted to, to prevent the people from suspecting what was in store for them, and that the poor peasants might have no chance to leave themselves or carry away their possessions. "Both old men and young men, as well as the lads of ten years of age," were called, by a proclamation, "to attend at the church at Grand Pré" at a certain time; and it was declared that "no excuse" would "be admitted, on any pretence whatever, on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels, in default of real estate." The settlers on the Basin of Minas were immigrants from Saintonge, Poitou, and La Rochelle, who came to this country in the early part of the seventeenth century. The land which they had reclaimed from the Basin was rich and fertile; they exported grain to Boston, and became prosperous. The object of the call to the church does not seem to have been suspected. When Basil says,-- "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us What their designs may be is unknown; but all are commanded On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate Will be proclaimed as law in the land;" Benedict responds,-- "Perhaps the harvests in England By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." But in the church the mystery was solved soon enough, and naturally a terrible scene ensued. They were informed that their "lands, tenements, cattle, and livestock of all kinds were to be forfeited to the crown, with all their effects, saving their money and household goods," and they themselves banished; though, "so far as the capacity of the transports permitted," they were "to be allowed to carry their household goods with them." They were also promised that families should not be separated, and that the transportation should be made as easy as possible. Then they were declared prisoners, and the church became the guardhouse. Ten men at a time were allowed to leave the building, to pack their goods and assist in the preparations for departure; and when they returned ten others were also permitted to leave for a time. While Moncton was destroying Remsheg, Shediac, and other towns on the Gulf coast, Handfield gathered up the French Annapolitans, and Murray those about Windsor, putting them on shipboard; and on the 21st of October the ships, with their wretched passengers, set sail. In the confusion and hurry of embarkation some families were separated; and it is on this fact that the story of Evangeline is founded. Most of the exiles were scattered among the towns of Massachusetts; and in the State House in Boston some curious old records relate to them, one town desiring compensation "for keeping three French pagans", from which it seems that there was still prejudice against them because of their religion. "From the cold lakes of the north to sultry southern Savannahs," to the region where "On the banks of the Teche are the towns of St. Maur and St Martin," to the parish of Attakapas "and the prairies of fair Opelousas" in Louisiana, some of the exiles wandered. Their descendants live there at the present time, and are known as Cajeans. Though sometimes harshly treated in the towns where they were quartered, though shouldered off from one village to another when one grew weary of or made excuses for not maintaining them, the poor wanderers were mild, gentle, and uncomplaining. A writer in "Canadian Antiquities" says: "None speaks the tongue of Evangeline; and her story, though true as it is sweet and sorrowful, is heard no more in the scenes of her early days." The way in which it came about that Longfellow wrote his poem was in this wise: one day, when Hawthorne and a friend from Salem were dining with the poet, the Salem gentleman remarked to the host, "I have been trying to persuade Hawthorne to write a story based on a legend of Acadie and still current there,--the legend of a girl who, in the dispersion of the Acadians, was separated from her lover, and passed her life in waiting and seeking for him, and only found him dying in a hospital when both were old." The host, surprised that this romance did not strike the fancy of the novelist, asked if he himself might use it for a poem; and Hawthorne, readily assenting, promised not to attempt the subject in prose until the poet had tried what he could do with it in metrical form. No one rejoiced more heartily in the success of the world-renowned poem than the writer who generously gave up an opportunity to win fame from his working up of the sad theme. Authorities differ widely regarding the number of persons expelled from Acadia, many historians giving the estimate at seven thousand. In a letter from Governor Lawrence to the governors of the different colonies to which the exiles were sent, he says: "As their numbers amount to near seven thousand persons, the driving them off with leave to go whither they pleased would have doubtless strengthened Canada with so considerable a number of inhabitants." Bryant says: "Seven thousand probably represented with sufficient accuracy the total French population of Acadia in 1755; but the entire number of the exiled did not exceed, if Minot be correct, two thousand, of whom many subsequently returned to Acadia." Five years after the departure of the exiles a fleet of twenty-two vessels sailed from Connecticut for Grand Pré with a large number of colonists, who took possession of the deserted farms. They found sixty ox carts and yokes, while on the edge of woods of the inland country and in sheltered places heaps of bones told of cattle which had perished of starvation and cold after their owners were forced to leave them to such a fate. A few straggling families of the Acadians were also found, who had escaped from the search of the soldiers, and had lived in hiding in the wilds of the back country for five years, and during that time had not tasted bread. CLARE "Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy, Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story." Resolved to see these curious "Clare settlements," extending for fifty miles on the coast, where descendants of the French Acadians live in peace and unity, we reluctantly take our departure at last from dear old Annapolis, which has been our restful haven so long, and where we have been reviving school days in studying history and geography seasoned with poetry and romance. Although it was expected that the W. C. R. R. would be completed from Yarmouth to Annapolis by the latter part of 1876, we are pleased to find that this is not the case, and that we shall have to take steamer, train, and carriage to our destination; anticipating that any place so out of the beaten track must be interesting. The French settlements, a succession of straggling hamlets, were founded by descendants of the exiles, who,-- "a raft as it were from the shipwrecked nation,... Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune," drifted back to "L'Acadie" in 1763, the year of the treaty between France and England. The lands of their fathers in their old haunts on the Basin of Minas were in possession of people from New England; and, having a natural and inherited affection for localities by the sea, they wandered down the coast and scattered along shore as we find them now. A pleasant excursion by steamer to Digby, thence proceeding some miles by rail, finally a long but charming drive by the shore of St. Mary's Bay, and we are set down at the house of a family of the better class, among these kindly and old-fashioned farming and fisher folk. This beautiful bay is thirty-five miles long, was christened Baie St. Marie by Champlain, and here the four ships of De Monts lay in calm and secure harbor for two weeks in 1604, while the adventurers were examining the shores of Nova Scotia,--explorations in which the discovery of iron pyrites deluded them with the belief that this would prove an El Dorado. Madame M. at first looks dismayed at the appearance of such a group of strangers at her door, and is sure she cannot accommodate us; but her daughters slyly jog her elbow, saying something in an undertone, as if urging her to consent, and we are made most comfortable. At first the family are a little shy, but in a couple of days we become quite well acquainted; and, when the time comes for our departure they "wish we could stay longer",--a wish which we heartily re-echo. Madame proudly displays her treasures in hand-spun and home-woven linen and blankets; also a carpet, the material for which she first spun, then dyed, and finally wove; and, though it has been in use for ten years, it is still fresh and shows no apparent wear. In response to our entreaties, she shows us the loom, and brings out her spinning wheel to instruct us in that housewifely accomplishment. How easy it looks, as the fleecy web moves through her fingers, and winds in smooth, even yarn on the swiftly turning reel; and, oh, what bungling and botching when we essay that same! The two pretty, modest, and diffident daughters are quite overcome at last, and join in our peals of merriment. One--oh bliss!--is named _Evangeline_, and, if we understand correctly, there is an old name similar to this among these people. Though they sing some charming old French chansons for us, the two sweet girls cannot be induced to converse in that language. Madame laughs, saying, "Dey know dey doant speak de _goot_ French, de fine French, so dey will only talk Angleesh wid you." But in the evening, when Octavia sings an absurd college song, with a mixture of French and English words, they enjoy the fun; and immediately set to work to learn:-- "Oh, Jean Baptiste, pourquoi vous grease My little dog's nose with tar? Madame, je grease his nose with tar Because he have von grand catarrh, Madame, je grease his nose Parcequ'il he vorries my leetle fite chat." Then the pretty Evangeline in turn becomes instructor, the theme being an ancient peasant song of France which her grandmother used to sing. One plays the melody from memory, while the other hastily rules a bit of paper and writes off the notes, afterwards copying the words from a scrap of tattered manuscript; and thus the lady from "America" feels that she has secured a pretty souvenir of the visit: LES PERLES ET LES ÉTOILES. 1. Comme les perles et les é - tol – les Or-nent dé - ja le front des cleux La nuit e-tend partout votle Elle vient de ju fermer mes yeux, Re - viendras tu dans un doux songe, O mon bel ange, tor que j'adore Me re - pe - ter divers mensonges Me re - pe - ter -ye taime encore-- 2. Sur un soup-çon tu t'es en—fuie Je pleure bélas ton a - ban – don Par un bais er je t'en supplie Viens m’accorder undous pardon Oh crois le bien ma bonne a se Pour te revoir oh om, un jor, Je donnerais toute ma vie Je donnerais tous mes amours The word "_mensonges_" has not the meaning in French which our literal translation would give it. It probably signifies the pretty falsehoods or white lies to which lovers are somewhat addicted. The next day is Sunday, and troops of people, in their peculiar costume, appear on the road from all directions, wending their way to the great white wooden church. Despite the innate grace of the French, of which we hear so much, we see that the young men among these peasants are not unlike the shy and awkward country lads of Yankee land. Before and between the services they roost on the fence opposite the church, while the young girls--totally oblivious of their proximity, of course--gather in groups on the other side of the road, gossiping. We infer that many have come a long distance to attend service, as we see several families eating their lunch, picnic fashion, in the fields near the church. In the church, what a sensation the strangers make, and how interesting is the service! To one of us, at least, the grand service of Notre Dame of Paris was not so impressive as this. In the one case, a famous Bishop, robed in priceless lace and cloth of gold, with a troop of acolytes at the altar, while the most famous singers of the Opera filled the vast structure with rapturous melody; in the other, a large plain wooden building with glaring windows of untinted glass; the priest in vestments of coarse Nottingham lace and yellow damask,--but with spiritual, benignant countenance,--and a choir of untrained voices. A company of men droned out Gregorian chants in painfully nasal tones, using antique books with square headed notes; then the sweet voice of our host's daughter, Evangeline, sounded solo, and her youthful companions in the choir took up the chorus of the Kyrie Eleison:-- "Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar, Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, Not with their lips alone, but with their hearts; and the Ave Maria Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls with devotion translated, Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven." The young girls array themselves in hats and costumes which are only two or three years behind the prevailing mode; but the attire of the middle aged and elderly women is striking and peculiar. For Sundays, this is invariably black throughout, and yet does not look funereal. The dress is of plain bombazine or alpaca, a shawl folded square, and over the head a large silk handkerchief, which must be put on with greatest exactness and care to make just so many folds at the sides with a huge knot under the chin; while the point at the back hangs below the neck, and generally has one or more initials neatly worked in colors ("cross-stitch") in the corner. As most have clear olive complexion, with rich color in the cheeks, arid lustrous black eyes, this headdress is surprisingly becoming, giving quite a gypsyish effect. During the week, a calico dress with long white apron is worn by women and children, and over the head a light chintz handkerchief, or a gay "bandanna";--quite suggestive of the every day wear of foreign peasantry. We are told that a girl's wealth is sometimes estimated by the number of handkerchiefs she owns. Mrs. R. says she has, in winter, seen a girl divest herself of no less than ten head-kerchiefs; taking them off, one by one, and carefully folding them in the most natural manner, as if there could be nothing uncommon or amusing in the proceeding. The old women, in winter, wear enormous cloaks, made with a large square yoke, into which eight or ten breadths of material are closely plaited, --this unwieldy garment completely enveloping them from head to foot. These distinctive features in costume are disappearing, and ere long our American peasantry may become commonplace and uninteresting. Let us hope that they may never lose the sweet simplicity, frankness, honesty, thrift, and other pleasing characteristics which they now possess. In the houses is seen a peculiar rocking-settle, similar to those in use among the Pennsylvania Dutch. This odd piece of furniture has one end railed in front to serve for cradle; so papa, mamma, and baby can rock and "take comfort" together. Towards evening we visit the convent, where the sisters--who probably do not receive frequent calls from visitors--seem glad of the opportunity for a pleasant chat and a bit of news from the outside world. They show us through their exquisitely neat establishment, where, in the culinary department, a crone who is deaf and rather childish approaches us with such strong evidence of delight, that we expect at least to be embraced; but a sign from the Superior relieves us from the impending demonstration. At sunset, as we stroll along the road, three pretty little girls who are driving home a flock of geese tempt us to air our French a little, and a lively conversation ensues, causing their black eyes to sparkle and their white teeth to flash bewitchingly. One of the children explains why one of the awkward birds wears a clumsy triangular collar of wood, with a stake apparently driven through its throat, "to prevent it from going through the fences;" and when one of the strangers, imitating the waddling gait of the creatures, improvises,-- Bon soir, Madame Oie, Veux tu le blé? Il est à toi! such a shout of merry laughter is heard as one might willingly go a long way to listen to. When one gives her name, "Thérese _le Blanc_", our query, "Votre père, est il _la Notaire_?" strange to say, puzzles her; but she probably is not familiar with a certain famous poem, although our hostess and her daughters have perused it. As time passes, and she feels better acquainted and at ease with us, Madame M.'s younger daughter amuses us by showing some mischievous tendency; and we conclude she is something of "a tease". In the most artless manner, and without intentional familiarity, she slides her arm through Octavia's in a confidential manner and imparts some important information "dans l'oreille". What is it? Well, remember it is _whispered_; and now _don't_ go and tell! It is that there _is_ a swain who is Evangeline's special devoted; and the quick blush which rises most becomingly on that damsel's cheek speaks for itself. We have seen for ourselves how "Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, fixed his eyes upon her," and as our eyes turn to the lovely view of the Bay with its sheltering highlands we can readily imagine how, on just such evenings as this,-- "apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea," while "Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels." We do not ask if the lover's name is "Gabriel", but earnestly wish her a happier lot than that of the sad heroine of Grand Pré's story. The sun sinks behind the hills which bound lovely St. Mary's Bay, and we plainly see the two curious openings known as the Grand Passage and Petit Passage, through which the fishermen sail when conveying their cargoes to St. John. The Petit Passage is one mile wide; and passing through this deep strait the hardy fishermen can, in favorable weather, cross to St John in eight to ten hours. These highlands across the Bay, known as Digby Neck and Long Island, are a continuation of the range of mountains terminating in Blomidon on the Minas Basin, and so singularly cut away to make entrance to Annapolis Basin, at St. George's Channel, vulgarly known as Digby Gut. When De Monts and his party were ready to continue their cruise from this sheltered haven, behold! one of their company--a priest--was missing; and though they waited several days, making signals and firing guns, such sounds were drowned by the roar of the surf, and never reached the ears of the poor man lost in the woods. At last, supposing that the wanderer had fallen a prey to wild animals, the explorers sailed away, and, finding the entrance to Annapolis Basin, began to make preparation for colonizing at Port Royal. Sixteen days after the disappearance of the priest, some of De Monts' men returning to this Bay to examine the minerals more thoroughly, were attracted by a signal fluttering on the shore, and, hurrying to land, there found the poor priest, emaciated and exhausted. What strange sensations the distracted wanderer must have experienced in these forest wilds, with starvation staring him in the face! No charms did _he_ see in this scene which now delights us; and doubtless, with Selkirk, would have exclaimed, "Better dwell in the midst of alarms, than to live in this beautiful place." This strange wild coast and the Cod Banks of Newfoundland were known to and visited by foreign fishermen at a very early date. "The Basques, that primeval people, older than history," frequented these shores; and it is supposed that such fisheries existed even before the voyage of Cabot (1497). There is strong evidence of it in 1504; while in 1527 fourteen fishing vessels--Norman, Portuguese, and Breton--were seen at one time in the Bay of Fundy, near the present site of St. John. When we question our hostess as to the species of finny tribes found in these waters, she mentions menhaden, mackerel, alewives, herring, etc; and, proud of her English, concludes her enumeration with, "Dat is de most only feesh dey kotch here." Another drive of many miles along the shore brings us to the neighborhood of the very jumping off place of the Scotian peninsula, with novel sights to attract the attention _en route_. Now and then a barn with thatched roof; here a battered boat overturned to make Piggy and family a habitation; there heavy and lumbering _three_ wheeled carts, with the third rotator placed between the shafts, so the poor ox who draws the queer vehicle hasn't much room to spare. Huge loads of hay pass us, and other large farm wagons, drawn invariably by handsome oxen. The ox-yokes are a constant marvel to us; for, divested of the bows, they are fastened with leather straps to the bases of the poor creatures' horns. Evidently there is no "S. P. C. A." here; and we cannot convince those with whom we converse on the subject that the poor animals would pull better by their shoulders than by their heads. At several places we see the clumsiest windmills for sawing wood; not after the fashion of the picturesque buildings which Don Quixote so valiantly opposed, but a heavy frame work or scaffolding about twelve feet in height. To this is attached a wheel of heaviest plank with five fans, each one shaped like the arm of a Greek cross, and the whole so ponderous we are confident that nothing less than a hurricane could make it revolve. Here is a house entirely covered with diamond shaped shingles, having also double and triple windows, which are long, narrow, and pointed at the top, yet not suggestive of the gothic. Next we pass a point where an old post inn once stood, and where the curiously curved, twisted, and strangely complicated iron frame which once held the swinging sign still remains. Many a bleak ride did that mounted carrier have, no doubt, in days of yore; and we can imagine him saying:-- "The night is late, I dare not wait, the winds begin to blow, And ere I gain the rocky plain there'll be a storm, I know!" At our final halting place all is bustle, in preparation for a two days' fête, which commences next day; nevertheless, had we been princes of the realm, we could not have been shown truer hospitality. Père Basil Armand himself waits upon us, while his wife is cooking dainties for the coming festival; and the pretty Monica, giving up her neat apartment to one of our party, lodges at a neighbor's. Monsieur R., though seventy-eight years of age, retains all his faculties perfectly, is straight as an Indian, his luxuriant hair unstreaked with gray, and he is over six feet in height. He reminds us of the description of Benedict Bellefontaine:-- "Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters, Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow flakes," but our host is even a finer specimen of vigorous age. Then his books-- for he is collector of customs, a post which he has held for twenty-five years--would amaze many a younger clerk or scribe; and he is amused, but apparently gratified, when we ask for his autograph, which he obligingly writes for each in a firm, clear, and fine hand. He says of the people of this settlement, that they generally speak patois, though many, like himself, can speak pure French; that they are faithful and true hearted, industrious and thrifty. He adds: "We are not rich, we are not poor, but we are happy and contented." During the fearful scenes of 1793 an amiable priest of great culture, a man noble in character, as by birth, fled from the horrors of the French Revolution, and found among this simple, childlike people a peaceful haven and happy home. This earnest man, Abbé Ségoigne, devoted himself in everyway to their good, governing them wisely and well, and might truly have said, in the words of Father Felician,-- "I labored among you and taught you, not in word alone but in deed." Many years he resided here. His memory is now venerated almost as that of a saint, and we are of course greatly interested when Monsieur R. brings out, with just pride, his greatest treasure,--a cumbersome and quaint old volume which was once the property of the good priest. There is a strong feeling of brotherhood, like the Scottish clanship, among the people; and the lands of parents are divided and subdivided, so the children at marriage may each receive a portion as dower, and "settle down" near their childhood's home; consequently the farms are "long drawn out", extending sometimes in very narrow strips for a mile or more inland. Abbé Raynal writes most poetically, although not absolutely in rhyme, of this gentle brotherhood, "where every misfortune was relieved before it could be felt, without ostentation on the one hand and without meanness on the other. Whatever slight differences arose from time to time among them were amicably adjusted by their elders." Our driver says "étwelles" for _étoiles_, "fret" for _froid_, "si" for _oui_, etc.; the dancing crests of the waves he calls "chapeaux blancs", which is similar to our appellation, and also speaks of "un bon _coop_ de thé", showing that an English word is occasionally adopted, though hardly recognizable in their peculiar phraseology. One pleasant acquaintance, Dr. R, who lived here several years after he "came out" from England, tells us that the mackerouse, a wild duck, is found here; and, as it subsists upon fish, the people are allowed to eat that bird on Fridays. He also says that the pigs wade out into the mud at low tide to root for clams; while the crows, following in their tracks, steal the coveted shell fish from under the very noses of the swine. Of the remarkably long nasal appendages of this peculiar porcine species he adds, "They do say that they'll root under a fence and steal potatoes from the third row!" In this locality we hear Yarmouth spoken of as if it were a port equal to New York in importance, and so it doubtless seems to these simple un-traveled people. In reality it is a prosperous maritime town owning one hundred and thirty thousand tons of shipping, and is a mildly picturesque place when the tide is high. The Indian name appropriately signifies "end of the land," and one might naturally suppose, when arriving there, that he had reached "that famous fabled country, 'away down east';" though, should he continue his travels to Labrador, that mythical region would still lure him on. The inhabitants are mainly seafaring men,--many of the captains of Cape Ann fishing fleets came from here originally,--and they call the Atlantic from Cape Ann to Yarmouth all Bay of Fundy, though that is "rather stretching it." It was near here that De Monts made his first landing and caught a nightingale (May 16, 1604). Not far beyond, about the shores of Argyle Bay, a great many "French Neutrals" found refuge in 1755 (though an English ship tried to rout them); and they were hunted like wild animals about here for two or three years after. We conclude that the hamlets on the upper part of St. Mary's Bay are most interesting, and that it is hardly worth while to continue down the coast unless one desires to take steamer from this port to Boston. In our strolls about the village, we come to a point on the shore where a boy has a quantity of fine large lobsters which he has just taken from the trap; and when one of our party asks for what price he will sell some, the answer--"One cent each"--is so astounding that the query is repeated, so we may be convinced that we have heard aright. Pere Basil is evidently surprised at our taste when he sees us returning with our purchases, as he remarks, "We don't think much of those at this time of year;" from which we infer that at some seasons they have to depend so much upon fish, lobsters, etc., that they become weary of them. There is such Gallic atmosphere about this place (and trip) that Octavia is infected, and perpetrates doggerel on a postal, which is to be mailed from the "land's end" to acquaint foreign relatives with our advent in a foreign country also!-- Tout est "0. K." Je suis arivée Dans ce joli pays, Avec bonne santé, Mais bien fatiguée. Adieu. E. B. C. (O quelle atrocité! Mais je n'ai ni grammaire Ni dictionnaire français.) "Pleasantly rose next morn the sun," and though we are up and out betimes,-- "Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gate of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighboring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, Group after group appeared, and joined or passed on the highway. Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house doors Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted, For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and what one had was another's." Père Basil is surprised to find that we have not come especially to attend the festival, of which we had not heard until our arrival, though he evidently thinks the fame of their elaborate preparations has traveled far and wide. While we are waiting for the vehicles which are to convey us to the railroad station (a long drive inland) many most picturesque groups pass the door; some walking, some riding on ox-carts, and all carrying flowers, pyramidal and gorgeously ornamented cakes, or curious implements for games, totally unknown to us moderns! Our host has a pleasant greeting for all, and receives cordial reply, and sometimes merry jest and repartee from the happy revelers. Much to our delight, our route to the station passes the grounds where the fête is held; and here we see booths of boughs, a revolving swing (which they call a "galance"), fluttering flags, and gay banners. Merry groups of young people are engaged in games or dances, while the elders are gossiping, or look on approvingly, and the air is filled with lively music. Can it be that the melodies which we hear are the famous old ones, "Toes les Bourgeois de Charters" and "Le Carillon de Dunker"? It would hardly surprise us, as this quaint place seems a century or so behind the times. We wish we could stop for an hour or two to watch them; but trains wait for no man, and we must return to Digby and there take steamer for St. John. That short passage of twelve leagues has been our bugbear for some days, as travelers whom we met at Annapolis pictured its horrors so vividly, representing its atrocities as exceeding those of the notorious English Channel. Yet we glide as smoothly through the eddies and whirlpools of the beautiful Gap as a Sound steamer passes through Hell Gate. This remarkable passage way is two miles in length; the mountains rise on either hand to the height of five hundred and sixty and six hundred and ten feet, the tide between rushing at the rate of five knots an hour. We note gray, water worn rocks at the sides, resembling pumice in appearance, though of course very much harder stone, and evidently of similar formation to that of the ovens at Mt. Desert. And now we sweep quietly out into the dreaded Bay of Fundy, the water of which rests in such oily quietude as even Long Island Sound rarely shows. On this hazy, lazy, sunny afternoon not a swell is perceptible (unless some among the passengers might be designated by that title); and after four and a half hours of most dreamy navigation, we enter the harbor of St. John, where the many tinted signal lights are reflected in the black water, and a forest fire on a distant hill throws a lurid light over the scene. When the tide turns, there can be seen frequently far out in the Bay a distinct line in the water,--a line as sharply defined as that between the Arve and Rhone at their junction near Geneva. It is when wind and tide are at variance that the roughest water is encountered; and they say that if one would avoid an unpleasant game of pitch and toss, the passage across should not be attempted during or immediately after a blow from the northwest or southeast. So make a note of that! Old salts at Annapolis told us that the water of the Bay "gets up" suddenly, but also quiets down soon, and that after a windless night one might be reasonably certain of a comfortable trip across. Having supposed that St. John had lost half its charm and quaintness since the fire, we are surprised to find so much of interest when we are out at the "top of the morning" next day, and are reluctant to leave; but here the Octave disintegrates, scatters to finish the season elsewhere; and each member, on arrival at home, probably invests in reams of paper and quarts of ink, setting to work to tell his friends all about it, and where "they must surely go next summer!" "L'ISLE DES MONTS DESERTS." (A LETTER BY THE WAY.) "Beautiful Isle of the Sea!" When we said, "Let us go to Mt. Desert," Joe gave us Punch's advice on marriage: "Don't!" Sue said. "It has lost half its charms by becoming so fashionable;" and Hal added, as an unanswerable argument, "You'll not be able to get enough to eat." As to his veracity on this subject we cannot vouch, though we can testify to his voracity, and mischievously throw a quotation at him:-- "The turnpike to men's hearts, I find, Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind." Despite such discouragements, being naturally obstinate, go we do; and here we are in the most refreshingly primitive and unfashionable abiding place, the domicile commanding a view which cannot be equaled by any public house on the island. From the piazzas and our windows the eye never tires of gazing on the beautiful bay with its numerous islands,--a charming picture, with the blue and symmetrical range of Gouldsboro' hills for background. From a point not far back of the house, the eye ranges from the head of Frenchman's Bay out to the broad ocean; while a retrospective view takes in the wild mountainous region of the interior of this lovely isle. We arrive at a fortunate time. For a long while previous Nature had persistently enveloped her face in a veil, giving an air of mystery which the summer guests did not appreciate. The skipper of the yacht which conveys us when we circumnavigate the island tells us "there is a fog factory near by," a statement which, for a few days, we are inclined to credit. The nabobs of Newport, the Sybarites of Nahant, and even the commonplace rusticators at other shore resorts have been served in the same manner, however; so we sympathize with them fully, and with them exult at the final dissolution of the vapors, as the gray curtain gradually lifts and rolls away, its edge all jagged as if torn by the lance-like tips of fir and spruce trees as it swept over them. These noble hills are densely wooded, but not with the forest giants one sees among the White Mountains; and when I express my surprise thereat, I am told that fifty or sixty years ago the greater part of the island was denuded by fire, so that remains of the primeval forest can only be found in distant spots not easily accessible. Notices are now posted in the woods at various points, by which "visitors are earnestly requested to extinguish all fires which they may light, and not to strip the bark from the birches." In our inland excursions the rugged mountains, with their storm scarred, rocky summits, wild ravines, and forest embedded bases, so constantly suggest the grand scenery of New Hampshire that we can hardly realize that we are anywhere near the sea. Then, on a sudden turn of the road, a broad stretch of ocean--blue, sparkling, and sail dotted, framed in graceful birches, feathery larches, and dark pines--comes upon us as a surprise. The peculiar vehicle which is here known as a "buckboard" we find a comfortable conveyance, with a motion which seems a combination of see-saw and baby-jumper. The "body" is composed of four long boards laid side by side, supported only at the extreme ends where they are hung over the axles. The seats are in the middle. They are neither elegant nor graceful, but easy, "springy" vehicles, which, having neither sides nor top covers, give unimpeded views, and are excellent for sight seeing, though not precisely the thing for rainy weather. Canoeing is a favorite amusement; and in the management of these light and graceful boats many of the summer guests become quite expert. The motion suggests that of a gondola, A catamaran scoots about the harbor among the islands; tiny steamers, sailing craft of all kinds, are seen; and sometimes United States training ships sail majestically into the bay and drop anchor, giving a finishing touch to the picture. Skippers are very cautious, and frequently will not allow their canoes or other boats to go out, although it may appear perfectly safe to the uninitiated. Visitors rarely have any idea what sudden "flaws" and gusts of air are caused by the position of and openings between the mountains; and when these, as well as the tidal swell and currents of the ocean about the shore, have to be studied, navigation becomes scientific. The arrival of the steamer is the great event of the day; and on Sunday, after morning service, the butterflies of fashion flit to the pier to see the landing of passengers. It is rather embarrassing for weary travelers to be obliged to "run the gauntlet" as they pass through the gay throng, for every one stares with all his might. This does not seem to be considered rude here, and every one is met by a "battery of eyes;" I presume because each person expects, if he remain here through the season, to meet every one whom he ever knew. The yachting and tennis costumes which are worn here would certainly cause many of the sober residents of the Quaker City to open their eyes wide with horror,--if they were able to open them, and were not blinded by the first glance. One divinity, in scarlet and white striped awning cloth, awe christen the "mint stick". And _such_ hats!--each so placed upon the head that, however huge, it is utterly useless as a shade; but as effect is what all are striving for, any other consideration is of no importance whatever. Such attire would be hooted at in some places; and we wonder that it does not strike old settlers breathless with amazement at the extravagances and follies of "these city folks". Jim quotes, "Any color so it's red," when surveying a brilliantly attired company at this place, as that aggressive hue prevails. These fantastic costumes are frequently seen in the mornings on the shore, where the wearers are engaged in an amusement here known as "rocking". This consists in lounging on the rocks with interesting youths, who, arrayed in picturesque yachting or tennis suits, pose artistically, and, beneath the shade of scarlet or Japanese umbrellas, talk of the weather, of course. Elsewhere this would be known as flirting. We do not approve of the names of some of the public houses, and wonder that they could not have chosen more suggestive titles. The "Hotel des Isles" has a more suitable and appropriate cognomen,--if they would spell it correctly, which they invariably do not. This name is borne by descendants of the old French settlers, but is now, sad to tell, pronounced by their contemporaries "De Sizzle". We call our house Pleasant Haven, or Restful Retreat, though it appears under a different title in the guide book. It would never do to tell what its name "really and truly" is, lest you should think I have been engaged to "puff" it. We have delicious bread and excellent fare; and, though this is plain, of course, all is temptingly served, and everything neat and nice enough for any one. Our rooms are extremely plain, but neat. Closets are unknown; but on hooks along the wall on one side of the apartment we hang our garments, protecting them with chintz curtains which we brought for the purpose. A resident of Fifth Avenue occupies the garret rooms above, having selected them from choice; and, expatiating on their advantages in quiet, air, and views, becomes an Attic Philosopher. Occasionally we get out our fineries, and go to some "hop" or entertainment in the village, but return better satisfied with our present home; and, snapping our fingers at Mrs. Grundy, do not envy any of her votaries. If our advice were asked, we should say: "Come to one of the smaller hostelries, like this, where you can be independent and comfortable; and bring half worn winter garments, with boots ditto, to be prepared for tramping and excursions." The excursions which can be taken I will not enumerate; will merely state that the ascent of Green Mountain, in clear weather, and the drive to Great Head are most satisfactory. On our way to the latter point we stop at Anemone Cave, where we enjoy an impromptu concert by members of Philadelphia glee clubs, the fine voices and beautiful harmonies being enhanced by the dark arch of rock and the ceaseless music of the surf, which forms a grand accompaniment. The view from Green Mountain is quite unique, the eye traversing ocean and land for forty miles in any direction; following the singularly serrated coast of Maine, the course of Somes Sound,--that remarkable inlet from the sea which almost divides the island,--and tracing the waving line of far distant mountain ranges. The mainland is curiously cut into long rocky points and ragged peninsulas, from which the islands seem to have broken off and drifted out to sea. From this height (fifteen hundred and thirty-five feet) the ocean seems placid and smooth,--much less awe-inspiring than from the shore, where the surges roll in with such tremendous power, as if endeavoring to crush the towering cliffs which oppose them. The clustering buildings of Bar Harbor appear like a child's playthings, or Nuremberg toys; the miniature vessels like sea gulls just alighted; the white tents of the Indian encampment ludicrously suggest a laundry with big "wash" hung out to dry; and the whole scene looks as if viewed through the large end of an opera glass. It is a peaceful and beautiful picture for memory to treasure and look back upon with delight. At Fernald's Point, at the base of Flying Mountain, two miles north of Southwest Harbor, is the supposed location of the French settlement, which was founded by a party of priests and colonists sent out from France to Port Royal (now Annapolis, Nova Scotia), who, losing their way in fog, landed here. The peaceful little community, after only a few weeks' occupancy, were routed by that grasping individual, Argall, the deputy governor of Virginia, who was detested by his own colonists for his tyranny and rapacity. That person, not content with the domains which his position entitled him to govern, cruised along the Atlantic coast, making many such incursions among the colonists. In this case, after destroying the buildings, he cruelly set adrift in an open boat fifteen of the poor, harmless people, who, after suffering great hardships, were picked up by a trading vessel and conveyed to St. Malo. We wonder that investigations have not been made ere this at this spot, as it seems probable that old implements and objects of interest might be brought to light. How we wish we were members of the Maine Historical Society, and by that body empowered to superintend excavations at the site of a colony which was in existence (1613) seven years before the landing of the Pilgrims! Samuel de Champlain, friend, associate, and pilot of De Monts in the latter's investigations of his possessions in Acadia (in 1604), was sponsor of this island which has since become so famous, of which he speaks as "La grande Isle des Monts Deserts;" and by the early Lord of the Realm the whole of Frenchman's Bay was also called La Havre du Saint Sauveur. That wicked Jim says that the _Indian_ name of the island must suggest itself to some travelers on their way here, unless they come by the land route. There are thirty-five guests in our house, who form a pleasant company; and though of course there is great diversity of taste and character shown among them, they form a harmonious assembly. In the evenings we have "sings", readings, games, and charades, frequently growing hilarious. Sedate professors, dignified divines, and learned writers enter into these sports with the zest of schoolboys on a holiday. Some of these games may be new; and that others may derive amusement for similar occasions, I will describe two of them. In one, called Comparison, the company seat themselves in a circle. Each one whispers to his right hand neighbor the name of a person (known to the company); to the one at his left, the name of an object. Then each in turn gives aloud the name which his neighbor whispered to him, and tells why he or she resembles the object, making the comparison complimentary or otherwise. The uncomplimentary comparisons are generally the most laughable, and of course all understand that 't is "all for fun", so no one takes any offence. For instance: "Mr. J. resembles the _harbor bar_, or did this morning, because there was a heavy swell rolling over him;" the company understanding this as an allusion to a frolicsome tussle which Mr. J. had with the beau of the house. A rhyming game also affords much amusement. One person gives his neighbor a list of words,--the words ending the lines of a sonnet or part of a poem,--and the person receiving the list must fill in the lines, bringing in the words given, in proper order, at the ends of the lines. In the following instance the words italicized are the ones which the player received from his neighbor; in this case the terminal words of Longfellow's beautiful description of a calm night by the sea will be recognized, although the word "ocean" was inadvertently substituted for "organ":-- "All the long white beach is _silent_ As a beach should ever _be_, While the sea gulls stand and _listen_ To the moaning of the _sea_, All the solemn oysters _gather_, Gazing upward to the _sky_, While a lobster breaks the _silence_, Crooning low his _litany_ Little shrimps in their dark _caverns_, Eating supper all _alone_, Looking out upon the ocean, Whispering in an _undertone_ 'Tis sad and lonely by these _beaches_, Shall we ne'er go _beyond_?' All the barnacles, _uprising_, 'Never,' tearfully _respond_." As we are by the sea, nautical rhymes seem to turn out naturally. The writer of this remarkable effusion is evidently not an evolutionist, though he may think there are some "queer fish" among the heterogeneous inhabitants of this island. At last the day comes when we must turn away from these lovely scenes; and it is with regret, and many a backward look, that we are conveyed to the Rockland boat. That vessel pursues a circuitous route along the coast, among the picturesque islands; the trip suggesting quite forcibly the St. Lawrence with its Thousand Isles, as old Neptune is fortunately in amiable mood, and shows a smiling countenance. So we have no grudge to lay up against him, and only pictures tinged with _couleur-de-rose_ to carry away with us. SEA-SIDE AMUSEMENT IN THE "CITY OF SOLES". As it is our custom to come to these New England shores every summer, in order, as Jim says, to get salted so that we may keep well through the winter (by which you need not infer that we "get into a pickle"), we commence the process at this place, before proceeding to more Northerly points. As the "dry spell" has made the roads so dusty that there is little pleasure in driving, and our horses are at present in the stables of our _Chateaux-en-Espagne_, and consequently not available this warm evening, we gather on the porch to be entertained by the learned converse of the professors, until an approaching storm drives us in-doors. Within the "shooting box", as the young man who has traveled christens the house,-- thinking that an appropriate title for a domicile where so many members of the Hunt family are collected,--there is a motley assembly, as they gather around the sitting room table. There are Portuguese, Michiganders, Pennites, Illinoisyones, Bangorillas, and other specimens of natural history such as would have puzzled Agassiz himself; and the question arises, "What shall we do to amuse ourselves this rainy evening?" But "Pat", the engineer, oiler of the domestic machinery of the establishment, and keeper of this menagerie, seems overcome with fatigue; the Astronomer is eclipsed in a corner; the professors are absorbed in sines and co-sines; the Fisherman nods over his paper; Grandma knits her brows and the stocking; Elsie is deep in a book; and no one displays any special interest in the matter until pencils and paper are distributed for the game of Crambo. The _modus operandi_ of that most wise and learned game is as follows: Four slips of paper are given each person, on one of which he is requested to write a question, and on each of the other scraps a word. These are then shuffled, and all in turn draw. And now there is great commotion, for each participant is expected to answer his question in rhyme, and to bring the three words which he has drawn, into his answer, also. Such a chorus of "Oh dears", and such dismayed faces! The student proposes to procure the coffee mill to assist him in grinding out his "pome"; the tennis player wishes she had a hatchet to chop up a long word which has fallen to her lot, so that she can put it in proper metre; but Mr. Short (6 ft. 2 in.), with watch in hand, calls "Time", and then "Silence", as pencils race over papers as if on a wager. Ten minutes is the brief space allotted for the production of the wondrous effusions; and when Mr. S. announces, "Time's up", the hat is again full; and one says, with a sigh of relief, "There, I never made two lines rhyme in my life before;" another modestly remarks, "You needn't think we are verdant because we are in Green--" but the warning finger of the Philosopher is raised, and Pat, the reader, begins, emphasizing the words drawn as he reads:-- "Why so much quarrelling about Religion! It's as plain as string _beans_ That from this very means The world is not right, If I had but clear sight I might _hope_ ere this night Is _beginning_ to wane The thing to explain. But, lacking the wit, I must e'en submit This doggerel rhyme And hope 't is in time." "Oh! oh!" exclaimed the "small specimen" (aged ten), "that's Grandma's; I heard her say she 'knows beans', 'cause she is a Yankee;" but the S. S. subsides on hearing the next paper read, and shows so plainly that she "wishes herself further" that it is not difficult to guess the author:-- "What's quicker than lightning? A _Turkey_ or a squirrel Can 'cut' like a _knife_ But I never saw a creature rash Like a _deer_ in all my life." "Good for Ten-year-old!" exclaim the chorus; and the S. S., brightening up, concludes she'll try it again sometime. Next comes the question:-- "Where do cabbages come from? My will is good, and I _propose_ To tell you all I can In this dry time a garden hose Must come into the plan First plant the seed, and in due course Will little shoots appear, When each from other has _divorce_ They'll flourish, it is clear. If this rhyme is worth preserving, With _mucilage_ it may be fixed On any wall deserving Such wit and wisdom mixed." As it is well known that the natives of the Emerald Isle have a predilection for cabbages, it is unanimously decided that none but Pat could have perpetrated this; so Pat grins, suggests that a bill poster be secured at once, and proceeds:-- "How would you like to be a cat? In _Timbuctoo_ each stern ascetic, Though blind to folly as a bat, Revels in love _peripatetic_ Which makes him nimble as a cat But though I'm fond of such agility, I better like the busy bees, For they display so much ability They 'mind one of the _Portuguese_." At this implied compliment to his people, the black eyes of the foreign student flash approval; and the Mathematician speaks up, saying, "That is the Philosopher, sure, and proves the truth of the saying, 'A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.'" The Philosopher smiles benignantly, but does not deny the charge; and the reader continues:-- "What do you think of the Ormthorhynchus? My brain's in a 'muss' From thinking of this '_cuss_' (Excuse me for using such a word). If it lived at _Nahant_ With this heat it would pant, For surely't is a curious bird. You may think me a 'muff', And declare I talk stuff, But I hope you'll not doubt my word. For though out in all weathers Its coat's not of feathers But of fur,--at least so I've heard. But 'by this _illumination_' (Kant's ratiocination?) 'I don't see it,' though it may seem quite absurd." The company, strange to say, hit upon Elsie for this, and are evidently surprised that one so given up to pomps and vanities should display such knowledge of natural history; but they evidently suspect her of shining by reflected light, as she sits next to the Philosopher; and I heard her ask him a question about this animal with the jaw-breaking name. By this time the party have become so brilliant, having polished each other up as by diamond cutters' wheels, that it is "moved and seconded" that we "try again". The laughter has brought down the Chemist from the laboratory, the Fisherman from his den; besides rousing the Astronomer, who scintillates in the corner to such a degree that all others expect to be totally eclipsed. This time the Fisherman, who is also an amateur gardener and farmer on a small scale, draws an appropriate question, in regard to which he enlightens us as follows; and what he says must be true, as we know he has had experience with pigs and hens:-- "Which knows most, a pig or a hen? 'Tis hard to tell in rustic _rhyme_ What pigs or hens may know. A cabbage-head in olden time Sure knew enough to grow. If _Balm_ and corn to them were thrown By _parsimonious_ Bill I think the fact would then be shown, For Piggy'd eat his fill." Next comes the Chemist with the question:-- "Do you like peanuts? Peanuts are _double_, And so is the trouble Involved in _effort_ To answer it. Hand over a few, And see if I do Not like peanuts Better than _Sanskrit_" Any one who had heard the Chemist warbling,-- "He who hath good peanuts and gives his neighbor none, He sha'n't have any of my peanuts when his peanuts are gone," would not have doubted this. The Philosopher next airs his learning in the following:-- "What do you admire in a fool? Water has such _combustibility_ That one may rightfully admire The happy lack of wise ability Which never rivers sets on fire. _Truth_ needs no _recapitulation_ To make what's simple plainer still. Folly courts our admiration Wherever Fashion has her will." Part of this is so abstruse that I fear the company do not fully appreciate it; so the next is quite startling; and after hearing it we learn, the cause of the Astronomer's silent merriment in the corner, and rejoice that Dr. Holmes's experience in "writing as funny as he could" has proved a warning to this individual:-- "What is stronger than an onion? Oh, _scissors_! on a summer night To tax a fat _republican_ In thinking out with all his might Some mightier thing than on-i-on. Garlic, maybe's not strong enough Well, I'll exert my '_spunk_' So here you have it, 'in the rough,'-- A pole-cat, alias s----k." The Oleaginous Personage comes next with the question, "Do you like Crambo?" which was answered, rather ambiguously, thus:-- "If our last lingo was a _specimen_ Of this most wise and learned game, 'Tis sure that thus not many men Would long be known to fame. Any of you as well as I Would knock our type all into _Pi_, If _ghost_, or man, or printer's devil Should show us up for good or evil." Here the sedate and dignified Elsie gives her opinion of a summer recreation after this fashion:-- "Are you fond of fishing? A foolish amusement, it seems to me, To be rocking about on the briny sea Watching for bites 'neath a broiling sun, (Mosquitoes will give you 'em when day is done) For my part I'd rather be left in _peace_ To read of travels in sunny Greece Varied by poem on 'Pleasures of _Hope_',-- Whate'er my employment I shall not mope-- But it proves great sport for cousin _Bill_. (He's a youth just starting up Life's hill) But should he as old as I become He would conclude that 't is all a 'hum'." Where a person generally considered "proper" became familiar with slang I cannot imagine, but I make no remarks. Owing to the absence of two members of the household, who, having been caught out in the shower, are probably calculating the specific gravity of rain drops and their effect on new straw hats, we have doubtless been deprived of more poems of surprising depth and brilliancy. And, from regard for the excessive modesty of other participants in the game, I suppress many compositions of rare merit which were brought out this stormy evening. This letter is merely to acquaint you with an important fact, which is as follows. As Dr. Holmes has informed you with regard to the "Asylum for Decayed Punsters," be it known hereby that we have here started a rival institution,--a school for poets; so when you wish to secure the services of any of the graduates, you may know where to apply. And, the reason why the game of Crambo is like night is, because it is quiet in the middle and noisy at both ends. 
33846	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Internet Archive. The Tent Dwellers [Illustration: "He was swearing steadily and I think still blaming me for most of his troubles."--_Page_ 83.] THE TENT DWELLERS BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE _Author of "The Van Dwellers," "The Lucky Piece," etc_. _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HY. WATSON_ [Illustration] NEW YORK THE OUTING PUBLISHING CO. MCMVIII COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY Chapter One _Come, shape your plans where the fire is bright,_ _And the shimmering glasses are--_ _When the woods are white in the winter's night,_ _Under the northern star._ Chapter One It was during the holiday week that Eddie proposed the matter. That is Eddie's way. No date, for him, is too far ahead to begin to plan anything that has vari-colored flies in it, and tents, and the prospect of the campfire smell. The very mention of these things will make his hair bristle up (rather straight, still hair it is and silvered over with premature wisdom) and put a new glare into his spectacles (rather wide, round spectacles they are) until he looks even more like an anarchist than usual--more indeed than in the old Heidelberg days, when, as a matter of truth, he is a gentle soul; sometimes, when he has transgressed, or thinks he has, almost humble. As I was saying, it was during the holidays--about the end of the week, as I remember it--and I was writing some letters at the club in the little raised corner that looks out on the park, when I happened to glance down toward the fireplace, and saw Eddie sitting as nearly on his coat collar as possible, in one of the wide chairs, and as nearly in the open hickory fire as he could get, pawing over a book of Silver Doctors, Brown Hackles and the like, and dreaming a long, long dream. Now, I confess there is something about a book of trout flies, even at the year's end, when all the brooks are flint and gorged with white, when all the north country hides under seamless raiment that stretches even to the Pole itself--even at such a time, I say, there is something about those bits of gimp, and gut, and feathers, and steel, that prick up the red blood of any man--or of any woman, for that matter--who has ever flung one of those gaudy things into a swirl of dark water, and felt the swift, savage tug on the line and heard the music of the singing reel. I forgot that I was writing letters and went over there. "Tell me about it, Eddie," I said. "Where are you going, this time?" Then he unfolded to me a marvelous plan. It was a place in Nova Scotia--he had been there once before, only, this time he was going a different route, farther into the wilderness, the deep unknown, somewhere even the guides had never been. Perhaps stray logmen had been there, or the Indians; sportsmen never. There had been no complete surveys, even by the government. Certain rivers were known by their outlets, certain lakes by name. It was likely that they formed the usual network and that the circuit could be made by water, with occasional carries. Unquestionably the waters swarmed with trout. A certain imaginative Indian, supposed to have penetrated the unknown, had declared that at one place were trout the size of one's leg. Eddie became excited as he talked and his hair bristled. He set down a list of the waters so far as known, the names of certain guides, a number of articles of provision and an array of camp paraphernalia. Finally he made maps and other drawings and began to add figures. It was dusk when we got back. The lights were winking along the park over the way, and somewhere through the night, across a waste of cold, lay the land we had visited, still waiting to be explored. We wandered out into the dining room and settled the matter across a table. When we rose from it, I was pledged--pledged for June; and this was still December, the tail of the old year. Chapter Two _And let us buy for the days of spring,_ _While yet the north winds blow!_ _For half the joy of the trip, my boy,_ _Is getting your traps to go._ Chapter Two Immediately we, that is to say, Eddie, began to buy things. It is Eddie's way to read text-books and to consult catalogues with a view of making a variety of purchases. He has had a great deal of experience in the matter of camp life, but being a modest man he has a fund of respect for the experience of others. Any one who has had enough ability, or time, to write a book on the subject, and enough perseverance, or money, to get it published, can preach the gospel of the woods to Eddie in the matter of camp appointments; and even the manufacturers' catalogues are considered sound reading. As a result, he has accumulated an amazing collection of articles, adapted to every time and season, to every change of wind and temperature, to every spot where the tent gleams white in the campfire's blaze, from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand. Far be it from me to deride or deprecate this tendency, even though it were a ruling passion. There are days, and nights, too, recalled now with only a heart full of gratitude because of Eddie's almost inexhaustible storehouse of comforts for soul and flesh--the direct result of those text-books and those catalogues, and of the wild, sweet joy he always found in making lists and laying in supplies. Not having a turn that way, myself, he had but small respect for my ideas of woodcraft and laid down the law of the forest to me with a firm hand. When I hinted that I should need a new lancewood rod, he promptly annulled the thought. When I suggested that I might aspire as far as a rather good split bamboo, of a light but serviceable kind, he dispelled the ambition forthwith. "You want a noibwood," he said. "I have just ordered one, and I will take you to the same place to get it." [Illustration: "It was a field day for Eddie and he bought more."] I had never heard of this particular variety of timber, and it seemed that Eddie had never heard of it, either, except in a catalogue and from the lips of a dealer who had imported a considerable amount of the material. Yet I went along, meekly enough, and ordered under his direction. I also selected an assortment of flies--the prettiest he would let me buy. A few others which I had set my heart on I had the dealer slip in when Eddie wasn't looking. I was about to buy a curious thing which a trout could not come near without fatal results, when the wide glare of his spectacles rested on me and my courage failed. Then he selected for me a long landing net, for use in the canoe, and another with an elastic loop to go about the neck, for wading; leaders and leader-boxes and the other elementary necessaries of angling in the northern woods. Of course such things were as A, B, C to Eddie. He had them in infinite variety, but it was a field day and he bought more. We were out of the place at last, and I was heaving a sigh of relief that this part of it was over and I need give the matter no further thought, when Eddie remarked: "Well, we've made a pretty good start. We can come down here a lot of times between now and June." "But what for?" I asked. "Oh, for things. You haven't a sleeping bag yet, and we'll be thinking of other stuff right along. We can stay over a day in Boston, too, and get some things there. I always do that. You want a good many things. You can't get them in the woods, you know." Eddie was right about having plenty of time, for this was January. He was wrong, however, about being unable to get things in the woods. I did, often. I got Eddie's. Chapter Three _Now the gorges break and the streamlets wake_ _And the sap begins to flow,_ _And each green bud that stirs my blood_ _Is a summons, and I must go._ Chapter Three Eddie could not wait until June. When the earliest April buds became tiny, pale-green beads--that green which is like the green of no other substance or season--along certain gray branches in the park across the way, when there was a hint and flavor of stirring life in the morning sun, then there came a new bristle into Eddie's hair, a new gleam into his glasses, and I felt that the wood gods were calling, and that he must obey. "It is proper that one of us should go on ahead," he argued, "and be arranging for guides, canoes and the like at the other end." I urged that it was too soon--that the North was still white and hard with cold--that preliminaries could be arranged by letter. I finally suggested that there were still many things he would want to buy. He wavered then, but it was no use. Eddie can put on a dinner dress with the best and he has dined with kings. But he is a cave-, a cliff- and a tree-dweller in his soul and the gods of his ancestors were not to be gainsaid. He must be on the ground, he declared, and as for the additional articles we might need, he would send me lists. Of course, I knew he would do that, just as I knew that the one and mighty reason for his going was to be where he could smell the first breath of the budding North and catch the first flash and gleam of the waking trout in the nearby waters. He was off, then, and the lists came as promised. I employed a sort of general purchasing agent at length to attend to them, though this I dared not confess, for to Eddie it would have been a sacrilege not easy to forgive. That I could delegate to another any of the precious pleasure of preparation, and reduce the sacred functions of securing certain brands of eating chocolate, camp candles, and boot grease (three kinds) to a commercial basis, would, I felt, be a thing almost impossible to explain. The final list, he notified me, would be mailed to a hotel in Boston, for the reason, he said, that it contained things nowhere else procurable; though I am convinced that a greater reason was a conviction on his part that no trip could be complete without buying a few articles in Boston at the last hour before sailing, and his desire for me to experience this concluding touch of the joy of preparation. Yet I was glad, on the whole, for I was able to buy secretly some things he never would have permitted--among them a phantom minnow which looked like a tin whistle, a little four-ounce bamboo rod, and a gorgeous Jock Scott fly with two hooks. The tin whistle and the Jock Scott looked deadly, and the rod seemed adapted to a certain repose of muscle after a period of activity with the noibwood. I decided to conceal these purchases about my person and use them when Eddie wasn't looking. But then it was sailing time, and as the short-nosed energetic steamer dropped away from the dock, a storm (there had been none for weeks before) set in, and we pitched and rolled, and through a dim disordered night I clung to my berth and groaned, and stared at my things in the corner and hated them according to my condition. Then morning brought quiet waters and the custom house at Yarmouth, where the tourist who is bringing in money, and maybe a few other things, is made duly welcome and not bothered with a lot of irrelevant questions. What Nova Scotia most needs is money, and the fisherman and the hunter, once through the custom house, become a greater source of revenue than any tax that could be laid on their modest, not to say paltry, baggage, even though the contents of one's trunk be the result of a list such as only Eddie can prepare. There is a wholesome restaurant at Yarmouth, too, just by the dock, where after a tossing night at sea one welcomes a breakfast of good salt ham, with eggs, and pie--two kinds of the latter, pumpkin and mince. I had always wondered where the pie-belt went, after it reached Boston. Now I know that it extends across to Yarmouth and so continues up through Nova Scotia to Halifax. Certain New Englanders more than a hundred years ago, "went down to Nova Scotia," for the reason that they fostered a deeper affection for George, the King, than for George of the Cherry Tree and Hatchet. The cherry limb became too vigorous in their old homes and the hatchet too sharp, so they crossed over and took the end of the pie-belt along. They maintained their general habits and speech, too, which in Nova Scotia to-day are almost identical with those of New England. But I digress--a grave and besetting sin. I had hoped Eddie would welcome me at the railway station after the long forenoon's ride--rather lonely, in spite of the new land and the fact that I made the acquaintance of a fisherman who taught me how to put wrappings on a rod. Eddie did not meet me. He sent the wagon, instead, and I enjoyed a fifteen-mile ride across June hills where apple blossoms were white, with glimpses of lake and stream here and there; through woods that were a promise of the wilderness to come; by fields so thickly studded with bowlders that one to plant them must use drill and dynamite, getting my first impression of the interior of Nova Scotia alone. Then at last came a church, a scattering string of houses, a vista of lakes, a neat white hotel and the edge of the wilderness had been reached. On the hotel steps a curious, hairy, wild-looking figure was capering about doing a sort of savage dance--perhaps as a preparation for war. At first I made it out to be a counterpart of pictures I had seen of Robinson Crusoe on his desert island. Then I discovered that it wore wide spectacles and these in the fading sunlight sent forth a familiar glare. So it was Eddie, after all, and no edged tool had touched hair or beard since April. I understood, now, why he had not met me at the station. Chapter Four _Now, the day is at hand, prepare, prepare--_ _Make ready the boots and creel,_ _And the rod so new and the fly-book, too,_ _The line and the singing reel._ Chapter Four [Illustration: "Eddie's room and contents ... was a marvel and a revelation."] Eddie's room and contents, with Eddie in the midst of them, was a marvel and a revelation. All the accouterments of former expeditions of whatever sort, all that he had bought for this one, all that I had shipped from week to week, were gathered there. There were wading boots and camp boots and moccasins and Dutch bed-slippers and shoepacks--the last-named a sort of Micmac Indian cross between a shoe and a moccasin, much affected by guides, who keep them saturated with oil and wear them in the water and out--there were nets of various sizes and sorts, from large minnow nets through a line of landing nets to some silk head nets, invented and made by Eddie himself, one for each of us, to pull on day or night when the insect pests were bad. There was a quantity of self-prepared ointment, too, for the same purpose, while of sovereign remedies, balms and anodynes for ills and misfortunes, Eddie's collection was as the sands of the sea. Soothing lotions there were for wounds new and old; easing draughts for pains internal and external; magic salves such as were used by the knights of old romance, Amadis de Gaul and others, for the instant cure of ghastly lacerations made by man or beast, and a large fresh bottle of a collodion preparation with which the victim could be painted locally or in general, and stand forth at last, good as new--restored, body, bones and skin. In addition there was a certain bottle of the fluid extract of gelsemium, or something like that, which was recommended for anything that the rest of the assortment could do, combined. It was said to be good for everything from a sore throat to a snake bite--the list of its benefits being recorded in a text-book by which Eddie set great store. "Take it, by all means, Eddie," I said, "then you won't need any of the others." That settled it. The gelsemium was left behind. I was interested in Eddie's rods, leaning here and there on various parcels about the room. I found that the new noibwood, such as I had ordered, was only a unit in a very respectable aggregate--rather an unimportant unit it appeared by this time, for Eddie calmly assured me that the tip had remained set after landing a rather small trout in a nearby stream and that he did not consider the wood altogether suitable for trout rods. Whereupon I was moved to confess the little bamboo stick I had bought in Boston, and produced it for inspection. I could see that Eddie bristled a bit as I uncased it and I think viewed it and wiggled it with rather small respect. Still, he did not condemn it utterly and I had an impulse to confess the other things, the impossible little scale-wing flies, the tin whistle and the Jock Scott with two hooks. However, it did not seem just the psychological moment, and I refrained. As for Eddie's flies, viewed together, they were a dazzling lot. There were books and books of them--American, English, Scotch and what not. There was one book of English dry-flies, procured during a recent sojourn abroad, to be tried in American waters. One does not dance and jiggle a dry-fly to give it the appearance of life--of some unusual creature with rainbow wings and the ability to wriggle upstream, even against a swift current. The dry-fly is built to resemble life itself, color, shape and all, and is cast on a slow-moving stream where a trout is seen to rise, and allowed to drift with the gently flowing current exactly over the magic spot. All this Eddie explained to me and let me hold the book a little time, though I could see he did not intend to let me use one of the precious things, and would prefer that I did not touch them. He was packing now and I wandered idly about this uncatalogued museum of sporting goods. There was a heap of canvas and blankets in one corner--a sleeping bag, it proved, with an infinite number of compartments, or layers; there were hats of many shapes, vests of many fabrics, coats of many colors. There were things I had seen before only in sporting goods windows; there were things I had never seen before, anywhere; there were things of which I could not even guess the use. In the center of everything were bags--canvas and oil-skin receptacles, vigorously named "tackle bag," "wardrobe," "war bag" and the like--and into these the contents of the room were gradually but firmly disappearing, taking their pre-destined place according to Eddie's method--for, after all, it was a method--and as I looked at Eddie, unshaven for weeks, grizzled and glaring, yet glowing with deep kindliness and the joy of anticipation, I could think of nothing but Santa Claus, packing for his annual journey that magic bag which holds more and ever more, and is so deep and so wide in its beneficence that after all the comforts and the sweets of life are crowded within, there still is room for more a-top. Remembering my own one small bag which I had planned to take, with side pockets for tackle, and a place between for certain changes of raiment, I felt my unimportance more and more, and the great need of having an outfit like Eddie's--of having it in the party, I mean, handy like, where it would be easy to get hold of in time of need. I foresaw that clothes would want mending; also, perhaps, rods; and it was pleasant to note that my tent-mate would have boxes of tools for all such repairs. I foresaw, too, that I should burn, and bruise, and cut myself and that Eddie's liniments and lotions and New Skin would come in handy. It seemed to me that in those bags would be almost everything that human heart could need or human ills require, and when we went below where Del and Charlie, our appointed guides, were crowding certain other bags full of the bulkier stores--packages, cans and bottles, and when I gazed about on still other things--tents, boots, and baskets of camp furniture--I had a sense of being cared for, though I could not but wonder how two small canoes were going to float all that provender and plunder and four strong men. Chapter Five _Then away to the heart of the deep unknown,_ _Where the trout and the wild moose are--_ _Where the fire burns bright, and tent gleams white_ _Under the northern star._ Chapter Five It was possible to put our canoes into one of the lakes near the hotel and enter the wilderness by water--the Liverpool chain--but it was decided to load boats and baggage into wagons and drive through the woods--a distance of some seventeen uneven miles--striking at once for the true wilderness where the larger trout were said to dwell and the "over Sunday" fisherman does not penetrate. Then for a day or two we would follow waters and portages familiar to our guides, after which we would be on the borders of the unknown, prepared to conquer the wilderness with an assortment of fishing rods, a supply of mosquito ointment and a pair of twenty-two caliber rifles, these being our only guns. It seems hardly necessary to say that we expected to do little shooting. In the first place it was out of season for most things, though this did not matter so much, for Eddie had in some manner armed himself with a commission from the British Museum to procure specimens dead or alive, and this amounted to a permit to kill, and skin, and hence to eat, promiscuously and at will. But I believe as a party, we were averse to promiscuous killing; besides it is well to be rather nice in the matter of special permits. Also, we had come, in the main, for trout and exploration. It was agreed between us that, even if it were possible to hit anything with our guns, we would not kill without skinning, and we wouldn't skin without eating, after which resolution the forest things probably breathed easier, for it was a fairly safe handicap. I shall not soon forget that morning drive to Jake's Landing, at the head of Lake Kedgeemakoogee, where we put in our canoes. My trip on the train along the coast, and the drive through farming country, more or less fertile, had given me little conception of this sinister land--rock-strewn and barren, seared by a hundred forest fires. Whatever of green timber still stands is likely to be little more than brush. Above it rise the bare, gaunt skeletons of dead forests, bleached with age, yet blackened by the tongues of flame that burned out the life and wealth of a land which is now little more than waste and desolation--the haunt of the moose, the loon and the porcupine, the natural home of the wild trout. It is true, that long ago, heavy timber was cut from these woods, but the wealth thus obtained was as nothing to that which has gone up in conflagrations, started by the careless lumbermen and prospectors and hunters of a later day. Such timber as is left barely pays for the cutting, and old sluices are blocked and old dams falling to decay. No tiller of the soil can exist in these woods, for the ground is heaped and drifted and windrowed with slabs and bowlders, suggesting the wreck of some mighty war of the gods--some titanic missile-flinging combat, with this as the battle ground. Bleak, unsightly, unproductive, mangled and distorted out of all shape and form of loveliness, yet with a fierce, wild fascination in it that amounts almost to beauty--that is the Nova Scotia woods. Only the water is not like that. Once on the stream or lake and all is changed. For the shores are green; the river or brook is clear and cold--and tarry black in the deep places; the water leaps and dashes in whirlpools and torrents, and the lakes are fairy lakes, full of green islands--mere ledges, many of them, with two or three curious sentinel pines--and everywhere the same clear, black water, and always the trout, the wonderful, wild, abounding Nova Scotia trout. To Jake's Landing was a hard, jolting drive over a bad road, with only a break here and there where there is a house or two, and maybe a sawmill and a post-office, the last sentinels of civilization. It was at Maitland, the most important of these way stations, that we met Loon. Maitland is almost a village, an old settlement, in fact, with a store or two, some pretty houses and a mill. Loon is a dog of the hound variety who makes his home there, and a dear and faithful friend of Eddie's, by the latter's account. Indeed, as we drew near Maitland, after announcing that he would wish to stop at the Maitland stores to procure some new things he had thought of, Eddie became really boastful of an earlier friendship with Loon. He had met Loon on a former visit, during his (Loon's) puppyhood days, and he had recorded the meeting in his diary, wherein Loon had been set down as "a most intelligent and affectionate young dog." He produced the diary now as evidence, and I could see that our guides were impressed by this method of systematic and absolute record which no one dare dispute. He proceeded to tell us all he knew about Loon, and how glad Loon would be to see him again, until we were all jealous that no intelligent and affectionate hound dog was waiting for us at Maitland to sound the joy of welcome and to speed us with his parting bark. Then all at once we were at Maitland and before Loon's home, and sure enough there in the front yard, wagging both body and tail, stood Loon. It took but one glance for Eddie to recognize him. Perhaps it took no more than that for Loon to recognize Eddie. I don't know; but what he did was this: He lifted up his voice as one mourning for a lost soul and uttered such a series of wails and lamentations as only a hound dog in the deepest sorrow can make manifest. "Wow-ow-oo-ow-wow-oo-oo-o." The loon bird sends a fairly unhappy note floating down the wet, chill loneliness of a far, rainy lake, but never can the most forlorn of loons hope to approach his canine namesake of Maitland. Once more he broke out into a burst of long-drawn misery, then suddenly took off under the house as if he had that moment remembered an appointment there, and feared he would be late. But presently he looked out, fearfully enough, and with his eyes fixed straight on Eddie, set up still another of those heart-breaking protests. As for Eddie, I could see that he was hurt. He climbed miserably down from the wagon and crept gently toward the sorrowing hound. "Nice Loon--nice, good Loon. Don't you remember me?" "Wow-ow-oo-ow-wow-oo-oo-o," followed by another disappearance under the house. "Come, Loon, come out and see your old friend--that's a good dog!" It was no use. Loon's sorrow would not be allayed, and far beyond Maitland we still heard him wailing it down the wind. Of course it was but natural that we should discuss the matter with Eddie. He had assured us that dogs never forget, and we pressed him now to confess what extreme cruelty or deceit he had practiced upon Loon in his puppyhood, that the grown hound dog had remembered, and reproached him for to-day. But for the most part Eddie remained silent and seemed depressed. Neither did he again produce his diary, though we urged him to do so, in order that he might once more read to us what he had recorded of Loon. Perhaps something had been overlooked, something that would make Loon's lamentations clear. I think we were all glad when at last there came a gleam through the trees and we were at Jake's Landing, where our boats would first touch the water, where we would break our bread in the wilderness for the first time. [Illustration: "Eddie produced his jug of fly mixture and we anointed ourselves for the first time, putting on a pungent fragrance."] It was not much of a place to camp. There was little shade, a good deal of mud, and the sun was burning hot. There was a remnant of black flies, too, and an advance guard of mosquitoes. Eddie produced his jug of fly mixture and we anointed ourselves for the first time, putting on a pungent fragrance which was to continue a part of us, body and bone, so long as the wilderness remained our shelter. It was greasy and sticky and I could not muster an instant liking for the combined fragrance of camphor, pennyroyal and tar. But Eddie assured me that I would learn to love it, and I was willing to try. I was more interested in the loading of the canoes. Del, stout of muscle and figure--not to say fat, at least not over fat--and Charlie, light of weight and heart--sometimes known as Charles the Strong--were packing and fitting our plunder into place, condensing it into a tight and solid compass in the center of our canoes in a way that commanded my respect and even awe. I could see, however, that when our craft was loaded the water line and the gunwale were not so far apart, and I realized that one would want to sit decently still in a craft like that, especially in rough water. Meantime, Eddie had coupled up a rod and standing on a projecting log was making a few casts. I assumed that he was merely giving us an exhibition of his skill in throwing a fly, with no expectation of really getting a rise in this open, disturbed place. It was fine, though, to see his deft handling of the rod and I confess I watched him with something of envy. I may confess, too, that my own experience with fly casting had been confined to tumbling brooks with small pools and overhanging boughs, where to throw a fly means merely to drop it on a riffle, or at most to swing it out over a swirling current below a fall. I wondered as I watched Eddie if I ever should be able to send a fly sailing backward and then shoot it out forward a matter of twenty yards or so with that almost imperceptible effort of the wrist; and even if I did learn the movement, if I could manage to make the fly look real enough in such smooth, open water as this to fool even the blindest and silliest of trout. But, suddenly, where Eddie's fly--it was a Silver Doctor, I think--fell lightly on the water, there was a quick swirl, a flash and then a widening circle of rings. "You got him comin'," commented Charlie, who, it seems, had been noticing. The fly went skimming out over the water again and softly as thistle seed settled exactly in the center of the circling rings. But before it touched, almost, there came the flash and break again, and this time there followed the quick stiffening of the rod, a sudden tightening of the line, and a sharp, keen singing of the reel. "That's the time," commented Charlie and reached for a landing net. To him it was as nothing--a thing to be done a hundred times a day. But to me the world heaved and reeled with excitement. It was the first trout of the expedition, the first trout I had ever seen taken in such water, probably the largest trout I had ever seen taken in any water. In the tension of the moment I held my breath, or uttered involuntary comments. It was beautiful to see Eddie handle that trout. The water was open and smooth and there is no gainsaying Eddie's skill. Had he been giving an exhibition performance it could not have been more perfect. There was no eagerness, no driving and dragging, no wild fear of the fish getting away. The curved rod, the taut swaying line, and the sensitive hand and wrist did the work. Now and again there was a rush, and the reel sang as it gave line, but there was never the least bit of slack in the recover. Nearer and nearer came the still unseen captive, and then presently our fisherman took the net from his guide, there was a little dipping movement in the water at his feet and the first trout of the expedition was a visible fact--his golden belly and scarlet markings the subject of admiration and comment. It was not a very big fish by Nova Scotia standards--about three-quarters of a pound, I believe; but it was the largest trout I had ever seen alive, at that time, and I was consumed with envy. I was also rash. A little more, and I had a rod up, was out on a log engaged in a faithful effort to swing that rod exactly like Eddie's and to land the fly precisely in the same place. But for some reason the gear wouldn't work. In front of me, the fly fell everywhere but in the desired spot, and back of me the guides dodged and got behind bushes. You see, a number three steel hook sailing about promiscuously in the air, even when partially concealed in a fancy bunch of feathers, is a thing to be avoided. I had a clear field in no time, but perhaps Eddie had caught the only fish in the pool, for even he could get no more rises. Still I persisted and got hot and fierce, and when I looked at Eddie I hated him because he didn't cut his hair, and reflected bitterly that it was no wonder a half-savage creature like that could fish. Finally I hooked a tree top behind me and in jerking the fly loose made a misstep and went up to my waist in water. The tension broke then--I helped to break it--and the fishing trip had properly begun. The wagons had left us now, and we were alone with our canoes and our guides. Del, the stout, who was to have my especial fortunes in hand, knelt in the stern of the larger canoe and I gingerly entered the bow. Then Eddie and his guide found their respective places in the lighter craft and we were ready to move. A moment more and we would drop down the stream to the lake, and so set out on our long journey. I recall now that I was hot and wet and still a little cross. I had never had any especial enthusiasm about the expedition and more than once had regretted my pledge made across the table at the end of the old year. Even the bustle of preparation and the journey into a strange land had only mildly stirred me, and I felt now that for me, at least, things were likely to drag. There were many duties at home that required attention. These woods were full of mosquitoes, probably malaria. It was possible that I should take cold, be very ill and catch no fish whatever. But then suddenly we dropped out into the lake Kedgeemakoogee, the lake of the fairies--a broad expanse of black water, dotted with green islands, and billowing white in the afternoon wind, and just as we rounded I felt a sudden tug at the end of my line which was trailing out behind the canoe. In an instant I was alive. Del cautioned me softly from the stern, for there is no guide who does not wish his charge to acquit himself well. "Easy now--easy," he said. "That's a good one--don't hurry him." But every nerve in me began to tingle--every drop of blood to move faster. I was eaten with a wild desire to drag my prize into the boat before he could escape. Then all at once it seemed to me that my line must be fast, the pull was so strong and fixed. But looking out behind, Del saw the water break just then--a sort of double flash. "Good, you've got a pair," he said. "Careful, now, and we'll save 'em both." To tell the truth I had no hope of saving either, and if I was careful I didn't feel so. When I let the line go out, as I was obliged to, now and then, to keep from breaking it altogether, I had a wild, hopeless feeling that I could never take it up again and that the prize was just that much farther away. Whenever there came a sudden slackening I was sickened with a fear that the fish were gone, and ground the reel handle feverishly. Fifty yards away the other canoe, with Eddie in the bow, had struck nothing as yet, and if I could land these two I should be one ahead on the score. It seems now a puny ambition, but it was vital then. I was no longer cold, or hot, or afraid of malaria, or mosquitoes, or anything of the sort. Duties more or less important at home were forgotten. I was concerned only with those two trout that had fastened to my flies, the Silver Doctor and the Parmcheenie Belle, out there in the black, tossing water, and with the proper method of keeping my line taut, but not too taut, easy, but not too easy, with working the prize little by little within reach of the net. Eddie, suddenly seeing my employment, called across congratulations and encouragement. Then, immediately, he was busy too, with a fish of his own, and the sport, the great, splendid sport of the far north woods, had really begun. I brought my catch near the boatside at last, but it is no trifling matter to get two trout into a net when they are strung out on a six-foot leader, with the big trout on the top fly. Reason dictates that the end trout should go in first and at least twice I had him in, when the big fellow at the top gave a kick that landed both outside. It's a mercy I did not lose both, but at last with a lucky hitch they were duly netted, in the canoe, and I was weak and hysterical, but triumphant. There was one of nearly a pound and a half, and the other a strong half-pound, not guess weight, but by Eddie's scales, which I confess I thought niggardly. Never had I taken such fish in the Adirondack or Berkshire streams I had known, and what was more, these were two at a time![1] Eddie had landed a fine trout also, and we drew alongside, now, for consultation. The wind had freshened, the waves were running higher, and with our heavy canoes the six-mile paddle across would be a risky undertaking. Why not pitch our first night's camp nearby, here on Jim Charles point--a beautiful spot where once long ago a half-civilized Indian had made his home? In this cove before dark we could do abundant fishing. For me there was no other plan. I was all enthusiasm, now. There were trout here and I could catch them. That was enough. Civilization--the world, flesh and the devil--mankind and all the duties of life were as nothing. Here were the woods and the waters. There was the point for the campfire and the tents. About us were the leaping trout. The spell of the forest and the chase gripped me body and soul. Only these things were worth while. Nothing else mattered--nothing else existed. We landed and in a little while the tents were white on the shore, Del and Charlie getting them up as if by conjury. Then once more we were out in the canoes and the curved rod and the taut line and the singing reel dominated every other force under the wide sky. It was not the truest sport, maybe, for the fish were chiefly taken with trolling flies. But to me, then, it did not matter. Suffice it that they were fine and plentiful, and that I was two ahead of Eddie when at last we drew in for supper. That was joy enough, and then such trout--for there are no trout on earth like those one catches himself--such a campfire, such a cozy tent (Eddie's it was, from one of the catalogues), with the guides' tent facing, and the fire between. For us there was no world beyond that circle of light that on one side glinted among boughs of spruce and cedar and maple and birch, and on the other, gleamed out on the black water. Lying back on our beds and smoking, and looking at the fire and the smoke curling up among the dark branches toward the stars, and remembering the afternoon's sport and all the other afternoons and mornings and nights still to come, I was moved with a deep sense of gratitude in my heart toward Eddie. "Eddie," I murmured, "I forgive you all those lists, and everything, even your hair. I begin to understand now something of how you feel about the woods and the water, and all. Next time----" Then (for it was the proper moment) I confessed fully--the purchasing agent, the tin whistle, even the Jock Scott with two hooks. FOOTNOTES: [1] The ordinary New York and New England "half pound trout" will weigh anywhere from four to six ounces. It takes a trout nearly a foot long to weigh half a pound. With each additional inch the weight increases rapidly. A trout thirteen inches in length will weigh about three quarters of a pound. A fourteen-inch trout will weigh a pound. A fifteen-inch trout, in good condition, will weigh one and a half pounds, plump. Chapter Six _Nearer the fire the shadows creep--_ _The brands burn dim and red--_ _While the pillow of sleep lies soft and deep_ _Under a weary head._ Chapter Six When one has been accustomed to the comforts of civilized life--the small ones, I mean, for they are the only ones that count--the beginning of a wild, free life near to nature's heart begets a series of impressions quite new, and strange--so strange. It is not that one misses a house of solid walls and roof, with stairways and steam radiators. These are the larger comforts and are more than made up for by the sheltering temple of the trees, the blazing campfire and the stairway leading to the stars. But there are things that one does miss--a little--just at first. When we had finished our first evening's smoke and the campfire was burning low--when there was nothing further to do but go to bed, I suddenly realized that the man who said he would be willing to do without all the rest of a house if he could keep the bathroom, spoke as one with an inspired knowledge of human needs. I would not suggest that I am a person given to luxurious habits and vain details in the matter of evening toilet. But there are so many things one is in the habit of doing just about bedtime, which in a bathroom, with its varied small conveniences, seem nothing at all, yet which assume undue proportions in the deep, dim heart of nature where only the large primitive comforts have been provided. I had never been in the habit, for instance, of stumbling through several rods of bushes and tangled vines to get to a wash-bowl that was four miles wide and six miles long and full of islands and trout, and maybe snapping turtles (I know there were snapping turtles, for Charlie had been afraid to leave his shoepacks on the beach for fear the turtles would carry them off), and I had not for many years known what it was to bathe my face on a ground level or to brush my teeth in the attitude of prayer. It was all new and strange, as I have said, and there was no hot water--not even a faucet--that didn't run, maybe, because the man upstairs was using it. There wasn't any upstairs except the treetops and the sky, though, after all, these made up for a good deal, for the treetops feathered up and faded into the dusky blue, and the blue was sown with stars that were caught up and multiplied by every tiny wrinkle on the surface of the great black bowl and sent in myriad twinklings to our feet. Still, I would have exchanged the stars for a few minutes, for a one-candle power electric light, or even for a single gas jet with such gas as one gets when the companies combine and establish a uniform rate. I had mislaid my tube of dentifrice and in the dim, pale starlight I pawed around and murmured to myself a good while before I finally called Eddie to help me. "Oh, let it go," he said. "It'll be there for you in the morning. I always leave mine, and my soap and towel, too." He threw his towel over a limb, laid his soap on a log and faced toward the camp. I hesitated. I was unused to leaving my things out overnight. My custom was to hang my towel neatly over a rack, to stand my toothbrush upright in a glass on a little shelf with the dentifrice beside it. Habit is strong. I did not immediately consent to this wide and gaudy freedom of the woods. "Suppose it rains," I said. "All the better--it will wash the towels." "But they will be wet in the morning." "Um--yes--in the woods things generally are wet in the morning. You'll get used to that." It is likewise my habit to comb my hair before retiring, and to look at myself in the glass, meantime. This may be due to vanity. It may be a sort of general inspection to see if I have added any new features, or lost any of those plucked from the family tree. Perhaps it is only to observe what the day's burdens have done for me in the way of wrinkles and gray hairs. Never mind the reason, it is a habit; but I didn't realize how precious it was to me until I got back to the tent and found that our only mirror was in Eddie's collection, set in the back of a combination comb-brush affair about the size of one's thumb. Of course it was not at all adequate for anything like a general inspection. It would just about hold one eye, or a part of a mouth, or a section of a nose, or a piece of an ear or a little patch of hair, and it kept you busy guessing where that patch was located. Furthermore, as the comb was a part of the combination, the little mirror was obliged to be twinkling around over one's head at the precise moment when it should have been reflecting some portion of one's features. It served no useful purpose, thus, and was not much better when I looked up another comb and tried to use it in the natural way. Held close and far off, twisted and turned, it was no better. I felt lost and disturbed, as one always does when suddenly deprived of the exercise of an old and dear habit, and I began to make mental notes of some things I should bring on the next trip. There was still a good deal to do--still a number of small but precious conveniences to be found wanting. Eddie noticed that I was getting into action and said he would stay outside while I was stowing myself away; which was good of him, for I needed the room. When I began to take on things I found I needed his bed, too, to put them on. I suppose I had expected there would be places to hang them. I am said to be rather absent-minded, and I believe I stood for several minutes with some sort of a garment in my hand, turning thoughtfully one way and another, probably expecting a hook to come drifting somewhere within reach. Yes, hooks are one of the small priceless conveniences, and under-the-bed is another. I never suspected that the space under the bed could be a luxury until I began to look for a place to put my shoes and handbag. Our tent was just long enough for our sleeping-bags, and just about wide enough for them--one along each side, with a narrow footway between. They were laid on canvas stretchers which had poles through wide hems down the sides--the ends of these poles (cut at each camp and selected for strength and springiness) spread apart and tacked to larger cross poles, which arrangement raised us just clear of the ground, leaving no space for anything of consequence underneath. You could hardly put a fishing rod there, or a pipe, without discomfort to the flesh and danger to the articles. Undressing and bestowing oneself in an upper berth is attended with problems, but the berth is not so narrow, and it is flat and solid, and there are hooks and little hammocks and things--valuable advantages, now fondly recalled. I finally piled everything on Eddie's bed, temporarily. I didn't know what I was going to do with it next, but anything was a boon for the moment. Just then Eddie looked in. "That's your pillow material, you know," he said, pointing to my medley of garments. "You want a pillow, don't you?" Sure enough, I had no pillow, and I did want one. I always want a pillow and a high one. It is another habit. "Let me show you," he said. So he took my shoes and placed them, one on each side of my couch, about where a pillow should be, with the soles out, making each serve as a sort of retaining wall. Then he began to double and fold and fill the hollow between, taking the bunchy, seamy things first and topping off with the softer, smoother garments in a deft, workmanlike way. I was even moved to add other things from my bag to make it higher and smoother. "Now, put your bag on the cross-pole behind your pillow and let it lean back against the tent. It will stay there and make a sort of head to your bed, besides being handy in case you want to get at it in the night." Why, it was as simple and easy as nothing. My admiration for Eddie grew. I said I would get into my couch at once in order that he might distribute himself likewise. But this was not so easy. I had never got into a sleeping-bag before, and it is a thing that requires a little practice to do it with skill and grace. It has to be done section at a time, and one's night garment must be worked down co-ordinately in order that it may not become merely a stuffy life-preserver thing under one's arms. To a beginner this is slow, warm work. By the time I was properly down among the coarse, new blankets and had permeated the remotest corners of the clinging envelope, I had had a lot of hard exercise and was hot and thirsty. So Del brought me a drink of water. I wasn't used to being waited on in that way, but it was pleasant. After all there were some conveniences of camp life that were worth while. And the bed was comfortable and the pillow felt good. I lay watching Eddie shape his things about, all his bags and trappings falling naturally into the places they were to occupy through the coming weeks. The flat-topped bag with the apothecary stores and other urgency articles went at the upper end of the little footway, and made a sort of table between our beds. Another bag went behind his pillow, which he made as he had made mine, though he topped it off with a little rubber affair which he inflated while I made another mental memorandum for next year. A third bag---- But I did not see the fate of the third bag. A haze drifted in between me and the busy little figure that was placing and pulling and folding and arranging--humming a soothing ditty meantime--and I was swept up bodily into a cloud of sleep. Chapter Seven _Now, Dawn her gray green mantle weaves_ _To the lilt of a low refrain--_ _The drip, drip, drip of the lush green leaves_ _After a night of rain._ Chapter Seven The night was fairly uneventful. Once I imagined I heard something smelling around the camp, and I remember having a sleepy curiosity as to the size and manner of the beast, and whether he meant to eat us and where he would be likely to begin. I may say, too, that I found some difficulty in turning over in my sleeping-bag, and that it did rain. I don't know what hour it was when I was awakened by the soft thudding drops just above my nose, but I remember that I was glad, for there had been fires in the woods, and the streams were said to be low. I satisfied myself that Eddie's patent, guaranteed perfectly waterproof tent was not leaking unduly, and wriggling into a new position, slept. It was dull daylight when I awoke. Through the slit in the tent I could see the rain drizzling on the dead campfire. Eddie--long a guest of the forest lost now in the multiple folds of his sleeping-bag--had not stirred. A glimpse of the guides' tent opposite revealed that the flap was still tightly drawn. There was no voice or stir of any living creature. Only the feet of the rain went padding among the leaves and over the tent. Now, I am not especially given to lying in bed, and on this particular morning any such inclination was rather less manifest than usual. I wanted to spread myself out, to be able to move my arms away from my body, to whirl around and twist and revolve a bit without so much careful preparation and deliberate movement. Yet there was very little to encourage one to get up. Our campfire--so late a glory and an inspiration--had become a remnant of black ends and soggy ash. I was not overhot as I lay, and I had a conviction that I should be less so outside the sleeping-bag, provided always that I could extricate myself from that somewhat clinging, confining envelope. Neither was there any immediate prospect of breakfast--nobody to talk to--no place to go. I had an impulse to arouse Eddie for the former purpose, but there was something about that heap of canvas and blankets across the way that looked dangerous. I had never seen him roused in his forest lair, and I suspected that he would be savage. I concluded to proceed cautiously--in some manner which might lead him to believe that the fall of a drifting leaf or the note of a bird had been his summons. I worked one arm free, and reaching out for one of my shoes--a delicate affair, with the soles filled with splices for clambering over the rocks--I tossed it as neatly as possible at the irregular bunch opposite, aiming a trifle high. It fell with a solid, sickening thud, and I shrank down into my bag, expecting an eruption. None came. Then I was seized with the fear that I had killed or maimed Eddie. It seemed necessary to investigate. I took better aim this time and let go with the other shoe. "Eddie!" I yelled, "are you dead?" There was a stir this time and a deep growl. It seemed to take the form of words, at length, and I caught, or fancied I did, the query as to what time it was; whereupon I laboriously fished up my watch and announced in clear tones that the hand was upon the stroke of six. Also that it was high time for children of the forest to bestir themselves. At this there was another and a deeper growl, ending with a single syllable of ominous sound. I could not be sure, but heard through the folds of a sleeping-bag, the word sounded a good deal like hell and I had a dim conviction that he was sending me there, perhaps realizing that I was cold. Then he became unconscious again, and I had no more shoes. Yet my efforts had not been without effect. There was a nondescript stir in the guides' tent, and presently the head of Charles, sometimes called the Strong, protruded a little and was withdrawn. Then that of Del, the Stout, appeared and a little later two extraordinary semi-amphibious figures issued--wordless and still rocking a little with sleep--and with that deliberate precision born of long experience went drabbling after fuel and water that the morning fire might kindle and the morning pot be made to boil. They were clad in oilskins, and the drapery of Charles deserves special attention. It is likely that its original color had been a flaunt of yellow, and that it had been bedizened with certain buttonholes and hems and selvages and things, such as adorn garments in a general way of whatever nature or sex. That must have been a long time ago. It is improbable that the oldest living inhabitant would be able to testify concerning these items. Observing him thoughtfully as he bent over the wet ashes and skillfully cut and split and presently brought to flame the little heap of wood he had garnered, there grew upon me a realization of the vast service that suit of oilskins must have rendered to its owners--of the countless storms that had beaten upon it; of the untold fires that had been kindled under its protection; of the dark, wild nights when it had served in fording torrents and in clambering over slippery rocks, indeed of all the ages of wear and tear that had eaten into its seams and selvages and hues since the day when Noah first brought it out of the Ark and started it down through the several generations which had ended with our faithful Charles, the Strong. I suppose this is just one of those profitless reflections which is likely to come along when one is still tangled up in a sleeping-bag, watching the tiny flame that grows a little brighter and bigger each moment and forces at last a glow of comfort into the tent until the day, after all, seems worth beginning, though the impulse to begin it is likely to have diminished. I have known men, awake for a long time, who have gone on to sleep during just such morning speculations, when the flames grew bright and brighter and crackled up through the little heap of dry branches and sent that glow of luxury into the tent. I remember seeing our guide adjust a stick at an angle above the fire, whereby to suspend a kettle, and men, suddenly, of being startled from somewhere--I was at the club, I think, in the midst of a game of pool--by a wild whoop and the spectacle of Eddie, standing upright in the little runway between our beds, howling that the proper moment for bathing had arrived, and kicking up what seemed to me a great and unnecessary stir. [Illustration: "Not to take the morning dip ... was to manifest a sad lack of the true camping spirit."] The idea of bathing on such a morning and in that primitive costume had not, I think, occurred to me before, but I saw presently there was nothing else for it. A little later I was following Eddie, cringing from the cold, pelting rain, limping gingerly over sharp sticks and pebbles to the water's edge. The lake was shallow near the shore which meant a fearful period of wading before taking the baptismal plunge that would restore one's general equilibrium. It required courage, too, for the water was icy--courage to wade out to the place, and once there, to make the plunge. I should never have done it if Eddie had not insisted that according to the standard text-books the day in every well-ordered camp always began with this ceremony. Not to take the morning dip, he said, was to manifest a sad lack of the true camping spirit. Thus prodded, I bade the world a hasty good-by and headed for the bottom. A moment later we were splashing and puffing like seals, shouting with the fierce, delightful torture of it--wide awake enough now, and marvelously invigorated when all was over. [Illustration: "Catching it in the skillet as it fell, compelled admiration"] We were off after breakfast--a breakfast of trout and flapjacks--the latter with maple sirup in the little eating tent. The flapjacks were Del's manufacture, and his manner of tossing the final large one into the air and catching it in the skillet as it fell, compelled admiration. The lake was fairly smooth and the rain no longer fell. A gray morning--the surface of the water gray--a gray mantle around the more distant of the islands, with here and there sharp rocks rising just above the depths. It was all familiar enough to the guides, but to me it was a new world. Seated in the bow I swung my paddle joyously, and even with our weighty load it seemed that we barely touched the water. One must look out for the rocks, though, for a sharp point plunged through the bottom of a canoe might mean shipwreck. A few yards away, Eddie and his guide--light-weight bodies, both of them--kept abreast, their appearance somehow suggesting two grasshoppers on a straw. It is six miles across Kedgeemakoogee and during the passage it rained. When we were about half-way over I felt a drop or two strike me and saw the water about the canoe spring up into little soldiers. A moment later we were struck on every side and the water soldiers were dancing in a multitude. Then they mingled and rushed together. The green islands were blotted out. The gates of the sky swung wide. [Illustration: "To put on a pair of waders like that in the front end of a canoe in a pouring rain is no light matter."] Of course it was necessary to readjust matters. Del drew on his oilskins and I reached for my own. I had a short coat, a sou'wester, and a pair of heavy brown waders, so tall that they came up under my arms when fully adjusted. There was no special difficulty in getting on the hat and coat, but to put on a pair of waders like that in the front end of a canoe in a pouring rain is no light matter. There seemed no good place to straighten my legs out in order to get a proper pull. To stand up was to court destruction, and when I made an attempt to put a leg over the side of the canoe Del admonished me fearfully that another such move would send us to the bottom forthwith. Once my thumbs pulled out of the straps and I tumbled back on the stores, the rain beating down in my face. I suppose the suddenness of the movement disturbed the balance of the boat somewhat, for Del let out a yell that awoke a far-away loon, who replied dismally. When at last I had the feet on, I could not get the tops in place, for of course there was no way to get them anywhere near where they really belonged without standing up. So I had to remain in that half-on and half-off condition, far from comfortable, but more or less immune to wet. I realized what a sight I must look, and I could hardly blame Eddie for howling in derision at me when he drew near enough to distinguish my outline through the downpour. I also realized what a poor rig I had on for swimming, in event of our really capsizing, and I sat straight and still and paddled hard for the other side. It was not what might be termed a "prolonged and continuous downpour." The gray veil lifted from the islands. The myriad of battling soldiers diminished. Presently only a corporal's guard was leaping and dancing about the canoe. Then these disappeared. The clouds broke away. The sun came. Ahead of us was a green shore--the other side of Kedgeemakoogee had been reached. Chapter Eight _Where the trail leads back from the water's edge--_ _Tangled and overgrown--_ _Shoulder your load and strike the road_ _Into the deep unknown._ Chapter Eight We were at the beginning of our first carry, now--a stretch of about two miles through the woods. The canoes were quickly unloaded, and as I looked more carefully at the various bags and baskets of supplies, I realized that they were constructed with a view of being connected with a man's back. I had heard and read a good deal about portages and I realized in a general way that the canoes had to be carried from one water system to another, but somehow I had never considered the baggage. Naturally I did not expect it to get over of its own accord, and when I came to consider the matter I realized that a man's back was about the only place where it could ride handily and with reasonable safety. I also realized that a guide's life is not altogether a holiday excursion. I felt sorry for the guides. I even suggested to Eddie that he carry a good many of the things. I pointed out that most of them were really his, anyway, and that it was too bad to make our faithful retainers lug a drug store and sporting goods establishment, besides the greater part of a provision warehouse. Eddie sympathized with the guides, too. He was really quite pathetic in his compassion for them, but he didn't carry any of the things. That is, any of those things. It is the etiquette of portage--of Nova Scotia portage, at least--that the fisherman shall carry his own sporting paraphernalia--which is to say, his rods, his gun, if he has one, his fishing basket and his landing net. Also, perhaps, any convenient bag of tackle or apparel when not too great an inconvenience. It is the business of the guides to transport the canoes, the general outfit, and the stores. As this was to be rather a long carry, and as more than one trip would be necessary, it was proposed to make a half-way station for luncheon, at a point where a brook cut the trail. But our procession did not move immediately. In the first place one of the canoes appeared to have sprung a leak, and after our six-mile paddle this seemed a proper opportunity to rest and repair damages. The bark craft was hauled out, a small fire scraped together and the pitch pot heated while the guides pawed and squinted about the boat's bottom to find the perforation. Meantime I tried a few casts in the lake, from a slanting rock, and finally slipped in, as was my custom. Then we found that we did not wish to wait until reaching the half-way brook before having at least a bite and sup. It was marshy and weedy where we were and no inviting place to serve food, but we were tolerably wet, and we had paddled a good way. We got out a can of corned beef and a loaf of bread, and stood around in the ooze, and cut off chunks and chewed and gulped and worked them down into place. Then we said we were ready, and began to load up. I experimented by hanging such things as landing nets and a rod-bag on my various projections while my hands were to be occupied with my gun and a tackle-bag. The things were not especially heavy, but they were shifty. I foresaw that the rod-bag would work around under my arm and get in the way of my feet, and that the landing nets would complicate matters. I tied them all in a solid bunch at last, with the gun inside. This simplified the problem a good deal, and was an arrangement for which I had reason to be thankful. It was interesting to see our guides load up. Charles, the Strong, had been well named. He swung a huge basket on his back, his arms through straps somewhat like those which support an evening gown, and a-top of this, other paraphernalia was piled. I have seen pack burros in Mexico that were lost sight of under their many burdens and I remembered them now, as our guides stood forth ready to move. I still felt sorry for them (the guides, of course) and suggested once more to Eddie that he should assume some of their burdens. In fact, I was almost willing to do so myself, and when at the last moment both Charlie and Del stooped and took bundles in each hand, I was really on the very point of offering to carry something, only there was nothing more to carry but the canoes, and of course they had to be left for the next trip. I was glad, though, of the generous impulse on my part. There is always comfort in such things. Eddie and I set out ahead. There is something fine and inspiring about a portage. In the first place, it is likely to be through a deep wood, over a trail not altogether easy to follow. Then there is the fascinating thought that you are cutting loose another link from everyday mankind--pushing a chapter deeper into the wilderness, where only the more adventurous ever come. Also, there is the romantic gipsy feeling of having one's possessions in such compass that not only the supplies themselves, but the very means of transportation may be bodily lifted and borne from one water link to another of that chain which leads back ever farther into the unknown. I have suggested that a portage trail is not always easy to follow. As a matter of fact the chances are that it will seldom be easy to follow. It will seldom be a path fit for human beings. It won't be even a decent moose path, and a moose can go anywhere that a bird can. A carry is meant to be the shortest distance between two given places and it doesn't strive for luxury. It will go under and over logs, through scratchy thickets and gardens of poison ivy. It will plow through swamps and quicksands; it will descend into pits; it will skin along the sharp edge of slippery rocks set up at impossible angles, so that only a mountain goat can follow it without risking his neck. I believe it would climb a tree if a big one stood directly in its path. We did not get through with entire safety. The guides, shod in their shoepacks, trained to the business, went along safely enough, though they lurched a good deal under their heavy cargoes and seemed always on the verge of disaster. Eddie and I did not escape. I saw Eddie slip, and I heard him come down with a grunt which I suspected meant damage. It proved a serious mishap, for it was to one of his reels, a bad business so early in the game. I fell, too, but I only lost some small areas of skin which I knew Eddie would replace with joy from a bottle in his apothecary bag. But there were things to be seen on that two-mile carry. A partridge flew up and whirred away into the bushes. A hermit thrush was calling from the greenery, and by slipping through very carefully we managed to get a sight of his dark, brown body. Then suddenly Eddie called to me to look, and I found him pointing up into a tree. "Porky, Porky!" he was saying, by which I guessed he had found a porcupine, for I had been apprised of the numbers in these woods. "Come, here's a shot for you," he added, as I drew nearer. "Porcupines damage a lot of trees and should be killed." I gazed up and distinguished a black bunch clinging to the body of a fairly large spruce, near the top. "He doesn't seem to be damaging that tree much," I said. "No, but he will. They kill ever so many. The State of Maine pays a bounty for their scalps." I looked up again. Porky seemed to be inoffensive enough, and my killing blood was not much aroused. "But the hunters and logmen destroy a good many more trees with their fires," I argued. "Why doesn't the State of Maine and the Province of Nova Scotia pay a bounty for the scalps of a few hunters and logmen?" But Eddie was insistent. It was in the line of duty, he urged, to destroy porcupines. They were of no value, except, perhaps, to eat. "Will you agree to eat this one if I shoot him?" I asked, unbundling my rifle somewhat reluctantly. "Of course--that's understood." I think even then I would have spared Porky's life, but at that moment he ran a little way up the tree. There was something about that slight movement that stirred the old savage in me. I threw my rifle to my shoulder, and with hasty aim fired into the center of the black bunch. I saw it make a quick, quivering jump, slip a little, and cling fast. There was no stopping now. A steady aim at the black ball this time, and a second shot, followed by another convulsive start, a long slide, then a heavy thudding fall at our feet--a writhing and a twisting--a moaning and grieving as of a stricken child. And it was not so easy to stop this. I sent shot after shot into the quivering black, pin-cushioned ball before it was finally still--its stained, beautifully pointed quills scattered all about. When it was over, I said: "Well, Eddie, they may eat up the whole of Nova Scotia, if they want to--woods, islands and all, but I'll never shoot another, unless I'm starving." We had none of us starved enough to eat that porcupine. In the first place he had to be skinned, and there seemed no good place to begin. The guides, when they came up, informed us that it was easy enough to do when you knew how, and that the Indians knew how and considered porcupine a great delicacy. But we were not Indians, at least not in the ethnological sense, and the delicacy in this instance applied only to our appetites. I could see that Eddie was anxious to break his vow, now that his victim was really dead by my hand. We gathered up a few of the quills--gingerly, for a porcupine quill once in the flesh, is said to work its way to the heart--and passed on, leaving the black pin cushion lying where it fell. Perhaps Porky's death saved one or two more trees for the next Nova Scotia fire. There were no trout for luncheon at our half-way halt. The brook there was a mere rivulet, and we had not kept the single small fish caught that morning. Still I did not mind. Not that I was tired of trout so soon, but I began to suspect that it would require nerve and resolution to tackle them three times a day for a period of weeks, and that it might be just as well to start rather gradually, working in other things from time to time. I protested, however, when Del produced a can of Columbia River salmon. That, I said, was a gross insult to every fish in the Nova Scotia waters. Canned salmon on a fishing trip! The very thought of it was an offense; I demanded that it be left behind with the porcupine. Never, I declared, would I bemean myself by eating that cheap article of commerce--that universally indigenous fish food--here in the home of the chief, the prince, the _ne plus ultra_ of all fishes--the Nova Scotia trout. So Del put the can away, smiling a little, and produced beans. That was different. One may eat beans anywhere under the wide sky. Chapter Nine _The black rock juts on the hidden pool_ _And the waters are dim and deep,_ _Oh, lightly tread--'tis a royal bed,_ _And a king lies there asleep._ Chapter Nine It was well into the afternoon before the canoes reached the end of the carry--poking out through the green--one on the shoulders of each guide, inverted like long shields, such as an ancient race might have used as a protection from arrows. Eddie and I, meantime, had been employed getting a mess of frogs, for it was swampy just there, and frogs, mosquitoes and midges possessed the locality. We anointed for the mosquitoes and "no-see-ums," as the midges are called by the Indians, and used our little rifles on the frogs. I wonder, by the way, what mosquitoes were made for. Other people have wondered that before, but you can't overdo the thing. Maybe if we keep on wondering we shall find out. Knowledge begins that way, and it will take a lot of speculation to solve the mosquito mystery. I can't think of anything that I could do without easier than the mosquito. He seems to me a creature wholly devoid of virtues. He is a glutton, a poisoner, a spreader of disease, a dispenser of disturbing music. That last is the hardest to forgive. If he would only be still I could overlook the other things. I wonder if he will take his voice with him into the next world. I should like to know, too, which place he is bound for. I should like to know, so I could take the other road.[2] Across Mountain Lake was not far, and then followed another short carry--another link of removal--to a larger lake, Pescawess. It was nearly five miles across Pescawess, but we made good time, for there was a fair wind. Also we had the knowledge that Pescawah Brook flows in on the other side, and the trout there were said to be large and not often disturbed. We camped a little below this brook, and while the tents were going up Eddie and I took one of the canoes and slipped away past an island or two, among the strewn bowlders at the stream's mouth, pausing to cast a little here and there, though at first with no other result than to get our lines in a mess together. "Now, say, old man," Eddie began, as my line made a turn around his neck and a half-dozen twists around his tackle, the whole dropping in a heap in the water, "you mustn't cast like that. You should use the treetop cast--straight up in the air, when there's a man behind you. Don't you know you might lacerate a fellow's ear, or put a hook through his lip, or his nose, or something?" I said that I was sorry, and that if he would give me a few points on the treetop cast, and then avoid sitting in the treetops as much as possible himself I thought there would be no further danger. He was not altogether pacified. The lines were in a bad tangle and he said it was wasting precious time to be fooling that way. Clearly two men could not fish from one canoe and preserve their friendship, and after our lines were duly parted and Eddie had scolded me sufficiently, we went ashore just below where the swift current tumbles in, and made our way to the wide, deep, rock-bound pools above. The going was pretty thick and scratchy, and one had to move deliberately. Eddie had more things to carry than I did, for he had brought his gun and his long-handled net, and these, with his rod, set up and properly geared with a long leader and two flies, worried him a good deal. The net had a way of getting hung on twigs. The line and leader displayed a genius for twisting around small but tough branches and vines, the hooks caught in unexpected places, and the gun was possessed to get between his legs. When I had time to consider him, he was swearing steadily and I think still blaming me for most of his troubles, though the saints know I was innocent enough and not without difficulties of my own. Chiefly, I was trying to avoid poison ivy, which is my bane and seemed plentiful in this particular neck of the woods. We were out at last, and the wide, dark pool, enclosed by great black bowlders and sloping slabs of stone, seemed as if it might repay our efforts. Not for years, maybe, had an artificial fly been cast in that water. Perhaps Eddie was still annoyed with me, for he pushed farther up to other pools, and was presently lost to view. I was not sorry of this, for it may be remembered that I had thus far never caught a trout by casting in open, smooth water, and I was willing to practice a little alone. I decided to work deliberately, without haste and excitement, and to get my flies caught in the treetops as infrequently as possible. I adjusted them now, took a good look behind and tossed my cast toward the other side of the dark pool. I thought I did it rather well, too, and I dragged the flies with a twitching motion, as I had seen Eddie do it, but nothing happened. If there were trout anywhere in the world, they would be in a pool like this, and if there was ever an evening for them it was now. It was in the nature of probability that Eddie would come back with a good string, and I could not let him find me a confessed failure. So once more I sent the flies out over the pool--a little farther this time, and twitched them a little more carefully, but I might have been fishing in a tub, so far as any tangible fish were concerned. A little more line and a reckless back cast landed my tail fly in a limb--a combination which required time and patience to disengage. By the time I had worked out the puzzle it began to seem like a warm evening. Then I snapped the flies into several different corners of the pool, got hung again on the same limb, jerked and broke the fly and repeated some of the words I had learned from Eddie as we came through the brush. I was cooler after that, and decided to put on a new and different fly. I thought a Jenny Lind would be about the thing, and pretty soon was slapping it about--at first hopefully, then rashly. Then in mere desperation I changed the top fly and put on a Montreal. Of course I wouldn't catch anything. I never would catch anything, except by trolling, as any other duffer, or even a baby might, but I would have fun with the flies, anyway. So the Montreal went capering out over the pool, landing somewhere amid the rocks on the other side. And then all at once I had my hands full of business, for there was a leap and a splash, and a z-z-z-t of the reel, and a second later my rod was curved like a buggy whip, the line as taut as wire and weaving and swaying from side to side with a live, heavy body, the body of a trout--a real trout--hooked by me with a fly, cast on a quiet pool. I wouldn't have lost that fish for money. But I was deadly afraid of doing so. A good thing for me, then, my practice in landing, of the evening before. "Easy, now--easy," I said to myself, just as Del had done. "If you lose this fish you're a duffer, sure enough; also a chump and several other undesirable things. Don't hurry him--don't give him unnecessary line in this close place where there may be snags--don't, above all things, let him get any slack on you. Just a little line, now--a few inches will do--and keep the tip of your rod up. If you point it at him and he gets a straight pull he will jump off, sure, or he will rush and you cannot gather the slack. Work him toward you, now, toward your feet, close in--your net has a short handle, and is suspended around your neck by a rubber cord. The cord will stretch, of course, but you can never reach him over there. Don't mind the reel--you have taken up enough line. You can't lift out a fish like that on a four-ounce rod--on any rod short of a hickory sapling. Work him toward you, you gump! Bring your rod up straighter--straighter--straight! Now for the net--carefully--oh, you clumsy duffer, to miss him! Don't you know that you can't thrash him into the net like that?--that you must dip the net _under_ him? I suppose you thought you were catching mice. You deserve to lose him altogether. Once more, now, he's right at your feet--a king!" Two long backward steps after that dip, for I must be certain that he was away from the water's edge. Then I bumped into something--something soft that laughed. It was Eddie, and he had two fish in his landing net. "Bully!" he said. "You did it first-rate, only you don't need to try to beat him to death with the landing net. Better than mine," he added, as I took my trout off the fly. "Suppose now we go below. I've taken a look and there's a great pool, right where the brook comes out. We can get to it in the canoe. I'll handle the canoe while you fish." That, also, is Eddie's way. He had scolded me and he would make amends. He had already taken down his rod, and we made our way back through the brush without much difficulty, though I was still hot with effort and excitement, and I fear a little careless about the poison ivy. A few minutes later, Eddie, who handles a canoe--as he does everything else pertaining to the woods--with grace and skill, had worked our craft among the rocks into the wide, swift water that came out from under a huge fallen log--the mouth of Pescawah Brook. "Cast there," he said, pointing to a spot just below the log. Within twenty minutes from that time I had learned more about fishing--real trout fishing--than I had known before in all my life. I had, in Eddie, a peerless instructor, and I had such water for a drill ground as is not found in every day's, or every week's, or every month's travel. Besides, there were fish. Singly and in pairs they came--great, beautiful, mottled fellows--sometimes leaping clear of the water like a porpoise, to catch the fly before it fell. There were none less than a pound, and many over that weight. When we had enough for supper and breakfast--a dozen, maybe--we put back the others that came, as soon as taken from the hook. The fishing soon ended then, for I believe the trout have some means of communication, and one or two trout returned to a pool will temporarily discourage the others. It did not matter. I had had enough, and once more, thanks to Eddie, returned to the camp, jubilant. FOOTNOTES: [2] When this chapter appeared in _The Outing Magazine_ Frederic Remington wrote as follows: "My dear Paine: Just read your _Outing_ article on the woods and your speculation on 'why mosquitoes were made,' etc. I know the answer. They were created to aid civilization--otherwise, no man not an idiot would live anywhere else than in the woods." I am naturally glad to have this word of wisdom from an authority like Remington, but I still think that Providence could have achieved the same result and somehow managed to leave the mosquito out of it. Chapter Ten _Where the path is thick and the branches twine_ _I pray you, friend, beware!_ _For the noxious breath of a lurking vine_ _May wither your gladness there._ Chapter Ten It was raining next morning, but that was not the worst. During the night I had awakened with a curious, but not entirely unfamiliar sensation about one of my eyes. There was a slight irritant, itching tendency, and the flesh felt puffy to the touch. I tried to believe it was imagination, and went to sleep again. But there was no doubt next morning. Imagination is a taunting jade, but I don't believe she could close one of my eyes and fatten up the other--not in so short a time. It was poison ivy--that was what it was--and I had it bad. [Illustration: "Our one looking-glass was not big enough to hold all of even one eye."] When Eddie woke, which he did, finally, he took one look at me and dove back into his sleeping bag out of pure fear. He said I was a sight, and he was correct. Our one looking-glass was not big enough to hold all of even one eye, but taking my features in sections I could see that he had not overstated my appearance. Perhaps the situation was amusing, too--at least Eddie, and even the guides, professed to be entertained--but for me, huddled against one side of a six by eight tent--a tent otherwise packed with bags and bundles and traps of various kinds--Eddie's things, mostly, and Eddie himself among them--with a chill rain coming down outside, and with a face swollen and aching in a desperate way with poison, the quality of the humor to me seemed strained when I tried to distinguish it with the part of an eye I had left. Eddie meantime had dived down into his bag of remedies, happy to have a chance to use any or all of them, and was laying them out on his sleeping bag in front of him--in his lap, as it were, for he had not yet arisen--reading the labels and wondering which he should try on me first. I waited a little, then I said: "Never mind those, Eddie, give me your alcohol and witch hazel." But then came an embarrassing moment. Running his eye over the bottles and cans Eddie was obliged to confess that not one of them contained either alcohol or witch hazel. "Eddie," I said reproachfully, "can it be, in a drug store like that, there is neither alcohol nor witch hazel?" He nodded dismally. "I meant to bring them," he said, "but the triple extract of gelsemium would do such a lot of things, and I thought I didn't need them, and then you made fun of that, and--and----" "Never mind, Eddie," I said, "I have an inspiration. If alcohol cures it, maybe whisky will, and thank Heaven we did bring the whisky!" We remained two days in that camp and I followed up the whisky treatment faithfully. It rained most of the time, so the delay did not matter. Indeed it was great luck that we were not held longer by that distressing disorder which comes of the malignant three-leaved plant known as mercury, or poison ivy. Often it has disqualified me for a week or more. But the whisky treatment was a success. Many times a day I bathed my face in the pure waters of the lake and then with the spirits--rye or Scotch, as happened to be handy. By the afternoon of the first day I could see to put sirup on my flapjacks, and once between showers I felt able to go out with Eddie in the canoe, during which excursion he took a wonderful string of trout in a stagnant-looking, scummy pool where no one would ever expect trout to lie, and where no one but Eddie could have taken them at all. By the next morning, after a night of sorrow--for my face always pained and itched worse when everybody was in bed and still, with nothing to soothe me but the eternal drip, drip from the boughs and from the eaves of the tent--the swelling was still further reduced, and I felt able to travel. And I wish to add here in all seriousness that whatever may be your scruples against the use of liquors, don't go into the woods without whisky--rye or Scotch, according to preference. Alcohol, of course, is good for poison ivy, but whisky is better. Maybe it is because of the drugs that wicked men are said to put into it. Besides, whisky has other uses. The guides told us of one perfectly rigid person who, when he had discovered that whisky was being included in his camp supplies, had become properly incensed, and commanded that it be left at home. The guides had pleaded that he need not drink any of it, that they would attend to that part of what seemed to them a necessary camp duty, but he was petrified in his morals, and the whisky remained behind. Well, they struck a chilly snap, and it rained. It was none of your little summer landscape rains, either. It was a deadly cold, driving, drenching saturation. Men who had built their houses on the sand, and had no whisky, were in a bad fix. The waves rose and the tents blew down, and the rigid, fossilized person had to be carried across an overflowed place on the back of a guide, lifting up his voice meanwhile in an effort to convince the Almighty that it was a mistake to let it rain at this particular time, and calling for whisky at every step. It is well to carry one's morals into the woods, but if I had to leave either behind, I should take the whisky. It was a short carry to Lake Pescawah. Beyond that water we carried again about a quarter of a mile to a lake called Pebbleloggitch--perhaps for the reason that the Indian who picked out the name couldn't find a harder one. From Pebbleloggitch we made our way by a long canal-like stillwater through a land wherein no man--not even an Indian, perhaps--has ever made his home, for it lies through a weird, lonely marsh--a sort of meadow which no reaper ever harvested, where none but the wild moose ever feeds. We were nearing the edge of the unknown now. One of the guides, Del, I think, had been through this stillwater once before, a long time ago. At the end of it, he knew, lay the upper Shelburne River, which was said to flow through a sheet of water called Irving Lake. But where the river entered the lake and where it left it was for us to learn. Already forty miles or more from our starting point, straight into the wilderness, we were isolated from all mankind, and the undiscovered lay directly before. At the end of the stillwater Del said: "Well, gentlemen, from this on you know as much of the country as I do. All I know is what I've heard, and that's not much. I guess most of it we'll have to learn for ourselves." Chapter Eleven _By lonely tarn, mid thicket deep,_ _The she-moose comes to bear_ _Her sturdy young, and she doth keep_ _It safely guarded there._ Chapter Eleven We got any amount of fly-casting in the Pebbleloggitch stillwater, but no trout. I kept Del dodging and twice I succeeded in hooking him, though not in a vital spot. I could have done it, however, if he had sat still and given me a fair chance. I could land Del even with the treetop cast, but the trout refused to be allured. As a rule, trout would not care to live in a place like that. There would not be enough excitement and activity. A trout prefers a place where the water is busy--where the very effort of keeping from being smashed and battered against the rocks insures a good circulation and a constitution like a steel spring. I have taken trout out of water that would have pulverized a golf ball in five minutes. The fiercer the current--the greater the tumult--the more cruel and savage the rocks, the better place it is for trout. Neither do I remember that we took anything in the Shelburne above Irving Lake, for it was a good deal like the stillwater, with only a gentle riffle here and there. Besides, the day had become chill, and a mist had fallen upon this lonely world--a wet white, drifting mist that was closely akin to rain. On such a day one does not expect trout to rise, and is seldom disappointed. Here and there, where the current was slow-moving and unruffled, Eddie, perhaps, would have tried his dry flies, but never a trout was seen to break water, and it is one of the tenets of dry-fly fishing that a cast may only be made where a trout has been seen to rise--even then, only after a good deal of careful maneuvering on shore to reach the proper spot on the bank without breaking the news to the trout. It wasn't a pleasant time to go wriggling through marsh grass and things along the shore, so it is just as well that there was no excuse for doing it. As it was, we paddled rather silently down the still river, considerably impressed with the thought that we were entering a land to us unknown--that for far and far in every direction, beyond the white mist that shut us in and half-obliterated the world, it was likely that there was no human soul that was not of our party and we were quieted by the silence and the loneliness on every hand. Where the river entered the lake there was no dashing, tumbling water. In fact, we did not realize that we had reached the lake level until the shores on either hand receded, slowly at first, and then broadly widening, melted away and were half lost in the mist. The feeling grew upon me, all at once, that we were very high here. There were no hills or ridges that we could see, and the outlines of such timber as grew along the shore seemed low. It was as if we had reached the top of the world, where there were no more hills--where the trees had been obliged to struggle up to our altitude, barely to fringe us round. As for course now, we had none. Our map was of the vaguest sort. Where the outlet was we could only surmise. In a general way it was supposed to be at the "other end" of the lake, where there was said to be an old dam, built when the region was lumbered, long ago. But as to the shape of the lake, and just where that "other end" might lie, when every side except the bit of shore nearest at hand was lost in the wet, chill mist, were matters for conjecture and experiment. We paddled a little distance and some islands came out of the gray veil ahead--green Nova Scotia islands, with their ledges of rock, some underbrush and a few sentinel pines. We ran in close to these, our guides looking for moose or signs of them. I may say here that no expedition in Nova Scotia is a success without having seen at least one moose. Of course, in the hunting season, the moose is the prime object, but such is the passion for this animal among Nova Scotia guides, that whatever the season or the purpose of the expedition, and however triumphant its result, it is accounted a disappointment and a failure by the natives when it ends without at least a glimpse of a moose. We were in wonderful moose country now; the uninvaded wild, where in trackless bog and swamp, or on the lonely and forgotten islands the she-moose secludes herself to bear and rear her young. That Charlie and Del were more absorbed in the possibility of getting a sight of these great, timid, vanishing visions of animal life--and perhaps a longer view of a little black, bleating calf--than in any exploration for the other end of the Shelburne River was evident. They clung and hovered about those islands, poking the canoes into every nook and corner, speaking in whispers, and sitting up straight at sight of any dark-looking stump or bunch of leaves. Eddie, too, seemed a good deal interested in the moose idea. I discovered presently that he was ambitious to send a specimen of a moose calf, dead or alive, to the British Museum, and would improve any opportunity to acquire that asset. I may say that I was opposed to any such purpose. I am overfond of Eddie, and I wanted him to have a good standing with the museum people, but I did not like the idea of slaughtering a little calf moose before its mother's very eyes, and I did not approve of its capture, either. Even if the mother moose could be convinced that our intentions were good, and was willing to have her offspring civilized and in the British Museum, or Zoo, or some other distinguished place, I still opposed the general scheme. It did not seem to me that a calf moose tied either outside or inside of our tent for a period of weeks, to bleat and tear around, and to kick over and muss up things generally, would be a proper feature to add to a well-ordered camp, especially if it kept on raining and we had to bring him inside. I knew that eventually he would own that tent, and probably demand a sleeping bag. I knew that I should have to give him mine, or at least share it with him. I stated and emphasized these views and insisted that we go over toward the half-obscured shore, where there appeared to be an opening which might be the river. We did go over there, at length, and there was, in fact, an opening, but it was made by a brook entering the lake instead of leaving it. Our memorandum of information declared that a stream called the Susketch emptied into the lake somewhere, and we decided to identify this as the place. We went up a little way to a good looking pool, but there were no trout--at least, they refused to rise, though probably the oldest and mossiest inhabitant of that place had never had such an opportunity before. Back to the lake again, we were pretty soon hovering about the enchanted islands, which seemed to rise on every hand. It was just the sort of a day to see moose, Del said, and there was no other matter that would stand in importance against a proposition like that. I became interested myself, presently, and dropped my voice to a whisper and sat up at every black spot among the leaves. We had just about given it up at length, when all at once Del gave the canoe a great shove inshore, at the same time calling softly to the other canoe, which had already sheared off into the lake. They were with us in an instant and we were clambering out. I hadn't seen a thing, but Del swore that he had caught a glimpse of something black that moved and disappeared. Of course we were clad in our wet-weather armor. I had on my oilskins, and what was more, those high, heavy wading boots that came up under my arms. It is no easy matter to get over even level ground rapidly with a rig like that, and when it comes to scaling an island, full of ledges and holes and underbrush and vines, the problem becomes complex. Del and Charlie, with their shoepacks, distanced me as easily as if I had been sitting still, while that grasshopper, Eddie, with only the lightest sort of waders, skipped and scampered away and left me plunging and floundering about in the brush, with scarcely the possibility of seeing anything, even if it were directly in front of my nose. As a matter of fact, I didn't care anything about seeing moose, and was only running and making a donkey of myself because the others were doing it, and I had caught a touch of their disease. Suddenly, I heard Charlie call, "There they are! There they go!" and with a wild redoubled effort I went headlong into a deep pit, half-filled with leaves and brush, and muck of various sorts. This, of course, would seem to assassinate any hope I might have of seeing the moose, but just then, by some occult process, Charles, the Strong, discovered my disaster, and with that prowess which has made him famous yanked me out of the mess, stood me on my feet and had me running again, wallowing through the bushes toward the other side of the little island whence the moose had fled. "There they go--they are swimming!" I heard Del call, and then Eddie: "I see em! I see em!" and then Charles's voice, a little ahead of me: [Illustration: "Hurry! Hurry! They've got over to the shore!"] "Hurry! Hurry! They've got over to the shore!" I reached the shore myself just then--our shore, I mean--on all fours and full of scratches and bruises, but not too late, for beyond a wide neck of water, on the mainland, two dark phantoms drifted a little way through the mist and vanished into the dark foliage behind. It was only a glimpse I had and I was battered up and still disordered, more or less, with the ivy poison. But somehow I was satisfied. For one thing, I had become infected with a tinge of the native enthusiasm about seeing the great game of the woods, and then down in my soul I rejoiced that Eddie had failed to capture the little calf. Furthermore, it was comforting to reflect that even from the guides' point of view, our expedition, whatever else might come, must be considered a success. We now got down to business. It was well along toward evening, and though these days were long days, this one, with its somber skies and heavy mist, would close in early. We felt that it was desirable to find the lake's outlet before pitching our tents, for the islands make rather poor camping places and lake fishing is apt to be slow work. We wanted to get settled in camp on the lower Shelburne before night and be ready for the next day's sport. We therefore separated, agreeing upon a signal of two shots from whichever of us had the skill or fortune to discover the outlet. The other canoe faded into the mist below the islands while we paddled slowly toward the gray green shores opposite. When presently we were all alone, I was filled, somehow, with the feeling that must have come over those old Canadian voyageurs who were first to make their way through the northlands, threading the network of unknown waters. I could not get rid of the idea that we were pioneers in this desolate spot, and so far as sportsmen were concerned, it may be that we were. Chapter Twelve _The lake is dull with the drifting mist,_ _And the shores are dim and blind;_ _And where is the way ahead, to-day,_ _And what of the path behind?_ Chapter Twelve Along the wet, blurred shore we cruised, the mist getting thicker and more like rain. Here and there we entered some little bay or nook that from a distance looked as if it might be an outlet. Eventually we lost all direction and simply investigated at random wherever any appearance seemed inviting. Once we went up a long slough and were almost ready to fire the signal shots when we discovered our mistake. It seemed a narrow escape from the humiliation of giving a false alarm. What had become of the others we did not know. Evidently the lake was a big one and they might be miles away. Eddie had the only compass, though this would seem to be of no special advantage. At last, just before us, the shore parted--a definite, wide parting it was, that when we pushed into it did not close and come to nothing, but kept on and on, opening out ahead. We went a good way in, to make sure. The water seemed very still, but then we remembered the flatness of the country. Undoubtedly this was the outlet, and we had discovered it. It was only natural that we should feel a certain elation in our having had the good fortune--the instinct, as it were--to proceed aright. I lifted my gun and it was with a sort of triumphant flourish that I fired the two signal shots. It may be that the reader will not fully understand the importance of finding a little thing like the outlet of a lake on a wet, disagreeable day when the other fellows are looking for it, too; and here, to-day, far away from that northern desolation, it does not seem even to me a very great affair whether our canoe or Eddie's made the discovery. But for some reason it counted a lot then, and I suppose Del and I were unduly elated over our success. It was just as well that we were, for our period of joy was brief. In the very instant while my finger was still touching the trigger, we heard come soggily through the mist, from far down the chill, gray water, one shot and then another. I looked at Del and he at me. "They've found something, too," I said. "Do you suppose there are two outlets? Anyhow, here goes," and I fired again our two shots of discovery, and a little later two more so that there might be no mistake in our manifest. I was not content, you see, with the possibility of being considered just an ordinary ass, I must establish proof beyond question of a supreme idiocy in the matter of woodcraft. That is my way in many things. I know, for I have done it often. I shall keep on doing it, I suppose, until the moment when I am permitted to say, "I die innocent." "They only think they have found something," I said to Del now. "It's probably the long slough we found a while ago. They'll be up here quick enough," and I fired yet two more shots, to rub it in. But now two more shots came also from Eddie, and again two more. By this time we had pushed several hundred yards farther into the opening, and there was no doubt but that it was a genuine river. I was growing every moment more elated with our triumph over the others and in thinking how we would ride them down when they finally had to abandon their lead and follow ours, when all at once Del, who had been looking over the side of the canoe grew grave and stopped paddling. "There seems to be a little current here," he pointing down to the grass which showed plainly now in the clear water, "yes--there--is--a current," he went on very slowly, his voice becoming more dismal at every word, "but it's going the wrong way!" I looked down intently. Sure enough, the grass on the bottom pointed back toward the lake. "Then it isn't the Shelburne, after all," I said, "but another river we've discovered." Del looked at me pathetically. "It's the Shelburne, all right," he nodded, and there was deep suffering in his tones, "oh, yes, it's the Shelburne--only it happens to be the upper end--the place where we came in. That rock is where you stopped to make a few casts." No canoe ever got out of the upper Shelburne River quicker than ours. Those first old voyageurs of that waste region never made better time down Irving Lake. Only, now and then, I fired some more to announce our coming, and to prepare for the lie we meant to establish that we only had been replying to their shots all along and not announcing anything new and important of our own. But it was no use. We had guilt written on our features, and we never had been taught to lie convincingly. In fact it was wasted effort from the start. The other canoe had been near enough when we entered the trap to see us go in, and even then had located the true opening, which was no great distance away. They jeered us to silence and they rode us down. They carefully drew our attention to the old log dam in proof that this was the real outlet; they pointed to the rapid outpouring current for it was a swift boiling stream here--and asked us if we could tell which way it was flowing. For a time our disgrace was both active and complete. Then came a diversion. Real rain--the usual night downpour--set in, and there was a scramble to get the tents up and our goods under cover. Yet the abuse had told on me. One of my eyes--the last to yield to the whisky treatment, began to throb a good deal--and I dragged off my wet clothes, got on a dry garment (the only thing I had left by this time that was dry) and worked my way laboriously, section by section, into my sleeping bag, after which Eddie was sorry for me--as I knew he would be--and brought me a cup of tea and some toast and put a nice piece of chocolate into my mouth and sang me a song. It had been a pretty strenuous day, and I had been bruised and cold and wet and scratched and humiliated. But the tea and toast put me in a forgiving spirit, and the chocolate was good, and Eddie can sing. I was dry, too, and reasonably warm. And the rain hissing into the campfire at the door had a soothing sound. Chapter Thirteen _Now take the advice that I do not need--_ _That I do not heed, alway:_ _For there's many a fool can make a rule_ _Which only the wise obey._ Chapter Thirteen As usual, the clouds had emptied themselves by morning. The sky was still dull and threatening, and from the tent door the water of the lake was gray. But the mist had gone, and the islands came out green and beautiful. The conditions made it possible to get some clothing decently smoked and scorched, which is the nearest approach to dryness one is ever likely to achieve in the woods in a rainy season. I may say here that the time will come--and all too soon, in a period of rain--when you will reach your last dry suit of underwear--and get it wet. Then have a care. Be content to stay in a safe, dry spot, if you can find one--you will have to go to bed, of course, to do it until something is dry--that is, pretty dry. To change from one wet suit to another only a little less so is conducive neither to comfort nor to a peaceful old age. Above all, do not put on your night garment, or garments, for underwear, for they will get wet, too; then your condition will be desperate. I submit the above as good advice. I know it is good advice for I did not follow it. I have never followed good advice--I have only given it. At the end of several nights of rain and moist days, I had nothing really dry but my nightshirt and one slipper and I think Eddie's condition was not so far removed. What we did was to pick out the least damp of our things and smoke and scorch them on a pole over the campfire until they had a sort of a half-done look, like bread toasted over a gas jet; then suddenly we would seize them and put them on hot and go around steaming, and smelling of leaf smoke and burnt dry goods--these odors blended with the fragrance of camphor, tar and pennyroyal, with which we were presently saturated in every pore. For though it was said to be too late for black flies and too early for mosquitoes, the rear guard of the one and the advance guard of the other combined to furnish us with a good deal of special occupation. The most devoted follower of the Prophet never anointed himself oftener than we did, and of course this continuous oily application made it impossible to wash very perfectly; besides, it seemed a waste to wash off the precious protection when to do so meant only another immediate and more thorough treatment. I will dwell for a moment on this matter of washing. Fishing and camping, though fairly clean recreations, will be found not altogether free from soiling and grimy tendencies, and when one does not or cannot thoroughly remove the evidences several times a day, they begin to tell on his general appearance. Gradually our hands lost everything original except their shape. Then I found that to shave took off a good deal of valuable ointment each time, and I approved of Eddie's ideas in this direction to the extent of following his example. I believe, though, that I washed myself longer than he did--that is, at stated intervals. Of course we never gave up the habit altogether. It would break out sporadically and at unexpected moments, but I do not recall that these lapses ever became dangerous or offensive. My recollection is that Eddie gave up washing as a mania, that morning at the foot of Irving Lake and that I held out until the next sunrise. Or it may have been only until that evening--it does not matter. Washing is a good deal a question of pride, anyway, and pride did not count any more. Even self-respect had lost its charm. [Illustration: "If one's things are well smoked and scorched and scalded and put on hot in the morning----"] [Illustration: "We never failed to hide the whisky."] In the matter of clothing, however, I wish to record that I never did put on my nightdress for an undergarment. I was tempted to do so, daily, but down within me a still small voice urged the rashness of such a deed and each night I was thankful for that caution. If one's things are well smoked and scorched and scalded and put on hot in the morning, he can forget presently that they are not also dry, and there is a chance that they may become so before night; but to face the prospect of getting into a wet garment to sleep, that would have a tendency to destroy the rare charm and flavor of camp life. In time I clung to my dry nightshirt as to a life-belt. I wrapped it up mornings as a jewel, buried it deep in the bottom of my bag, and I locked the bag. Not that Eddie did not have one of his own--it may be that he had a variety of such things--and as for the guides, I have a notion that they prefer wet clothes. But though this was a wild country, where it was unlikely that we should meet any living soul, there was always the possibility of a stray prospector or a hunter, and a dry garment in a wet time is a temptation which should not be put in any man's way. Neither that nor the liquor supply. When we left our camp--as we did, often--our guns, our tackle, even our purses and watches, were likely to be scattered about in plain view; but we never failed to hide the whisky. Whisky is fair loot, and the woodsman who would scorn to steal even a dry shirt would carry off whisky and revel in his shame. There were quantities of trout in the lower Shelburne, and in a pool just below the camp, next morning, Eddie and I took a dozen or more--enough for breakfast and to spare--in a very few minutes. They were lively fish--rather light in color, but beautifully marked and small enough to be sweet and tender, that is, not much over a half-pound weight. In fact, by this time we were beginning to have a weakness for the smaller fish. The pound-and-upward trout, the most plentiful size, thus far, were likely to be rather dry and none too tender. When we needed a food supply, the under-sized fish were more welcome, and when, as happened only too rarely, we took one of the old-fashioned New England speckled beauty dimensions--that is to say, a trout of from seven to nine inches long and of a few ounces weight--it was welcomed with real joy. Big fish are a satisfaction at the end of a line and in the landing net, but when one really enters upon a trout diet--when at last it becomes necessary to serve them in six or seven different ways to make them go down--the demand for the smallest fish obtainable is pretty certain to develop, while the big ones are promptly returned with good wishes and God-speed to their native element. For of course no true sportsman ever keeps any trout he cannot use. Only the "fish-hog" does that. A trout caught on a fly is seldom injured, and if returned immediately to the water will dart away, all the happier, it may be, for his recent tug-of-war. He suffers little or no pain in the tough cartilages about his mouth and gills (a fact I have demonstrated by hooking the same fish twice, both marks plainly showing on him when taken) and the new kind of exercise and experience he gets at the end of the line, and his momentary association with human beings, constitute for him a valuable asset, perhaps to be retailed in the form of reminiscence throughout old age. But to fling him into a canoe, to gasp and die and be thrown away, that is a different matter. That is a crime worse than stealing a man's lunch or his last dry undershirt, or even his whisky. In the first place, kill your trout the moment you take him out of the water--that is, if you mean to eat him. If he is too big, or if you already have enough, put him back with all expedition and let him swim away. Even if he does warn the other trout and spoil the fishing in that pool, there are more pools, and then it is likely you have fished enough in that one, anyway. Come back next year and have another battle with him. He will be bigger and know better what to do then. Perhaps it will be his turn to win. In the matter of killing a fish there are several ways to do it. Some might prefer to set him up on the bank and shoot at him. Another way would be to brain him with an ax. The guides have a way of breaking a trout's neck by a skillful movement which I never could duplicate. My own method is to sever the vertebræ just back of the ears--gills, I mean--with the point of a sharp knife. It is quick and effective. I don't know why I am running on with digression and advice this way. Perhaps because about this period I had had enough experience to feel capable of giving advice. A little experience breeds a lot of advice. I knew a man once----[3] FOOTNOTES: [3] The publisher wished me to go on with the story at this point. The man referred to above got his experience in Wall Street. He got enough in half a day to keep him in advice for forty-seven years. Chapter Fourteen _Oh, never a voice to answer here,_ _And never a face to see--_ _Mid chill and damp we build our camp_ _Under the hemlock tree._ Chapter Fourteen In spite of the rains the waters of the Shelburne were too low at this point to descend in the canoes. The pools were pretty small affairs and the rapids long, shallow and very ragged. It is good sport to run rapids in a canoe when there is plenty of swift water and a fair percentage of danger. But these were dangerous only to the canoes, which in many places would not even float, loaded as we were. It became evident that the guides would have to wade and drag, with here and there a carry, to get the boats down to deeper water--provided always there _was_ deeper water, which we did not doubt. Eddie and I set out ahead, and having had our morning's fishing, kept pretty well to the bank where the walking was fairly good. We felt pleasant and comfortable and paid not much attention to the stream, except where a tempting pool invited a cast or two, usually with prompt returns, though we kept only a few, smaller fish. We found the banks more attractive. Men had seldom disturbed the life there, and birds sang an arm's length away, or regarded us quietly, without distrust. Here and there a hermit thrush--the sweetest and shyest of birds--himself unseen, charmed us with his mellow syllables. Somehow, in the far, unfretted removal of it all, we felt at peace with every living thing, and when a partridge suddenly dropped down on a limb not three yards away, neither of us offered to shoot, though we had our rifles and Eddie his B. M. license to kill and skin and hence to eat, and though fish were at a discount and game not overplentiful. And then we were rewarded by a curious and beautiful exhibition. For the partridge was a mother bird, and just at our feet there was a peeping and a scampering of little brown balls that disappeared like magic among the leaves--her fussy, furry brood. I don't think she mistrusted our intent--at least, not much. But she wanted to make sure. She was not fully satisfied to have us remain just there, with her babies hiding not two yards away. She dropped on the ground herself, directly in front of us--so close that one might almost touch her--and letting one of her wings fall loosely, looked back at us over her shoulder as if to say, "You see, it is broken. If you wish, you can catch me, easily." So we let her fool us--at least, we let her believe we were deceived--and made as if to stoop for her, and followed each time when she ran a few steps farther ahead, until little by little she had led us away from her family. Then when she was sure that we really did not want her or her chickens, but cared only to be amused, she ran quickly a little way farther and disappeared, and we saw her no more. Within a minute or two from that time she was probably back with her little folks, and they were debating as to whether we were bird or beast, and why we carried that curious combination of smells. It was such incidents as this that led us on. The morning was gone, presently, and we had no means of knowing how far we had come. It seemed to us but a short way. We forgot the windings of the stream, some of which we had eluded by cut-offs, and how many hard places there would be for Del and Charlie to get over with the canoes. As a matter of fact we rather expected them to overtake us at any time, and as the pools became deeper and longer and the rapids somewhat more navigable we feared to leave the stream on the chance of being passed. It was about one o'clock when we reached a really beautiful stretch of water, wide and deep, and navigable for an indefinite distance. Here we stopped to get fish for luncheon, and to wait for the boats, which we anticipated at any moment. It was a wonderful place to fish. One could wade out and get long casts up and down, and the trout rose to almost any fly. Eddie caught a white perch at last and I two yellow ones, not very plentiful in these waters and most desirable from the food point of view. The place seemed really inexhaustible. I think there were few trout larger than fourteen inches in length, but of these there were a great many, and a good supply of the speckled beauty size. When we had enough of these for any possible luncheon demand, and were fairly weary of casting and reeling in, we suddenly realized that we were hungry; also that it was well into the afternoon and that there were no canoes in sight. Furthermore, in the enthusiasm of the sport we had both of us more than once stepped beyond the gunwales of our waders and had our boots full of water, besides being otherwise wet. Once, in fact, I had slipped off a log on all fours, in a rather deep place. It began to be necessary that we should have a camp and be fed. Still we waited hopefully, expecting every moment to see the canoes push around the bend. Eventually we were seized with misgivings. Could the guides have met with shipwreck in some desperate place and disabled one or both of the canoes, perhaps losing our stores? The thought was depressing. Was it possible that they had really passed us during some period when we had left the water, and were now far ahead? We could not believe it. Could it be that the river had divided at some unseen point and that we had followed one fork and they another? It did not seem probable. Perhaps, after all, we had come farther than we believed, and they had been delayed by the difficulties of navigation. But when another hour passed and they did not appear or answer to our calls, the reason for their delay did not matter. We were wet, cold and hungry. Food and fire were the necessary articles. We had not a scrap of food except our uncooked fish, and it would be no easy matter, without ax or hatchet, to get a fire started in those rain-soaked woods. Also, we had no salt, but that was secondary. Eddie said he would try to build a fire if I would clean some fish, but this proved pretty lonesome work for both of us. We decided to both build and then both clean the fish. We dug down under the leaves for dry twigs, but they were not plentiful. Then we split open some dead spruce branches and got a few resinous slivers from the heart of them, a good many in fact, and we patiently gathered bits of reasonably dry bark and branches from under the sheltered side of logs and rocks and leaning trees. We meant to construct our fire very carefully and we did. We scooped a little hollow in the ground for draught, and laid in some of the drier pieces of bark, upon which to pile our spruce slivers. Upon these in turn we laid very carefully what seemed to be our driest selections of twigs, increasing the size with each layer, until we laid on limbs of goodly bulk and had a very respectable looking heap of fuel, ready for lighting on the windward side. Our mistake was that we did not light it sooner. The weight of our larger fuel had pressed hard upon our little heap of spruce slivers and flattened it, when it should have remained loose and quickly inflammable, with the larger fuel lying handy, to be added at the proper moment. As it was, the tiny blaze had a habit of going out just about the time when it ought to have been starting some bigger material. When we did get a sickly flame going up through the little damp mess of stuff, there was a good deal more smoke than fire and we were able to keep the blaze alive only by energetic encouragement in the form of blowing. First Eddie would get down on his hands, with his chin against the ground and blow until he was apoplectic and blind with smoke, and then I would take my turn. I never saw two full-grown men so anxious over a little measly fire in my life. We almost forgot that we were perishing with cold and hunger ourselves in our anxiety to keep the spark of life in that fire. We saved the puny thing, finally, and it waxed strong. Then we put in a good deal of time feeding and nursing our charge and making it warm and comfortable before we considered ourselves. And how did the ungrateful thing repay us? By filling our eyes with smoke and chasing us from side to side, pursuing us even behind trees to blind and torture us with its acrid smarting vapors. In fact, the perversity of campfire smoke remains one of the unexplained mysteries. I have seen a fire properly built between two tents--with good draught and the whole wide sky to hold the smoke--suddenly send a column of suffocating vapor directly into the door of the tent, where there was no draught, no room, no demand at all for smoke. I have had it track me into the remotest corner of my sleeping-bag and have found it waiting for me when I came up for a breath of air. I have had it come clear around the tent to strangle me when I had taken refuge on the back side. I have had it follow me through the bushes, up a tree, over a cliff---- As I was saying, we got the fire going. After that the rest was easy. It was simply a matter of cleaning a few trout, sticking them on sticks and fighting the smoke fiend with one hand while we burnt and blackened the trout a little with the other, and ate them, _sans_ salt, _sans_ fork, _sans_ knife, _sans_ everything. Not that they were not good. I have never eaten any better raw, unsalted trout anywhere, not even at Delmonico's. [Illustration: "It's all in a day's camping, of course."] The matter of getting dry and warm was different. It is not the pleasantest thing in the world, even by a very respectable fire such as we had now achieved, to take off all of one's things without the protection of a tent, especially when the woods are damp and trickly and there is a still small breath of chill wind blowing, and to have to hop and skip, on one foot and then on the other, to keep the circulation going while your things are on a limb in the smoke, getting scalded and fumigated, and black edged here and there where the flame has singed up high. It's all in a day's camping, of course, and altogether worth while, but when the shades of night are closing in and one is still doing a spectral dance about a dying fire, in a wet wood, on a stomach full of raw trout, then the camping day seems pretty long and there is pressing need of other diversion. It was well toward night when we decided that our clothes were scorched enough for comfortable wear, and a late hour it was, for the June days in the north woods are long. We had at no time lost sight of the river, and we began to realize the positive necessity of locating our guides and canoes. We had given up trying to understand the delay. We decided to follow back up the river until we found them, or until we reached some other branch which they might have chosen. It was just as we were about to begin this discouraging undertaking that far up the bend we heard a call, then another. We answered, both together, and in the reply we recognized the tones of Charles the Strong. Presently they came in sight--each dragging a canoe over the last riffle just above the long hole. A moment later we had hurried back to meet two of the weariest, wettest, most bedraggled mortals that ever poled and dragged and carried canoe. All day they had been pulling and lifting; loading, unloading and carrying those canoes and bags and baskets over the Shelburne riffles, where not even the lightest craft could float. How long had been the distance they did not know, but the miles had been sore, tedious miles, and they had eaten nothing more than a biscuit, expecting at every bend to find us waiting. It was proper that we should make camp now at the first inviting place. We offered to stop right there, where our fire was already going, but it was decided that the ground was a poor selection, being rather low. We piled into the canoes and shot down the long hole, while the light of evening was fading from the sky. Several hundred yards below, the water widened and the bank sloped higher. It seemed an attractive spot and we already knew the fishing in these waters. But as a final test Eddie made a cast as we rounded, tossing his flies into an inviting swirl just below a huge bowlder. For some reason we had put on three flies, and when he finally got his mess of fish into the net, there were three trout--all good ones--one on each fly. We decided to camp there, for good luck, and to stay until we were fully repaired for travel. No camp was ever more warmly welcomed, or ever will be more fondly remembered by us all. Chapter Fifteen _To-night, to-night, the frost is white,_ _Under the silver moon;_ _And lo, I lie, as the hours go by,_ _Freezing to death in June._ Chapter Fifteen The reader will have gathered by this time that I had set out with only a hazy idea of what camping in Nova Scotia would be like. I think I had some notion that our beds would be down in the mud as often as not, and sticky and disagreeable--something to be endured for the sake of the day's sport. Things were not as I expected, of course. Things never are. Our beds were not in the mud--not often--and there were days--chill, wet, disheartening days--when I looked forward to them and to the campfire blaze at the tent door with that comfort which a child finds in the prospect of its mother's arm. On the whole, I am sure our camps were more commodious than I had expected them to be; and they were pretentious affairs, considering that we were likely to occupy them no more than one night. We had three tents--Eddie's, already described; a tent for the guides, of about the same proportions, and a top or roof tent, under which we dined when it rained. Then there was a little porch arrangement which we sometimes put out over the front, but we found it had the bad habit of inviting the smoke to investigate and permeate our quarters, so we dedicated the little porch fly to other uses. A waterproof ground cloth was spread between our stretcher beds, and upon the latter, as mentioned before, were our sleeping-bags; also our various bundles, cozily and conveniently bestowed. It was an inviting interior, on the whole something to anticipate, as I have said. Yet our beds were not perfect. Few things are. I am a rather large man, and about three o'clock in the morning I was likely to wake up somewhat cramped and pinched together from being so long in the little canvas trough, with no good way of putting out my arms; besides being a little cold, maybe, because about that hour the temperature seemed to make a specialty of dropping low enough to get underneath one's couch and creep up around the back and shoulders. It is true it was June, but June nights in Nova Scotia have a way of forgetting that it is drowsy, scented summertime; and I recall now times when I looked out through the tent flap and saw the white frost gleaming on the trees, and wondered if there was any sum of money too big to exchange for a dozen blankets or so, and if, on the whole, perishing as I was, I would not be justified in drugging Eddie in taking possession of his sleeping-bag. He had already given me one of the woolen pockets, for compared with mine his was a genuine Arctic affair, and, I really believe, kept him disgustingly warm, even when I was freezing. I was grateful, of course, for I should have perished early in the fight without it. I was also appreciative. I knew just how much warmer a few more of those soft, fleecy pockets would make me, especially on those nights when I woke about the cheerless hour of three, to find the world all hard and white, with the frost fingers creeping down my shoulder blades and along my spine. Then it was I would work around and around--slowly and with due deliberation of movement, for a sleeping-bag is not a thing of sudden and careless revolution--trying to find some position or angle wherein the cold would not so easily and surely find my vitals. At such a time, the desire for real comfort and warmth is acute, and having already one of Eddie's pockets and realizing its sterling worth--also that no more than two feet away from me he lay warm and snug, buried in the undue luxury of still other pockets--I may confess now I was goaded almost to the point of arising and taking peremptory possession of the few paltry pockets that would make my lot less hard. [Illustration: "Nightly he painted my scratches with new skin."] Sooner or later, I suppose, I should have murdered Eddie for his blankets if he had not been good to me in so many ways. Daily he gave me leaders, lines, new flies and such things; nightly he painted my scratches with new skin. On the slightest provocation he would have rubbed me generously with liniment, for he had a new, unopened bottle which he was dying to try. Then there was scarcely an evening after I was in bed--I was always first to go, for Eddie liked to prepare his bed unhurriedly--that he did not bring me a drink, and comfort me with something nice to eat, and maybe sing a little while he was "tickling" his own bed (there is no other name for it), and when he had finished with the countless little tappings, and pattings, and final touches which insured the reposeful comfort of his couch, he would place the candle lantern just between, where each could see equally well and so read a little in order that we might compose our minds for rest. Chapter Sixteen _Now snug, the camp--the candle-lamp,_ _Alighted stands between--_ _I follow "Alice" in her tramp_ _And you your "Folly Queen."_ Chapter Sixteen In the matter of Eddie's reading, however, I was not wholly satisfied. When we had been leaving the little hotel, he had asked me, suddenly, what I would take for reading in the woods. He added that he always read a little at night, upon retiring, and from his manner of saying it, I assumed that such reading might be of a religious nature. Now, I had not previously thought of taking anything, but just then I happened to notice lying upon the table a copy of "Alice in Wonderland," evidently belonging to the premises, and I said I would take that. I had not foregathered with Alice and the White Rabbit for a good while, and it seemed to me that in the depths of an enchanted wood I might properly and profitably renew their acquaintance. The story would hardly offend Eddie, even while he was finding solace in his prayer-book. I was only vaguely troubled when on the first night of our little reading exercise I noticed that Eddie's book was not of the sort which I had been led to expect, but was a rather thick, suspicious-looking affair, paper-bound. Still, I reflected, it might be an ecclesiastical treatise, or even what is known as a theological novel, and being absorbed just then in an endeavor to accompany Alice into the wonderful garden I did not investigate. What was my surprise--my shock, I may say--next morning, on picking up the volume, to discover that it was printed in a foreign language, and that language French--always a suspicious thing in print--and to learn further, when by dint of recalling old school exercises, I had spelled out the author's name and a sentence here and there, that not only was it in that suspicious language, but that it was a novel, and of a sort--well, of course there is only one thing worse than an English translation of a French novel, and that is a French novel which cannot be translated--by any one in this country, I mean, who hopes to keep out of jail. I became absorbed in an endeavor to unravel a passage here and there myself. But my French training had not fitted me for the task. My lessons had been all about the silk gloves of my uncle's children or of the fine leather shoes of my mother's aunt, and such innocent things. I could find no reference to them in Eddie's book. In fact I found on almost every page reference to things which had nothing to do with wardrobe of any sort, and there were words of which I had the deepest suspicion. I was tempted to fling the volume from me with a burning blush of shame. Certainly it was necessary to protest against the introduction of the baleful French novel into this sylvan retreat. I did so, later in the day, but it was no use. Eddie had already gulped down some twenty pages of the poison and would not listen to reason. There was a duchess in the book, and I knew immediately from the lame excuses he made for this person that she was not at all a proper associate for Eddie, especially in this remote place. I pleaded in vain. He had overtaken the duchess on the third page, and the gaud of her beauty was in his eyes. So it came to pass that while I was following gentle little Alice and the White Rabbit through a land of wonder and dreams, Eddie, by the light of the same candle, was chasing this butterfly of folly through a French court at the rate of some twenty finely printed pages every night, translating aloud here and there, until it sometimes became necessary for me to blow out the candle peremptorily, in order that both of us might compose our minds for needed slumber. Perhaps I am dwelling unnecessarily upon our camp detail, but, after all, the tent, with its daily and nightly round becomes a rather important thing when it is to be a habitation for a period of weeks of sun and storm; and any little gem of experience may not be wholly unwasted. Then there is the matter of getting along without friction, which seems important. A tent is a small place, and is likely to contain a good many things--especially in bad weather--besides yourselves. If you can manage to have your things so the other fellow will stumble over them as infrequently as possible, it is just as well for him, and safer for you. Also, for the things. Then, too, if you will make your beds at separate times, as we did, one remaining outside, or lying in a horizontal position among his own supplies while the other is in active operation, you are less likely to rub against each other, which sometimes means to rub in the wrong direction, with unhappy results. Of course forbearance is not a bad asset to have along, and a small measure of charity and consideration. It is well to take one's sense of humor, too, and any little remnant of imagination one may have lying about handy at the moment of starting. Many a well-constructed camp has gone to wreck during a spell of bad weather because one or more of its occupants did not bring along imagination and a sense of humor, or failed to produce these articles at the critical moment. Imagination beautifies many a desolate outlook--a laugh helps over many a hard place. Chapter Seventeen _Oh, the pulses leap where the fall is steep,_ _And the rocks rise grim and dark,_ _With the swirl and sweep of the rapids deep,_ _And the joy of the racing bark._ Chapter Seventeen We established a good camp on the Shelburne and remained in it for several days. For one thing, our canoes needed a general overhauling after that hard day on the rocks. Also, it rained nightly, and now and then took a turn at it during the day, to keep in practice. We minded the rain, of course, as it kept us forever cooking our clothes, and restrained a good deal of activity about the camp. Still, we argued that it was a good thing, for there was no telling what sort of water lay ahead and a series of rock-strewn rapids with low water might mean trouble. On the whole, we were willing to stay and put up with a good deal for the sport in that long pool. There may be better fishing on earth than in the Shelburne River between Irving and Sand lakes, but it will take something more than mere fisherman's gossip to convince either Eddie or me of that possibility. We left the guides and went out together one morning, and in less than three hours had taken full fifty fish of a pound each, average weight. We took off our top flies presently and fished with only one, which kept us busy enough, and always one of us had a taut line and a curved rod; often both at one time. We began to try experiments at last, and I took a good fish on one of the funny little scale-winged flies (I had happily lost the Jock Scott with two hooks early in the campaign) and finally got a big fellow by merely tying a bit of white absorbent cotton to a plain black hook. Yet curious are the ways of fish. For on the next morning--a perfect trout day, with a light southwest wind and running clouds, after a night of showers--never a rise could we get. We tried all the casts of the day before--the Parmcheenie, the Jenny Lind, the Silver Doctor and the Brown Hackle. It was no use. Perhaps the half a hundred big fellows we had returned to the pool had warned all the others; perhaps there was some other unwritten, occult law which prohibited trout from feasting on this particular day. Finally Eddie, by some chance, put on a sort of a Brown Hackle affair with a red piece of wool for a tail--he called it a Red Tag fly, I think--and straightway from out of the tarry black depths there rose such a trout as neither of us had seen the day before. After that, there was nothing the matter with Eddie's fishing. What there was about this brown, red-tailed joke that tickled the fancy of those great silly trout, who would have nothing to do with any other lure, is not for me to say. The creature certainly looked like nothing that ever lived, or that they could ever have imagined before. It seemed to me a particularly idiotic combination and I could feel my respect for the intelligence of trout waning. Eddie agreed with me as to that. He said he had merely bought the thing because it happened to be the only fly he didn't have in his collection and there had been a vacant place in his fly-book. He said it was funny the trout should go for it as they did, and he laughed a good deal about it. I suppose it was funny, but I did not find it very amusing. And how those crazy-headed trout did act. In vain I picked out flies with the red and brown colors and tossed them as carefully as I could in just the same spots where Eddie was getting those great whoppers at every cast. Some mysterious order from the high priest of all trout had gone forth that morning, prohibiting every sort and combination of trout food except this absurd creature of which the oldest and mossiest trout had never dreamed. That was why they went for it. It was the only thing not down on the list of proscribed items. There was nothing for me to do at last but to paddle Eddie around and watch him do some of the most beautiful fishing I have ever seen, and to net his trout for him, and take off the fish, and attend to any other little wants incident to a fisherman's busy day. I did it with as good grace as I could, of course, and said I enjoyed it, and tried not to be nasty and disagreeable in my attitude toward the trout, the water, Eddie, and the camp and country in general. But, after all, it is a severe test, on a day like that, to cast and cast and change flies until you have wet every one in your book, without even a rise, and to see the other chap taking great big black and mottled fellows--to see his rod curved like a whip and to watch the long, lithe body leaping and gleaming in the net. But the final test, the climax, was to come at evening. For when the fish would no longer rise, even to the Red Tag, we pulled up to the camp, where Eddie of course reported to the guides his triumph and my discomfiture. Then, just as he was opening his fly-book to put the precious red-tailed mockery away, he suddenly stopped and stared at me, hesitated, and held up another--that is, two of them, side by side. "So help me!" he swore, "I didn't know I had it! I must have forgotten I had one, and bought another, at another time. Now, I had forgotten that, too. So help me!" If I hadn't known Eddie so well--his proclivity for buying, and forgetting, and buying over again--also his sterling honor and general moral purity--the fishes would have got him then, Red Tag and all. As it was, I condescended to accept the second fly. I agreed that it was not such a bad production, after all, though I altered my opinion again, next morning, for whatever had been the embargo laid on other varieties of trout bait the day before, it was on now, and there was a general rising to anything we offered--Doctors, Parmcheenie, Absorbent Cotton--any old thing that skimmed the water and looked big and succulent. We broke camp that morning and dropped down toward the next lake--Sand Lake, it would be, by our crude map and hazy directions. There are no better rapids and there is no more lively fishing than we had on that run. There was enough water for us to remain in the canoes, and it was for the most part whirling, swirling, dashing, leaping water--shooting between great bowlders--plunging among cruel-looking black rocks--foaming into whirlpools below, that looked ready to swamp our light craft, with stores, crew, tackle, everything. It was my first exhibition of our guides' skill in handling their canoes. How they managed to just evade a sharp point of rock on one side and by a quick twist escape shipwreck from a bowlder or mass of bowlders on the other, I fail to comprehend. Then there were narrow boiling channels, so full of obstructions that I did not believe a chip could go through with entire safety. Yet somehow Del the Stout and Charles the Strong seemed to know, though they had never traveled this water before, just where the water would let the boats pass, just where the stones were wide enough to let us through--touching on both sides, sometimes, and ominously scraping on the bottom, but sliding and teetering into the cauldron below, where somehow we did not perish, perhaps because we shot so quickly through the foam. In the beginning I remembered a few brief and appropriate prayers, from a childhood where such things were a staff of comfort, and so made my peace with the world each time before we took the desperate plunge. But as nothing seemed to happen--nothing fatal, I mean--I presently gave myself up to the pure enjoyment of the tumult and exhilaration, without disturbing myself as to dangers here or hereafter. I do not believe the times that the guides got out of the canoes to ease them over hard places would exceed twice, and not oftener than that were we called on to assist them with the paddles. Even when we wished to do so, we were often requested to go on fishing, for the reason, I suppose, that in such a place one's unskilled efforts are likely to be misdirected with fatal results. Somewhat later we were to have an example of this kind--but I anticipate. We went on fishing. I never saw so many fish. We could take them as we shot a rapid, we could scoop them in as we leaped a fall. They seemed to be under every stone and lying in wait. There were great black fellows in every maelstrom; there were groups holding receptions for us in the stillwater pools below. It is likely that that bit of the Shelburne River had not been fished before within the memory of any trout then living, and when those red and blue and yellow flies came tumbling at them, they must have thought it was great day in the morning and that the white-faced prophets of big feeding had come. For years, the trout we returned to those pools will tell their friends and descendants of the marvels and enchantments of that day. I had given up my noibwood as being too strenuous in its demands for constant fishing, but I laid aside the light bamboo here in this high-pressure current and with this high-speed fishing, where trout sometimes leaped clear of the water for the fly cast on the foam far ahead, to be swinging a moment later at the end of the line almost as far behind. No very delicate rod would improve under a strain like that, and the tough old noibwood held true, and nobody cared--at least I didn't--whether the tip stayed set or not. It was bent double most of the time, anyway, and the rest of the time didn't matter. I don't know how many fish I took that day, but Eddie kept count of his, and recorded a total of seventy-four between camp and the great, splendid pool where the Shelburne foams out into Sand Lake, four miles or such a matter, below. I do know that we lost two landing nets in that swift water, one apiece, and this was a serious matter, for there were but two more, both Eddie's, and landing nets in the wilderness are not easy to replace. Of fish we kept possibly a dozen, the smallest ones. The others--larger and wiser now--are still frolicking in the waters of the Shelburne, unless some fish-hog has found his way to that fine water, which I think doubtful, for a fish-hog is usually too lazy and too stingy to spend the effort and time and money necessary to get there. Chapter Eighteen _There's nothing that's worse for sport, I guess,_ _Than killing to throw away;_ _And there's nothing that's better for recklessness_ _Than having a price to pay._ Chapter Eighteen We had other camp diversions besides reading. We had shooting matches, almost daily, one canoe against the other, usually at any stop we happened to make, whether for luncheon or to repair the canoes, or merely to prospect the country. On rainy days, and sometimes in the evening, we played a game of cards known under various names--I believe we called it pedro. At all events, you bid, and buy, and get set back, and have less when you get through than you had before you began. Anyhow, that is what my canoe did on sundry occasions. I am still convinced that Del and I played better cards than the other canoe, though the score would seem to show a different result. We were brilliant and speculative in our playing. They were plodders and not really in our class. Genius and dash are wasted on such persons. I am equally certain that our shooting was much worse than theirs, though the percentage of misses seemed to remain in their favor. In the matter of bull's-eyes--whenever such accidents came along--they happened to the other canoe, but perhaps this excited our opponents, for there followed periods of wildness when, if their shots struck anywhere, it was impossible to identify the places. At such periods Eddie was likely to claim that the cartridges were blanks, and perhaps they were. As for Del and me, our luck never varied like that. It remained about equally bad from day to day--just bad enough to beat the spectacular fortunes of Eddie and Charles the Strong. In the matter of wing-shooting, however--that is to say, shooting when we were on the wing and any legitimate quarry came in view--my recollection is that we ranked about alike. Neither of us by any chance ever hit anything at all, and I have an impression that our misses were about equally wide. Eddie may make a different claim. He may claim that he fired oftener and with less visible result than I. Possibly he did fire oftener, for he had a repeating rifle and I only a single shot, but so far as the result is concerned, if he states that his bullets flew wider of the mark, such a claim is the result of pure envy, perhaps malice. Why, I recall one instance of a muskrat whose skin Eddie was particularly desirous of sending to those museum folks in London--all properly mounted, with their names (Eddie's and the muskrat's) on a neat silver plate, so that it could stand there and do honor to us for a long time--until the moths had eaten up everything but the plate, perhaps, and Eddie struck the water within two or three feet of it (the muskrat, of course) as much as a dozen times, while such shots as I let go didn't hit anything but the woods or the sky and are, I suppose, still buried somewhere in the quiet bosom of nature. I am glad to unload that sentence. It was getting top-heavy, with a muskrat and moths and a silver plate in it. I could shoot some holes in it with a little practice, but inasmuch as we didn't get the muskrat, I will let it stand as a stuffed specimen. I am also glad about the muskrat. Had he perished, our pledge would have compelled us to eat him, and although one of Eddie's text-books told a good deal about their food value and seven different ways of cooking them, I was averse to experimenting even with one way. I have never really cared for muskrats since as a lad I caught twenty of them one night in a trammel net. Up to that hour the odor of musk had never been especially offensive to me, but twenty muskrats in a net can compound a good deal of perfumery. We had to bury the net, and even then I never cared much about it afterwards. The sight of it stirred my imagination, and I was glad when it was ripped away from us by a swift current one dark night, it being unlawful to set a trammel net in that river, and therefore sinful, by daylight. It was on Sand Lake that Eddie gave the first positive demonstration of his skill as a marksman. Here, he actually made a killing. True, it was not a wing shot, but it was a performance worthy of record. A chill wet wind blew in upon us as we left the river, and a mist such as we had experienced on Irving Lake, with occasional drifts of rain, shut us in. At first it was hard to be certain that we were really on a lake, for the sheet of water was long and narrow, and it might be only a widening of the river. But presently we came to an island, and this we accepted as identification. It was the customary island, larger than some, but with the bushes below, the sentinel pines, and here and there a gaunt old snag--bleached and dead and lifting its arms to the sky. On one of these dead ones we made out, through the mist, a strange dark bunch about the size of a barn door and of rather irregular formation. Gradually nearing, we discovered the bunch to be owls--great horned owls--a family of them, grouped on the old tree's limbs in solid formation, oblivious to the rain, to the world, to any thought of approaching danger. Now, the great horned owl is legitimate quarry. The case against him is that he is a bird of prey--a destroyer of smaller birds and an enemy of hen roosts. Of course if one wanted to go deeply into the ethics of the matter, one might say that the smaller birds and the chickens are destroyers, too, of bugs and grasshoppers and things, and that a life is a life, whether it be a bird or a bumble-bee, or even a fish-worm. But it's hard to get to the end of such speculations as that. Besides, the owl was present, and we wanted his skin. Eddie crept close in with his canoe, and drew a careful bead on the center of the barn door. There was an angry little spit of powder in the wet, a wavering movement of the dark, mist-draped bunch, a slow heaving of ghostly pinions and four silent, feathered phantoms drifted away into the white gloom. But there was one that did not follow. In vain the dark wings heaved and fell. Then there came a tottering movement, a leap forward, and half-fluttering, half-plunging, the heavy body came swishing to the ground. Yet unused to the battle as he was, for he was of the younger brood, he died game. When we reached him he was sitting upright, glaring out of his great yellow eyes, his talons poised for defense. Even with Eddie's bottle of new skin in reserve, it was not considered safe to approach too near. We photographed him as best we could, and then a shot at close range closed his brief career. I examined the owl with considerable interest. In the first place I had never seen one of this noble species before, and this was a beautiful specimen. Also, his flesh, being that of a young bird, did not appeal to warrant the expression tough as a boiled owl, which the others remembered almost in a chorus when I referred to our agreement concerning the food test of such game as we brought down. I don't think any of us wanted to eat that owl. I know I didn't, but I had weakened once--on the porcupine, it may be remembered--and the death of that porcupine rested heavily upon me, especially when I remembered how he had whined and grieved in the moment of dying. I think I had a notion that eating the owl would in some measure atone for the porcupine. I said, with such firmness as I could command, and all day I repeated at intervals, that we would eat the owl. We camped rather early that afternoon, for it was not pleasant traveling in the chill mist, and the prospect of the campfire and a snug tent was an ever-present temptation. I had suggested, also, that we ought to go ashore in time to cook the owl for supper. It might take time to cook him. We did not especially need the owl. We had saved a number of choice small trout and we were still able to swallow them when prepared in a really palatable form. Eddie, it is true, had condemned trout at breakfast, and declared he would have no more of them, but this may have been because there were flapjacks. He showed no disposition to condemn them now. When I mentioned the nice, tender owl meat which we were to have, he really looked longingly at the trout and spoke of them as juicy little fellows, such as he had always liked. I agreed that they would be good for the first course, and that a bird for supper would make out a sumptuous meal. I have never known Eddie to be so kind to me as he was about this time. He offered me some leaders and flies and even presented me with a silver-mounted briar-root pipe, brought all the way from London. I took the things, but I did not soften my heart. I was born in New England and have a conscience. I cannot be bribed like that. I told the guides that it would be better to begin supper right away, in order that we might not get too hungry before the owl was done. I thought them slow in their preparations for the meal. It was curious, too, for I had promised them they should have a piece of the bird. Del was generous. He said he would give his to Charles. That he never really cared much for birds, anyhow. Why, once, he said, he shot a partridge and gave it away, and he was hungry, too. He gave it to a boy that happened along just then, and when another partridge flew up he didn't even offer to shoot it. We didn't take much stock in that story until it dawned upon us that he had shot the bird out of season, and the boy had happened along just in time to be incriminated by accepting it as a present. It was better to have him as a partner than a witness. As for Charles, he affected to be really eager for owl meat. He said that all his life he had looked forward to this time. Still, he was slow, I thought. He seemed about as eager for supper as a boy is to carry in the evening wood. He said that one of the canoes leaked a little and ought to be pitched right away. I said it was altogether too damp for such work and that the canoe would wait till morning. Then he wanted to look up a spring, though there were two or three in plain sight, within twenty yards of the camp. I suspected at last that he was not really anxious to cook the owl and was trying to postpone the matter until it was too late for him (the owl) to get properly done before bedtime. Then I became firm. I said that a forest agreement was sacred. That we were pledged to the owl before we shot him, and that we would keep our promise to the dead, even to the picking of his bones. Wood was gathered then, and the fire blazed. The owl's breast--fat and fine it looked--was in the broiler, and on the fire. There it cooked--and cooked. Then it cooked some more and sent up an appetizing smell. Now and then, I said I thought the time for it had come, but there was a burden of opinion that more cooking would benefit the owl. Meantime, we had eaten a pan or two of trout and a few other things--the bird of course being later in the bill of fare. At most dinners I have attended, this course is contemplated with joy. It did not seem to be on this occasion. Eddie agreed with Del that he had never cared much for bird, anyway, and urged me to take his share. I refused to deprive him of it. Then he said he didn't feel well, and thought he really ought not to eat anything more. I said grimly that possibly this was true, but that he would eat the owl. It was served then, fairly divided and distributed, as food is when men are on short rations. I took the first taste--I was always venturesome--a little one. Then, immediately, I wished I had accepted Eddie's piece. But meantime he had tasted, too--a miserly taste--and then I couldn't have got the rest of it for money. For there was never anything so good as that breast of young owl. It was tender, it was juicy, it was as delicately flavored as a partridge, almost. Certainly it was a dainty morsel to us who had of late dealt so largely in fish diet. Had we known where the rest of that brood of owls had flown to we should have started after them, then and there. Extract from my diary that night: "Eddie has been taken with a slight cramp, and it has occurred to him that the owl meat, though appetizing, may be poisonous. He is searching his medicine bag for remedies. His disaster is merely punishment for the quantity of other food he ate beforehand, in his futile effort to escape the owl." Chapter Nineteen _Then scan your map, and search your plans,_ _And ponder the hunter's guess--_ _While the silver track of the brook leads back_ _Into the wilderness._ Chapter Nineteen We looked for moose again on Sand Lake, but found only signs. On the whole, I thought this more satisfactory. One does not have to go galloping up and down among the bushes and rocks to get a glimpse of signs, but may examine them leisurely and discuss the number, character and probable age of these records, preserving meanwhile a measure of repose, not to say dignity. Below Sand Lake a brook was said to enter. Descending from the upper interior country, it would lead us back into regions more remote than any heretofore traveled. So far as I could learn, neither of our guides had ever met any one who even claimed in know this region, always excepting the imaginative Indian previously mentioned. Somewhere in these uncharted wilds this Indian person had taken trout "the size of one's leg." Regardless of the dimensions of this story, it had a fascination for us. We wished to see those trout, even if they had been overrated. We had been hurrying, at least in spirit, to reach the little water gateway that opened to a deeper unknown where lay a chain of lakes, vaguely set down on our map as the Tobeatic[4] waters. At some time in the past the region had been lumbered, but most of the men who cut the timber were probably dead now, leaving only a little drift of hearsay testimony behind. It was not easy to find the entrance to the hidden land. The foliage was heavy and close along the swampy shore, and from such an ambush a still small current might flow unnoticed, especially in the mist that hung about us. More than once we were deceived by some fancied ripple or the configuration of the shore. Del at length announced that just ahead was a growth of a kind of maple likely to indicate a brook entrance. The shore really divided there and a sandy waterway led back somewhere into a mystery of vines and trees. We halted near the mouth of the little stream for lunch and consultation. It was not a desirable place to camp. The ground was low and oozy and full of large-leaved greenhousy-looking plants. The recent rains had not improved the character of the place. There was poison ivy there, too, and a delegation of mosquitoes. We might just as well have gone up the brook a hundred yards or so, to higher and healthier ground, but this would not have been in accord with Eddie's ideas of exploration. Explorers, he said, always stopped at the mouth of rivers to debate, and to consult maps and feed themselves in preparation for unknown hardships to come. So we stopped and sat around in the mud, and looked at some marks on a paper--made by the imaginative Indian, I think--and speculated as to whether it would be possible to push and drag the canoes up the brook, or whether everything would have to go overland. Personally, the prospect of either did not fill me with enthusiasm. The size of the brook did not promise much in the way of important waters above or fish even the size of one's arm. However, Tobeatic exploration was down on the cards. Our trip thus far had furnished only a hint of such mystery and sport as was supposed to lie concealed somewhere beyond the green, from which only this little brooklet crept out to whisper the secret. Besides, I had learned to keep still when Eddie had set his heart on a thing. I left the others poring over the hieroglyphic map, and waded out into the clean water of the brook. As I looked back at Del and Charlie, squatting there amid the rank weeds, under the dark, dripping boughs, with Eddie looking over their shoulders and pointing at the crumpled paper, spread before them, they formed a picturesque group--such a one as Livingstone or Stanley and their followers might have made in the African jungles. When I told Eddie of this he grew visibly prouder and gave me two new leaders and some special tobacco. We proceeded up the stream, Eddie and I ahead, the guides pushing the loaded canoes behind. It was the brook of our forefathers--such a stream as might flow through the valley meadows of New England, with trout of about the New England size, and plentiful. Lively fellows, from seven to nine inches in length, rose two and three at almost every cast. We put on small flies and light leaders and forgot there were such things as big trout in Nova Scotia. It was joyous, old-fashioned fishing--a real treat for a change. We had not much idea how far we were to climb this water stairway, and as the climb became steeper, and the water more swift, the guides pushed and puffed and we gave them a lift over the hard places--that is, Eddie did. I was too tired to do anything but fish. As a rule, the water was shallow, but there were deep holes. I found one of them presently, by mistake. It was my habit to find holes that way--places deeper than my waders, though the latter came to my shoulders. It seemed necessary that several times daily I should get my boots full of water. When I couldn't do it in any other way I would fall over something and let the river run into them for a while. I called to Eddie from where I was wallowing around, trying to get up, with my usual ballast. "Don't get in here!" I said. He was helping the boys over a hard place just then, tugging and sweating, but he paused long enough to be rude and discourteous. "I don't have to catch my trout in my boots," he jeered, and the guides were disrespectful enough to laugh. I decided that I would never try to do any of them a good turn again. Then suddenly everything was forgotten, for a gate of light opened out ahead, and presently we pushed through and had reached the shores of as lovely a sheet of water as lies in the great north woods. It was Tupper Lake, by our calculation, and it was on the opposite side that Tobeatic Brook was said to enter. There, if anywhere, we might expect to find the traditional trout. So far as we knew, no one had looked on these waters since the old lumbering days. Except for exploration there was no reason why any one should come. Of fish and game there were plenty in localities more accessible. To me, I believe the greatest joy there, as everywhere in the wilderness--and it was a joy that did not grow old--was the feeling that we were in a region so far removed from clanging bells and grinding wheels and all the useful, ugly attributes of mankind. We put out across the lake. The land rose rather sharply beyond, and from among the trees there tumbled out a white foaming torrent that made a wide swirling green pool where it entered. We swept in below this aquarium, Eddie taking one side and I the other. We had on our big flies now and our heavy leaders. They were necessary. Scarcely had a cast gone sailing out over the twisting water when a big black and gold shape leaped into the air and Eddie had his work cut out for him. A moment later my own reel was singing, and I knew by the power and savage rushes that I had something unusual at the other end. "Trout as big as your leg!" we called across to each other, and if they were not really as big as that, they were, at all events, bigger than anything so far taken--as big as one's arm perhaps--one's forearm, at least, from the hollow of the elbow to the fingertips. You see how impossible it is to tell the truth about a trout the first time. I never knew a fisherman who could do it. There is something about a fish that does not affiliate with fact. Even at the market I have known a fish to weigh more than he did when I got him home. We considered the imaginative Indian justified, and blessed him accordingly. FOOTNOTES: [4] Pronounced To-be-at-ic Chapter Twenty _You may slip away from a faithful friend_ _And thrive for an hour or two,_ _But you'd better be fair, and you'd better be square,_ _Or something will happen to you._ Chapter Twenty We took seventeen of those big fellows before we landed, enough in all conscience. A point just back of the water looked inviting as a place to pitch the tents, and we decided to land, for we were tired. Yet curious are the ways of fishermen: having had already too much, one becomes greedy for still more. There was an old dam just above, unused for a generation perhaps, and a long, rotting sluiceway through which poured a torrent of water. It seemed just the place for the king of trouts, and I made up my mind to try it now before Eddie had a chance. You shall see how I was punished. I crept away when his back was turned, taking his best and longest-handled landing net (it may be remembered I had lost mine), for it would be a deep dip down into the sluice. The logs around the premises were old and crumbly and I had to pick my way with care to reach a spot from which it would be safe to handle a big trout. I knew he was there. I never had a stronger conviction in my life. The projecting ends of some logs which I chose for a seat seemed fairly permanent and I made my preparations with care. I put on a new leader and two large new flies. Then I rested the net in a handy place, took a look behind me and sent the cast down the greased lightning current that was tearing through the sluice. I expected results, but nothing quite so sudden. Neither did I know that whales ever came so far up into fresh-water streams. I know it was a whale, for nothing smaller could have given a yank like that; besides, in the glimpse I had of him he looked exactly like pictures I have seen of the leviathan who went into commission for three days to furnish passage for Jonah and get his name in print. I found myself suddenly grabbing at things to hold on to, among them being Eddie's long-handled net, which was of no value as ballast, but which once in my hand I could not seem to put down again, being confused and toppling. As a matter of fact there was nothing satisfactory to get hold of in that spot. I had not considered the necessity of firm anchorage when I selected the place, but with a three-ton trout at the end of a long line, in a current going a thousand miles a minute, I realized that it would be well to be lashed to something permanent. As it was, with my legs swinging over that black mill-race, my left hand holding the rod, and my right clutching the landing net, I was in no position to withstand the onset of a battle such as properly belongs to the North Pacific Ocean where they have boats and harpoons and long coiled lines suitable to such work. [Illustration: "I remember seeing the sluice, black and swift, suddenly rise to meet me."] Still, I might have survived--I might have avoided complete disaster, I think--if the ends of those two logs I selected as a seat had been as sound as they looked. Of course they were not. They were never intended to stand any such motions as I was making. In the brief moment allowed me for thought I realized this, but it was no matter. My conclusions were not valuable. I remember seeing the sluice, black, and swift, suddenly rise to meet me, and of dropping Eddie's net as I went down. Then I have a vision of myself shooting down that race in a wild toboggan ride, and a dim, splashy picture of being pitched out on a heap of brush and stones and logs below. When I got some of the water out of my brains so I could think with them, I realized, first, that I was alive, still clutching my rod and that it was unbroken. Next, that the whale and Eddie's landing net were gone. I did not care so especially much about the whale. He had annoyed me. I was willing to part with him. Eddie's net was a different matter. I never could go back without that. After all his goodness to me I had deceived him, slipped away from him, taken his prized net--and lost it. I had read of such things; the Sunday-school books used to be full of similar incidents. And even if Eddie forgave me, as the good boy in the books always did, my punishment was none the less sure. My fishing was ended. There was just one net left. Whatever else I had done, or might do, I would never deprive Eddie of his last net. I debated whether I should go to him, throw myself on his mercy--ask his forgiveness and offer to become his special guide and servant for the remainder of the trip--or commit suicide. But presently I decided to make one try, at least, to find the net. It had not been thrown out on the drift with me, for it was not there. Being heavy, it had most likely been carried along the bottom and was at present lodged in some deep crevice. It was useless, of course; still, I would try. I was not much afraid of the sluice, now that I had been introduced to it. I put my rod in a place of safety and made my way to the upper end of the great trough. Then I let myself down carefully into the racing water, bracing myself against the sides and feeling along the bottom with my feet. It was uncertain going, for the heavy current tried hard to pull me down. But I had not gone three steps till I felt something. I could not believe it was the net. I carefully steadied myself and--down, down to my elbow. Then I could have whooped for joy, for it _was_ the net. It had caught on an old nail or splinter, or something, and held fast. Eddie was not at the camp, and the guides were busy getting wood. I was glad, for I was wet and bruised and generally disturbed. When I had changed my things and recovered a good deal, I sat in the shade and smoked and arranged my fly-book and other paraphernalia, and brooded on the frailty of human nature and the general perversity and cussedness of things at large. I had a confession all prepared for Eddie, long before he arrived. It was a good confession--sufficiently humble and truthful without being dangerous. I had tested it carefully and I did not believe it could result in any disagreeable penance or disgrace on my part. It takes skill to construct a confession like that. But it was wasted. When Eddie came in, at last, he wore a humble hang-dog look of his own, and I did not see the immediate need of _any_ confession. "I didn't really intend to run off from you," he began sheepishly. "I only wanted to see what was above the dam, and I tried one or two of the places up there, and they were all so bully I couldn't get away. Get your rod, I want to take you up there before it gets too late." So the rascal had taken advantage of my brief absence and slipped off from me. In his guilty haste he had grabbed the first landing net he had seen, never suspecting that I was using the other. Clearly I was the injured person. I regarded him with thoughtful reproach while he begged me to get my rod and come. He would take nothing, he said, but a net, and would guide for me. I did not care to fish any more that day; but I knew Eddie--I knew how his conscience galled him for his sin and would never give him peace until he had made restitution in full. I decided to be generous. We made our way above the dam, around an old half-drained pond, and through a killing thicket of vines and brush to a hidden pool, faced with slabs and bowlders. There, in that silent dim place I had the most beautiful hour's fishing I have ever known. The trout were big, gamy fellows and Eddie was alert, obedient and respectful. It was not until dusk that he had paid his debt to the last fish--had banished the final twinge of remorse. Our day, however, was not quite ended. We must return to camp. The thicket had been hard to conquer by daylight. Now it was an impenetrable wall of night and thorns. Across the brook looked more open and we decided to go over, but when we got there it proved a trackless, swampy place, dark and full of pitfalls and vines. Eddie, being small and woods-broken could work his way through pretty well, but after a few discouragements I decided to wade down the brook and through the shallow pond above the dam. At least it could not be so deadly dark there. It was heart-breaking business. I went slopping and plunging among stumps and stones and holes. I mistook logs for shadows and shadows for logs with pathetic results. The pond that had seemed small and shallow by daylight was big enough and deep enough now. A good deal of the way I went on my hands and knees, but not from choice. A nearby owl hooted at me. Bats darted back and forth close to my face. If I had not been a moral coward I should have called for help. Eddie had already reached camp when I arrived and had so far recovered his spiritual status that he jeered at my condition. I resolved then not to mention the sluice and the landing net at all--ever. I needed an immediate change of garments, of course--the third since morning.[5] It had been a hard, eventful day. Such days make camping remembered--and worth while. FOOTNOTES: [5] I believe the best authorities say that one change is enough to take on a camping trip, and maybe it is--for the best authorities. Chapter Twenty-one _Oh, it's well to live high as you can, my boy,_ _Wherever you happen to roam,_ _But it's better to have enough bacon and beans_ _To take the poor wanderers home._ Chapter Twenty-one By this time we had reached trout diet _per se_. I don't know what _per se_ means, but I have often seen it used and it seems to fit this case. Of course we were not entirely out of other things. We had flour for flapjacks, some cornmeal for mush and Johnnie-cake, and enough bacon to impart flavor to the fish. Also, we were not wholly without beans--long may they wave--the woods without them would be a wilderness indeed. But in the matter of meat diet it was trout _per se_, as I have said, unless that means we did not always have them; in which case I will discard those words. We did. We had fried trout, broiled trout, boiled trout, baked trout, trout on a stick and trout chowder. We may have had them other ways--I don't remember. I know I began to imagine that I was sprouting fins and gills, and daily I felt for the new bumps on my head which I was certain must result from this continuous absorption of brain food. There were several new bumps, but when I called Eddie's attention to them, he said they were merely the result of butting my head so frequently against logs and stumps and other portions of the scenery. Then he treated them with liniment and new skin. Speaking of food, I believe I have not mentioned the beefsteak which we brought with us into the woods. It was Eddie's idea, and he was its self-appointed guardian and protector. That was proper, only I think he protected it too long. It was a nice sirloin when we started--thick and juicy and of a deep rich tone. Eddie said a little age would improve it, and I suppose he was right--he most always is. He said we would appreciate it more, too, a little later, which seemed a sound doctrine. Yet, somehow, that steak was an irritation. It is no easy matter to adjust the proper age of a steak to the precise moment of keen and general appreciation. We discussed the matter a good deal, and each time the steak was produced as a sort of Exhibit A, and on each occasion Eddie decided that the time was not ripe--that another day would add to its food value. I may say that I had no special appetite for steak, not yet, but I did not want to see it carried off by wild beasts, or offered at last on a falling market. Besides, the thing was an annoyance as baggage. I don't know where we carried it at first, but I began to come upon it in unexpected places. If I picked up a yielding looking package, expecting to find a dry undergarment, or some other nice surprise, it turned out to be that steak. If I reached down into one of the pack baskets for a piece of Eddie's chocolate, or some of his tobacco--for anything, in fact--I would usually get hold of a curious feeling substance and bring up that steak. I began to recognize its texture at last, and to avoid it. Eventually I banished it from the baskets altogether. Then Eddie took to hanging it on a limb near the camp, and if a shower came up suddenly he couldn't rest--he must make a wild rush and take in that steak. I refused at last to let him bring it into the tent, or to let him hang it on a nearby limb. But this made trouble, for when he hung it farther away he sometimes forgot it, and twice we had to paddle back a mile or so to get that steak. Also, sometimes, it got wet, which was not good for its flavor, he said; certainly not for its appearance. In fact, age told on that steak. It no longer had the deep rich glow of youth. It had a weather-beaten, discouraged look, and I wondered how Eddie could contemplate it in that fond way. It seemed to me that if the time wasn't ripe the steak was, and that something ought to be done about a thing like that. My suggestions did not please Eddie. I do not remember now just when we did at last cook that steak. I prefer to forget it. Neither do I know what Eddie did with his piece. I buried mine. [Illustration: "When I awoke, a savory smell was coming in the tent."] Eddie redeemed himself later--that is to say, he produced something I could eat. He got up early for the purpose. When I awoke, a savory smell was coming in the tent. Eddie was squatted by the fire, stirring something in a long-handled frying pan. Neither he nor the guides were communicative as to its nature, but it was good, and I hoped we would have it often. Then they told me what it was. It was a preparation with cream (condensed) of the despised canned salmon which I had denounced earlier in the trip as an insult to live, speckled trout. You see how one's point of view may alter. I said I was sorry now we hadn't brought some dried herring. The others thought it a joke, but I was perfectly serious. In fact, provisioning for a camping trip is a serious matter. Where a canoe must carry a man and guide, with traps and paraphernalia, and provisions for a three-weeks' trip, the problem of condensation in the matter of space and weight, with amplitude in the matter of quantity, affords study for a careful mind. We started out with a lot of can and bottle goods, which means a good deal of water and glass and tin, all of which are heavy and take up room. I don't think ours was the best way. The things were good--too good to last--but dried fruits--apricots, prunes and the like--would have been nearly as good, and less burdensome. Indeed by the end of the second week I would have given five cents apiece for a few dried prunes, while even dried apples, which I had learned to hate in childhood, proved a gaudy luxury. Canned beans, too, I consider a mistake. You can't take enough of them in that form. No two canoes can safely carry enough canned beans to last two fishermen and two Nova Scotia guides for three weeks. As for jam and the like, why it would take one canoe to carry enough marmalade to supply Del the Stout alone. If there is any such thing as a marmalade cure, I hope Del will take it before I am ready to go into the woods again. Otherwise I shall tow an extra canoe or a marmalade factory. As I have said, dried things are better; fruits, beans, rice, beef, bacon--maple sugar (for sirup), cornmeal and prepared flour. If you want to start with a few extras in the way of canned stuff, do it, but be sure you have plenty of the staples mentioned. You will have enough water and tin and glass to carry with your condensed milk, your vinegar, a few pickles, and such other bottle refreshments as your tastes and morals will permit. Take all the variety you can in the way of dried staples--be sure they are staples--but cut close on your bulky tinned supplies. It is better to be sure of enough Johnnie-cake and bacon and beans during the last week out than to feast on plum-pudding and California pears the first. Chapter Twenty-two _Oh, it's up and down the island's reach,_ _Through thicket and gorge and fen,_ _With never a rest in their fevered quest,_ _Hurry the hunter men._ Chapter Twenty-two I would gladly have lingered at Tobeatic Dam. It was an ideal place, wholly remote from everything human--a haunt of wonderful trout, peaceable porcupines and tame birds. The birds used to come around the tent to look us over and ask questions, and to tell us a lot about what was going on in the back settlements--those mysterious dim places where bird and beast still dwell together as in the ancient days, their round of affairs and gossip undisturbed. I wanted to rest there, and to heal up a little before resuming the unknown way. But Eddie was ruthless--there were more worlds to conquer. The spirit of some old ancestor who probably set out to discover the Northwest Passage was upon him. Lower Tobeatic Lake was but a little way above. We pushed through to it without much delay. It was an extensive piece of water, full of islands, lonely rocks and calling gulls, who come to this inland isolation to rear their young. The morning was clear and breezy and we set on up the lake in the canoes, Eddie, as usual, a good way in advance. He called back to us now and then that this was great moose country, and to keep a sharp lookout as we passed the islands. I did not wish to see moose. The expedition had already acquitted itself in that direction, but Eddie's voice was eager, even authoritative, so we went in close and pointed at signs and whispered in the usual way. I realized that Eddie had not given up the calf moose idea and was still anxious to shine with those British Museum people. It seemed to me that such ambitions were not laudable. I considered them a distinct mar to a character which was otherwise almost perfect. It was at such times that my inclination to drown or poison Eddie was stronger than usual. He had been behind an island a good while when we thought we heard a shot. Presently we heard it again, and were sure. Del was instantly all ablaze. Two shots had been the signal for moose. We went around there. I suppose we hurried. I know it was billowy off the point and we shipped water and nearly swamped as we rounded. Behind the island, close in, lay the other canoe, Eddie waving to us excitedly as we came up. "Two calf meese!" he called (meese being Eddie's plural of moose--everybody knows that mooses is the word). "Little helpless fellows not more than a day or two old. They're too young to swim of course, so they can't get on the island. We've got em, sure!" "Did you hit either of them?" I asked anxiously. "No, of course not! I only fired for a signal. They are wholly at our mercy. They were right here just a moment ago. The mother ran, and they hardly knew which way to turn. We can take them alive." "But, Eddie," I began, "what will you do with them? They'll have to be fed if we keep them, and will probably want to occupy the tents, and we'll have to take them in the canoes when we move." He was ready for this objection. "I've been thinking," he said with decision. "Dell and Charlie can take one of the canoes, with the calves in it, and make straight for Milford by the shortest cut. While they're gone we'll be exploring the upper lake." This was a brief, definite plan, but it did not appeal to me. In the first place, I did not wish to capture those little mooses. Then, too, I foresaw that during the considerable period which must elapse before the guides returned, somebody would have to cook and wash dishes and perform other menial camp labor. I suspected Eddie might get tired of doing guide work as a daily occupation. Also, I was sorry for Charlie and Del. I had a mental picture of them paddling for dear life up the Liverpool River with two calf mooses galloping up and down the canoe, bleating wildly, pausing now and then to lap the faces of the friendly guides and perhaps to bite off an ear or some other handy feature. Even the wild animals would form along the river bank to view a spectacle like that, and I imagined the arrival at the hotel would be something particularly showy. I mentioned these things and I saw that for once the guides were with me. They did not warm to the idea of that trip up the Liverpool and the gaudy homecoming. Eddie was only for a moment checked. "Well, then," he said, "we'll kill and skin them. We can carry the skins." This was no better. I did not want those little mooses slaughtered, and said so. But Eddie was roused now, and withered me with judicial severity. "Look here," he said, and his spectacles glared fiercely. "I'm here as a representative of the British Museum, in the cause of science, not to discuss the protection of dumb creatures. That's another society." I submitted then, of course. I always do when Eddie asserts his official capacity like that. The authority of the British Museum is not to be lightly tampered with. So far as I knew he could have me jailed for contempt. We shoved our canoes in shore and disembarked. Eddie turned back. "We must take something to tie their hind legs," he said, and fished out a strap for that purpose. The hope came to me that perhaps, after all, he might not need the strap, but I was afraid to mention it. I confess I was unhappy. I imagined a pathetic picture of a little innocent creature turning its pleading eyes up to the captor who with keen sheath-knife would let slip the crimson tide. I had no wish to go racing through the brush after those timid victims. [Illustration: "I do not like to come upon snakes in that manner."] I did, however. The island was long and narrow. We scattered out across it in a thin line of battle, and starting at one end swept down the length of it with a conquering front. That sounds well, but it fails to express what we did. We did not sweep, and we did not have any front to speak of. The place was a perfect tangle and chaos of logs, bushes, vines, pits, ledges and fallen trees. To beat up that covert was a hot, scratchy, discouraging job, attended with frequent escapes from accident and damage. I was satisfied I had the worst place in the line, for I couldn't keep up with the others, and I tried harder to do that than I did to find the little mooses. I didn't get sight of the others after we started. Neither did I catch a glimpse of those little day-old calves, or of anything else except a snake, which I came upon rather suddenly when I was down on my hands and knees, creeping under a fallen tree. I do not like to come upon snakes in that manner. I do not care to view them even behind glass in a museum. An earthquake might strike that museum and break the glass and it might not be easy to get away. I wish Eddie had been collecting snake skins for _his_ museum. I would have been willing for him to skin that one alive. I staggered out to the other end of the island, at last, with only a flickering remnant of life left in me. I thought Eddie would be grateful for all my efforts when I was not in full sympathy with the undertaking; but he wasn't. He said that by not keeping up with the line I had let the little mooses slip by, and that we would have to make the drive again. I said he might have my route and I would take another. It was a mistake, though. I couldn't seem to pick a better one. When we had chased up and down that disordered island--that dumping ground of nature--for the third time; when I had fallen over every log and stone, and into every hole on it, and had scraped myself in every brush-heap, and not one of us had caught even an imaginary glimpse of those little, helpless, day-old meese, or mooses, or mice for they were harder to find than mice--we staggered out, limp and sore, silently got into our canoes and drifted away. Nobody spoke for quite a while. Nobody had anything to say. Then Charlie murmured reflectively, as if thinking aloud: "Little helpless fellows--not more than a day or two old----" And Del added--also talking to himself: "Too young to swim, of course--wholly at our mercy." Then, a moment later, "It's a good thing we took that strap to tie their hind legs." Eddie said nothing at all, and I was afraid to. Still, I was glad that my vision of the little creatures pleading for their lives hadn't been realized, or that other one of Del and Charlie paddling for dear life up the Liverpool, with those little mooses bleating and scampering up and down the canoe. What really became of those calves remains a mystery. Nature teaches her wild children many useful things. Their first indrawn breath is laden with knowledge. Perhaps those wise little animals laughed at us from some snug hiding. Perhaps they could swim, after all, and followed their mother across the island, and so away. Whatever they did, I am glad, even if the museum people have me arrested for it. Chapter Twenty-three _When the utmost bound of the trail is found--_ _The last and loneliest lair--_ _The hordes of the forest shall gather round_ _To bid you a welcome there._ Chapter Twenty-three I do not know what lies above the Tobeatic lakes, but the strip of country between is the true wilderness. It is a succession of swamps and spruce thickets--ideal country for a moose farm or a mosquito hatchery, or for general exploration, but no sort of a place for a Sunday-school picnic. Neither is it a good place to fish. The little brook between the lakes runs along like a chain pump and contains about as many trout. There are one or two pretty good pools, but the effort to reach them is too costly. We made camp in as dry a place as we could find, but we couldn't find a place as big as the tent that didn't have a spring or a water hole. In fact, the ground was a mass of roots, great and small, with water everywhere between. A spring actually bubbled up between our beds, and when one went outside at night it was a mercy if he did not go plunging into some sort of a cold, wet surprise, with disastrous and profane results. Being the worst camp and the worst country and the poorest fishing we had found, we remained there two days. But this was as it should be. We were not fishermen now, but explorers; and explorers, Eddie said, always court hardships, and pitch their camps in the midst of dangers. Immediately after our arrival, Eddie and I took one side of the brook and the guides the other, and we set out to discover things, chiefly the upper lake. Of course we would pick the hardest side. We could be depended on to do that. The brook made a long bend, and the guides, who were on the short side, found fairly easy going. Eddie and I, almost immediately, were floundering in a thick miry swamp, where it was hot and breezeless, and where the midges, mooseflies and mosquitoes gave us a grand welcome. I never saw anybody so glad to be discovered as those mooseflies. They were as excited as if we were long lost relatives who had suddenly turned up with a fortune. They swarmed about us and clung to us and tapped us in any convenient place. I did not blame them, of course. Moose diet, year in and year out, would make them welcome anything by way of a change. And what droves of moose there must be in that swamp to support such a muster of flies! Certainly this was the very heart of the moose domain. Perhaps the reader who has never seen a moosefly may not appreciate the amplitude and vigor of our welcome. The moosefly is a lusty fellow with mottled wings. I believe he is sometimes called the deerfly, though as the moose is bigger and more savage than the deer, it is my opinion that the moosefly is bigger and more savage than any fly that bites the deer. I don't think the deer could survive him. He is about the size of the green-headed horsefly, but of more athletic build. He describes rapid and eager circles about one's head, whizzing meanwhile in a manner which some may like, but which I could not learn to enjoy. His family is large and he has many friends. He brings them all along to greet you, and they all whiz and describe circles at once, and with every circle or two he makes a dip and swipes up about a gill of your lifeblood and guzzles it down, and goes right on whizzing and circling until he picks out a place for the next dip. Unlike the mosquito, the moosefly does not need to light cautiously and patiently sink a well until he strikes a paying vein. His practice on the moose has fitted him for speedier methods. The bill with which he is accustomed to bore through a tough moosehide in a second or two will penetrate a man in the briefest fraction of the time. We got out of that swamp with no unnecessary delay and made for a spruce thicket. Ordinarily one does not welcome a spruce thicket, for it resembles a tangle of barbed wires. But it was a boon now. We couldn't scratch all the places at once and the spruce thicket would help. We plunged into it and let it dig, and scrape, and protect us from those whizzing, circling blood-gluttons of the swamp. Yet it was cruel going. I have never seen such murderous brush. I was already decorated with certain areas of "New Skin," but I knew that after this I should need a whole one. Having our rods and guns made it harder. In places we were obliged to lie perfectly flat to worm and wriggle through. And the heat was intense and our thirst a torture. Yet in the end it was worth while and the payment was not long delayed. Just beyond the spruce thicket ran a little spring rivulet, cold as ice. Lying on its ferny margin we drank and drank, and the gods themselves cannot create a more exquisite joy than that. We followed the rivulet to where it fed the brook, a little way below. There we found a good-sized pool, and trout. Also a cool breeze and a huge bowlder--complete luxury. We rested on the big stone--I mean I did--and fished, while Eddie was trying to find the way out. I said I would wait there until a relief party arrived. It was no use. Eddie threatened to leave me at last if I didn't come on, and I had no intention of being left alone in that forgotten place. We struggled on. Finally near sunset of that long, hard June day, we passed out of the thicket tangle, ascended a slope and found ourselves in an open grove of whispering pines that through all the years had somehow escaped the conflagration and the ax. Tall colonnades they formed--a sort of Grove of Dodona which because of some oracle, perhaps, the gods had spared and the conquering vandals had not swept away. From the top of the knoll we caught a glimpse of water through the trees, and presently stood on the shore of Little Tobeatic Lake. So it was we reached the end of our quest--the farthest point in the unknown. I hardly know what I had expected: trout of a new species and of gigantic size, perhaps, or a strange race of men. Whatever it was, I believe I felt a bit disappointed. I believe I did not consider it much of a discovery. It was a good deal like other Nova Scotia lakes, except that it appeared to be in two sections and pretty big for its name. But Eddie was rejoiced over our feat. The mooseflies and spruce thickets and the miry swamps we had passed, for him only added relish to this moment of supreme triumph. Eddie would never be the man to go to the Arctics in an automobile or an airship. That would be too easy. He would insist on more embroideries. He would demand all the combined hardships of the previous expeditions. I am at present planning a trip to the South Pole, but I shall leave Eddie at home. And perhaps I shall also be disappointed when I get to the South Pole and find it only a rock in a snowdrift. We crossed the brook and returned to camp the short way. We differed a good deal as to the direction, and separated once or twice. We got lost at last, for the way was so short and easy that we were below the camp before we knew it. When at last we heard the guides calling (they had long since returned) we came in, blaming each other for several things and were scarcely on speaking terms for as much as five minutes. It was lucky that Charles found a bottle of Jamaica rum and a little pot of honey just then. A mixture of rum and honey will allay irritation due to moosefly and mosquito bites, and to a variety of other causes if faithfully applied. The matter of mosquitoes was really serious that night. We kept up several smudge fires and sat among them and smoked ourselves like herring. Even then we were not immune. When it came time for bed we brushed the inside of the tent and set our pipes going. Then Eddie wanted to read, as was his custom. I objected. I said that to light a candle would be to invite all those mosquitoes back. He pleaded, but for once I was firm. He offered me some of his best things, but I refused to sell my blood in that way. Finally he declared he had a spread of mosquito net and would put it over the door and every possible opening if I would let him read. I said he might put up the netting and if I approved the job I would then consider the matter. He got out the net--a nice new piece--and began to put it up. It was a tedious job, arranging that net and fastening it properly by the flickering firelight so that it covered every crack and crevice. When he pulled it down in one place it left an opening in another and had to be poked and pinned and stuffed in and patted down a great many times. From my place inside the tent I could see his nimble shadow on the canvas like some big insect, bobbing and flitting up and down and from side to side. It reminded me of a persistent moth, dipping and dodging about a screen. I drowsily wondered if he would ever get it fixed, and if he wasn't getting hot and tired, for it was a still, sticky night. Yet I suppose I did not realize how hot and tired one might get on such a night, especially after a hard day. When he ceased his lightsome movements at last and crept as carefully as a worm under the net, I expected him to light the candle lamp and read. He did not do so. He gave one long sighing groan of utter exhaustion, dropped down on his bed without removing his clothes and never stirred again until morning. The net was a great success. Only two mosquitoes got in and they bit Eddie. Chapter Twenty-four _Apollo has tuned his lute again,_ _And the pipes of Pan are near,_ _For the gods that fled from the groves of men_ _Gather unheeded here._ Chapter Twenty-four It was by no means an unpleasant camp, first and last. It was our "Farthest North" for one thing, our deepest point in the wilderness. It would require as much as three or four days travel, even by the quickest and most direct route to reach any human habitation, and in this thought there was charm. It was a curious place, too, among those roots and springs, and the brook there formed a rare pool for bathing. While the others were still asleep I slipped down there for my morning dip. It was early, but in that latitude and season the sun had already risen and filtered in through the still treetops. Lying back in that natural basin with the cool, fresh water slipping over and about one, and all the world afar off and unreal, was to know the joy of the dim, forgotten days when nymphs and dryads sported in hidden pools or tripped to the pipes of Pan. Hemlock and maple boughs lacing above, with blue sky between--a hermit thrush singing: such a pool Diana might have found, shut away in some remote depths of Arcady. I should not have been much surprised to have heard the bay of her hounds in that still early morning, and to have seen her and her train suddenly appear--pursuing a moose, maybe, or merely coming down for a morning swim. Of course I should have secluded myself had I heard them coming. I am naturally a modest person. Besides, I garner from the pictures that Diana is likely to be dangerous when she is in her moods. Eddie bathed, too, later, but the spell was gone then. Diana was far away, the stillness and sun-glint were no more in the treetops, the hermit thrush was no longer in the neighborhood. Eddie grumbled that the water was chilly and that the stones hurt his feet. An hour, sometimes--a moment, even--makes all the difference between romance and reality. Finally, even the guides bathed! We let off fireworks in celebration! We carried the canoes to the lake that morning and explored it, but there was not much to see. The lake had no inlet that we could find, and Eddie and I lost a dollar apiece with the guides betting on the shape of it, our idea being based upon the glimpse of the evening before. I don't care much for lakes that change their shape like that, and even Eddie seemed willing to abandon this unprofitable region. I suspected, however, that his willingness to take the back track was mainly due to the hope of getting another try at the little mooses, but I resolved to indulge myself no further in any such pastime. [Illustration: "We went down that long, lovely lake in a luxury of idle bliss."] It was hard to drag Eddie by those islands. He wanted to cruise around every one of them and to go ashore and prospect among the débris. He vowed at last that he would come back with Charles from our next camp and explore on his own account. Then, there being a fine breeze directly behind us, he opened out a big umbrella which he had brought along for just such a time, we hitched our canoe on behind, and with that bellying black sail on the forward bow, went down that long, lovely lake in a luxury of idle bliss. We camped at our old place by the falls and next morning Eddie did in fact return to have another go at the calves. Del was willing to stay at the camp, and I said I would have a quiet day's fishing nearby. It proved an unusual day's fishing for those waters. White perch are not plentiful there, but for some reason a school of them had collected just by our camp. I discovered them by accident and then gave up everything else to get as many of them as possible, for they were a desirable change from trout, and eagerly welcomed. I fished for them by spells all day. Del and I had them for luncheon and we saved a great pan full to be ready for supper, when the others should return. It was dusk when the other canoe came in. Our companions were very tired, also wet, for it had been a misty day, with showers. Eddie was a bit cross, too. They had seen some calves, he said, but could not get them. His guide agreed with this statement, but when questioned separately their statements varied somewhat as to the reasons of failure. It did not matter. Eddie was discouraged in the calf moose project, I could see that. Presently I began boasting of the big day's sport I had enjoyed, and then to show off I said, "This is how I did it." Eddie was washing his hands in my perch pool and I had no idea of getting anything--one is not likely to when he wishes to exhibit himself--but I made a cast with the light tackle with two flies on it and immediately had my hands full. For once, I did actually show off when I undertook to do it. I think the only two big perch in that pool seized those flies, and for the next five or ten minutes they were making my reel sing and giving me such sport as only two big white perch on a light tackle can. I brought them to the net at last and Eddie looked on with hungry, envious eyes. "You don't mean to say you've been taking those things all day," he said. "All day, more or less. I merely gave this little exhibition to wind up on." But of course I had to show him the size of the others, then, and he was appeased to the extent of forgetting most of his troubles in a square meal. That quiet day with the white perch, ending as it did with a grand finale, remains one of my fondest memories. Chapter Twenty-five _You may pick your place--you may choose your hour--_ _You may put on your choicest flies;_ _But never yet was it safe to bet_ _That a single trout would rise._ Chapter Twenty-five Back across Tupper Lake and down Sand Brook to the Shelburne. Eddie left the further wilderness with a sigh, for he felt that his chance of getting a moose calf for those museum people was getting slim. A distance--I have forgotten the number of miles--down the Shelburne would bring us to country known to the guides and not remote enough for moose at this season. As Eddie is no longer in this country, I may confess, now, that I was glad. It was beautiful going, down Sand Brook. There was plenty of water and the day was perfect. There is nothing lovelier in the world than that little limpid stream with its pebbly riffles and its sunlit pools. Sometimes when I think of it now I am afraid that it is no longer there in that far still Arcady, or that it may vanish through some enchantment before I can ever reach it again. Indeed as I am writing here to-day I am wondering if it is really there--hidden away in that quiet unvisited place, when no one is there to see it, and to hear it sing and whisper--if anything is anywhere, unless some one is there to see and hear. But these are deep waters. I am prone to stumble, as we have seen, and somehow my tallest waders never take me through. I have already said, and repeated, I think, that there is no better trout fishing than in the Shelburne. The fish now were not quite so heavy as they had been higher up, but they were very many. The last half of the miracle of the loaves and fishes would not have been necessary here had the multitudes been given some tackle and a few cans of bait. When we were a little above Kempton Dam, Del pointed out the first place familiar to him. The woods were precisely the same--the waters just as fair and fruitful--the locality just as wild; but somehow as we rounded that bend a certain breath of charm vanished. The spell of perfect isolation was gone. I had the feeling that we had emerged from the enchanted borders of No Man's Land--that we were entering a land of real places, with the haunts and habitations of men. Kempton Dam itself had been used to catch logs, not so long ago, and Eddie had visited it on a previous occasion. He still had a fond memory of a very large trout--opinions differed a trifle as to its exact size--which he had taken there in a certain pool of golden water, and it was evident from his talk that he expected to take that trout again, or some member of its family, or its ghost, maybe, immediately upon arrival. It certainly proved an attractive place, and there were any number of fish. They were not especially large, however. Even the golden water was fruitful only as to numbers. We waded among the rocks or stood on the logs, and cast and reeled and netted and returned fish to the water until we were fairly surfeited. By that time the guides had the camp ready, and as it was still early we gave them the rods and watched the sport. Now a fly-casting tournament at home is a tame entertainment when one has watched the fishing of Nova Scotia guides. To see a professional send a fly sailing out a hundred feet or so in Madison Square Garden is well enough, and it is a meritorious achievement, no doubt, but there is no return except the record and the applause. To see Del the Stout and Charles the Strong doing the same thing from that old log dam was a poem, a picture, an inspiration. Above and below, the rushing water; overhead, the blue sky; on either side, the green of June--the treetops full of the setting sun. Out over the foaming current, skimming just above the surface, the flies would go sailing, sailing--you thought they would never light. They did not go with a swish and a jump, but seemed noiselessly to drift away, as if the lightly swinging rod had little to do with the matter, as if they were alive, in fact, looking for a place to settle in some cozy nook of water where a trout would be sure to be. And the trout were there. It was not the empty tub-fishing of a sportsman's show. The gleam and splash in the pool that seemed remote--that was perhaps thirty yards away in fact--marked the casting limit, and the sharp curve of the rod, and the play to land were more inspiring than any measure of distance or clapping of hands. Charles himself became so inspired at length with his handsome fishing that he made a rash statement. He declared that he could take five trout in fifteen minutes. He offered to bet a dollar that he could do it. I rather thought he could myself, for the fish were there, and they were not running over large. Still, it was no easy matter to land them in that swift water, and it would be close work. The show would be worth a dollar, even if I lost. Wherefore, I scoffed at his boast and took the bet. No stipulations were made as to the size of the trout, nor the manner in which they should be taken, nor as to any special locality. It was evident from our guide's preparation that he had evolved certain ideas of his own in the matter. Previously he had been trying to hook a big fish, but it was pretty evident that he did not want any big fish now. There was a little brook--a run-around, as it were--that left the main water just below the dam and came in again at the big pool several hundred yards below. We had none of us touched this tumbling bit of water. It was his idea that it would be full of little trout. He wanted something he could lift out with no unnecessary delay, for time that is likely to be worth over six cents a minute is too expensive to waste in fancy sportsmanship. He selected a short rod and put on some tiny flies. Then he took his position; we got out our watches and called time. Now, of course, one of the most uncertain things in life to gamble on is fishing. You may pick your place, your day and your time of day. The combination may seem perfect. Yet the fact remains that you can never count with certainty on the result. One might suppose that our guide had everything in his favor. Up to the very moment of his wager he had been taking trout about as rapidly as he could handle them, and from water that had been fished more or less all the afternoon. He knew the particular fly that had been most attractive on this particular day and he had selected a place hitherto unfished--just the sort of a place where small trout seemed likely to abound. With his skill as an angler it would not have surprised me if he had taken his five trout and had more than half the time to spare. I think he expected to do that himself. I think he did, for he went at it with that smiling _sang froid_ with which one does a sleight of hand trick after long practice. He did not show any appearance of haste in making his first cast, but let the flies go gently out over a little eddying pool and lightly skim the surface of the water, as if he were merely amusing himself by tantalizing those eager little trout. Yet for some reason nothing happened. Perhaps the little trout were attending a party in the next pool. There came no lively snap at those twitching flies--there was not even a silver break on the surface of the water. I thought our guide's smile faded the least trifle, and that he let the flies go a bit quicker next time. Then when nothing, absolutely nothing, happened again, his look became one of injured surprise. He abandoned that pool and stepping a rock or two downstream, sent the flies with a sharp little flirt into the next--once--twice--it was strange--it was unaccountable, but nothing--not a single thing happened again. It was the same with the next pool, and the next. There were no special marks of self-confidence, or anything that even resembled deliberation, after this. It was business, strictly business, with the sole idea of taking five fish out of that run, or getting down to a place where five fish could be had. It was a pretty desperate situation, for it was a steep run and there was no going back. To attempt that would be to waste too much precious time. The thing to do was to fish it straight through, with no unnecessary delay. There was no doubt but that this was our guide's programme. The way he deported himself showed that. Perhaps he was not really in a hurry--I want to be just--but he acted as if he was. I have never seen a straddle-bug, but if I ever meet one I shall recognize him, for I am certain he will look exactly like Charles the Strong going down Tommy Kempton's Run. He was shod in his shoepacks, and he seemed to me to have one foot always in the air wildly reaching out for the next rock--the pair of flies, meanwhile, describing lightning circles over every pool and riffle, lingering just long enough to prove the futility of the cast, to be lying an instant later in a new spot, several yards below. If ever there is a tournament for swift and accurate fly-casting down a flight of rugged stone stairs I want to enter Charles for first honors against the world. But I would not bet on any fish--I want that stipulated. I would not gamble to that extent. I would not gamble even on one fish after being a witness to our guide's experience. That was a mad race. The rest of us kept a little to one side, out of his way, and not even Del and Eddie could keep up with him. And with all that wild effort not a fish would rise--nor even break water. It was strange--it was past believing--I suppose it was even funny. It must have been, for I seem to recall that we fairly whooped our joy at his acrobatic eagerness. Why, with such gymnastics, Charles did not break his neck I cannot imagine. With the utmost watchfulness I barely missed breaking mine as much as a dozen times. The time was more than half-expired when we reached the foot of the run, and still no fish, not even a rise. Yet the game was not over. It was supposable that this might be the place of places for fish. Five fish in five minutes were still possible, if small. The guide leaped and waded to a smooth, commanding stone and cast--once--twice, out over the twisting water. Then, suddenly, almost in front of him, it seemed, a great wave rolled up from the depths--there was a swish and a quick curving of the rod--a monstrous commotion, and a struggle in the water. It was a king of fish, we could all see that, and the rest of us gave a shout of approval. But if Charles was happy, he did not look it. In fact, I have never seen any one act so unappreciative of a big fish, nor handle it in so unsportsmanlike a manner. If I remember his remark it had damn and hell mixed up in it, and these words were used in close association with that beautiful trout. His actions were even worse. He made no effort to play his catch--to work him gradually to the net, according to the best form. Nothing of the kind. You'd have supposed our guide had never seen a big trout before by the way he got hold of that line and yanked him in, hand over hand, regardless of the danger to line and leader and to those delicate little flies, to say nothing of the possibility of losing a fish so handled. Of course the seconds were flying, and landing a fish of that size is not an especially quick process. A three-pound trout in swift water has a way of staying there, even when taken by the main strength and awkwardness system. When only about a yard of line remained between Charlie and the fish, the latter set up such a commotion, and cut up such a series of antics, that it was impossible for one man to hold him and net him, though the wild effort which our guide made to do so seemed amusing to those who were looking on. In fact, if I had not been weak with laughing I might have gone to his rescue sooner. One may be generous to a defeated opponent, and the time limit was on its last minute now. As it was, I waded over presently and took the net. A moment later we had him--the single return in the allotted time, but by all odds the largest trout thus far of the expedition. You see, as I have said, fish are uncertain things to gamble on. Trying for five small ones our fisherman captured one large fish, which at any other moment of the expedition would have been more welcome. Yet even he was an uncertain quantity, for big, strong and active as he was, he suddenly gave a great leap out of the net and was back in the water again. Still, I let him be counted. That was generous. You might have supposed after that demonstration, Eddie would have been somewhat reticent about backing his skill as a fisherman. But he wasn't. He had just as much faith in his angling, and in his ability to pick good water as if he hadn't seen his guide go down to ignominy and defeat. He knew a place just above the dam, he said, where he could make that bet good. Would I give him the same terms? I would--the offer was open to all comers. I said it was taking candy from children. [Illustration: "It was worth the dollar to watch the way he sought to wheedle and coax and fascinate those trout."] We went up to Eddie's place and got out the watches. Eddie had learned something from his guide's exhibition. He had learned not to prance about over a lot of water, and not to seem to be in a hurry. It was such things that invited mirth. He took his position carefully between two great bowlders and during the next fifteen minutes gave us the most charming exhibition of light and delicate fly-casting I have ever witnessed. It was worth the dollar to watch the way in which he sought to wheedle and coax and fascinate those trout, and to study the deft dispatch and grace with which he landed a fish, once hooked. Still he hadn't learned quite enough. He hadn't learned to take five trout in fifteen minutes in that particular place and on that particular evening. Perhaps it was a little late when he began. Perhaps fifteen minutes is a shorter period than it sometimes seems. Three trout completed his score at the end of the allotted time--all fairly large. Yet I must not fail to add here that a few days later, in other water, both Eddie and his guide made good their wager. Each took his five trout--small ones--in fifteen minutes, and had time to spare. As I have remarked once or twice already, one of the most uncertain things in life to gamble on is fishing. Chapter Twenty-six _Oh, the waves they pitch and the waves they toss,_ _And the waves they frighten me;_ _And if ever I get my boat across_ _I'll go no more to sea._ Chapter Twenty-six We were met by a surprise at our camp. Two men sat there, real men, the first we had seen since we entered the wilderness. Evidently they were natives by their look--trappers or prospectors of some sort. They turned out to be bear hunters, and they looked rather hungrily at the assortment of fish we had brought in--enough for supper and breakfast. Perhaps they had not been to fish so frequently as to bear. I believe they were without tackle, or maybe their luck had been poor--I do not remember. At all events it developed presently that they needed fish, also that they had a surplus of butter of a more recent period than the little dab we had left. They were willing to dicker--a circumstance that filled us with an enthusiasm which we restrained with difficulty. In fact, Del did not restrain his quite enough. He promptly offered them all the fish we had brought in for their extra pound of butter, when we could just as easily have got it for half the number of fish. Of course the fish did not seem especially valuable to us, and we were willing enough to make a meal without them. Still, one can never tell what will happen, and something like six dollars worth of trout--reckoned by New York prices--seems an unnecessary sum to pay for a pound of butter, even in the Nova Scotia woods, though possibly trout will never be worth quite that much there. All the same, the price had advanced a good deal by next morning, for the wind had shifted to the northeast and it was bleak and blustery. Everybody knows the old rhyme about the winds and the fish--how, when the winds are north or east, the fish bite least, and how, when the winds are south and west, the fish bite best. There isn't much poetry in the old rhyme, but it's charged with sterling truth. Just why a northerly or easterly wind will take away a fish's appetite, I think has never been explained, or why a southerly and westerly wind will start him out hunting for food. But it's all as true as scripture. I have seen trout stop rising with a shifting of the wind to the eastward as suddenly as if they had been summoned to judgment, and I have seen them begin after a cold spell almost before the wind had time to get settled in its new quarter. Of course it had been Del's idea that we could easily get trout enough for breakfast. That was another mistake--we couldn't. We couldn't take them from the river, and we couldn't take them from our bear hunters, for they had gone. We whipped our lines around in that chill wind, tangled our flies in treetops, endangered our immortal souls, and went back to the tents at last without a single thing but our appetites. Then we took turns abusing Del for his disastrous dicker by which he had paid no less than five dollars and seventy-five cents a pound too much for butter, New York market schedule. Our appetites were not especially for trout--only for hearty food of some kind, and as I have said before, we had reached a place where fish had become our real staple. The conditions were particularly hard on Del himself, for he is a hearty man, and next to jars of marmalade, baskets of trout are his favorite forage. In fact, we rather lost interest in our camp, and disagreeable as it was, we decided to drop down the river to Lake Rossignol and cross over to the mouth of the Liverpool. It was a long six-mile ferriage across Rossignol and we could devote our waste time to getting over. By the end of the trip the weather might change. The Shelburne is rough below Kempton Dam. It goes tearing and foaming in and out among the black rocks, and there are places where you have to get out of the canoes and climb over, and the rocks are slippery and sometimes there is not much to catch hold of. We shot out into the lake at last, and I was glad. It was a mistake, however, to be glad just then. It was too soon. The wind had kicked up a good deal of water, and though our canoes were lighter than when we started, I did not consider them suited to such a sea. They pitched about and leaped up into the air, one minute with the bow entirely out of water, and the next with it half-buried in the billow ahead. Every other second a big wave ran on a level with the gunwale, and crested its neck and looked over and hissed, and sometimes it spilled in upon us. It would not take much of that kind of freight to make a cargo, and anything like an accident in that wide, gray billowy place was not a nice thing to contemplate. A loaded canoe would go down like a bullet. No one clad as we were could swim more than a boat's length in that sea. As we got farther on shore the waves got worse. If somebody had just suggested it I should have been willing to turn around and make back for the Shelburne. Nobody suggested it, and we went on. It seemed to me those far, dim shores through the mist, five miles or more away, would never get any closer. I grew tired, too, and my arms ached, but I could not stop paddling. I was filled with the idea that if I ever stopped that eternal dabbing at the water, my end of the canoe would never ride the next billow. Del reflected aloud, now and then, that we had made a mistake to come out on such a day. When I looked over at the other canoe and saw it on the top of a big wave with both ends sticking out in the air, and then saw it go down in a trough of black, ugly water, I realized that Del was right. I knew our canoe was doing just such dangerous things as that, and I would have given any reasonable sum for an adequate life preserver, or even a handy pine plank--for anything, in fact, that was rather more certain to stay on top of the water than this billow-bobbing, birch-bark peanut shell of a canoe. I suppose I became unduly happy, therefore, when at last we entered the mouth of the Liverpool. I was so glad that I grew gay, and when we started up the rapids I gave Del a good lift here and there by pushing back against the rocks with my paddle, throwing my whole weight on it sometimes, to send the canoe up in style. It is always unwise for me to have a gay reaction like that, especially on Friday, which is my unlucky day. Something is so liable to happen. We were going up a particularly steep piece of water when I got my paddle against a stone on the bottom and gave an exceptionally strong push. I don't know just what happened next. Perhaps my paddle slipped. Del says it did. I know I heard him give a whoop, and I saw the river coming straight up at me. Then it came pouring in over the side, and in about a minute more most of our things were floating downstream, with Del grabbing at them, and me clinging to the upset canoe, trying to drag it ashore. We camped there. It was a good place, one of the best yet selected. Still, I do not recommend selecting a camp in that way. If it did not turn out well, it might be a poor place to get things dry. One needs to get a good many things dry after a selection like that, especially on a cold day. It was a cold night, too. I dried my under things and put them all on. "Did you ever sleep in your clothes in the woods?" I have been asked. I did. I put on every dry thing I had that night, and regretted I had left anything at home. Chapter Twenty-seven _It is better to let the wild beast run,_ _And to let the wild bird fly:_ _Each harbors best in his native nest,_ _Even as you and I._ Chapter Twenty-seven Perhaps it was the cold weather that brought us a visitor. There was a tree directly over our tent, and in the morning--a sharp sunny morning, with the wind where it should be, in the west--we noticed on going out that a peculiar sort of fruit had grown on this tree over night. On one of the limbs just above the tent was a prickly looking ball, like a chestnut burr, only black, and about a hundred times as big. It was a baby porcupine, who perhaps had set out to see the world on his own account--a sort of prodigal who had found himself without funds, and helpless, on a cold night. No doubt he climbed up there to look us over, with a view of picking out a good place for himself; possibly with the hope of being invited to breakfast. Eddie was delighted with our new guest. He declared that he would take him home alive, and feed him and care for him, and live happy ever after. He got a pole and shook our visitor down in a basket, and did a war-dance of joy over his new possession. He was a cute little fellow--the "piggypine" (another of Eddie's absurd names)--with bright little eyes and certain areas of fur, but I didn't fancy him as a pet. He seemed to me rather too much of a cross between a rat and a pin cushion to be a pleasant companion in the intimate relations of one's household. I suspected that if in a perfectly wild state he had been prompted to seek human companionship and the comforts of civilized life, in a domestic atmosphere he would want to sit at the table and sleep with somebody. I did not believe Eddie's affection would survive these familiarities. I knew how surprised and annoyed he might be some night to roll over suddenly on the piggypine and then have to sit up the rest of the night while a surgeon removed the quills. I said that I did not believe in taming wild creatures, and I think the guides were with me in this opinion. I think so because they recited two instances while we were at breakfast. Del's story was of some pet gulls he once owned. He told it in that serious way which convinced me of its truth. Certain phases of the narrative may have impressed me as being humorous, but it was clear they were not so regarded by Del. His manner was that of one who records history. He said: "One of the children caught two young gulls once, in the lake, and brought them to the house and said they were going to tame them. I didn't think they would live, but they did. You couldn't have killed them without an ax. They got tame right away, and they were all over the house, under foot and into everything, making all kinds of trouble. But that wasn't the worst--the worst was feeding them. It wasn't so bad when they were little, but they grew to beat anything. Then it began to keep us moving to get enough for them to eat. They lived on fish, mostly, and at first the children thought it fun to feed them. They used to bait a little dip net and catch minnows for the gulls, and the gulls got so they would follow anybody that started out with that dip net, calling and squealing like a pair of pigs. But they were worse than pigs. You can fill up a pig and he will go to sleep, but you never could fill up those gulls. By and by the children got tired of trying to do it and gave me the job. I made a big dip net and kept it set day and night, and every few minutes all day and the last thing before bedtime I'd go down and lift out about a pailful of fish for those gulls, and they'd eat until the fish tails stuck out of their mouths, and I wouldn't more than have my back turned before they'd be standing on the shore of the lake, looking down into that dip net and hollering for more. I got so I couldn't do anything but catch fish for those gulls. It was a busy season, too, and besides the minnows were getting scarce along the lake front, so I had to get up early to get enough to feed them and the rest of the family. I said at last that I was through feeding gulls. I told the children that either they'd have to do it, or that the gulls would have to go to work like the rest of the family and fish for themselves. But the children wouldn't do it, nor the gulls, either. Then I said I would take those birds down in the woods and leave them somewhere. I did that. I put them into a basket and shut them in tight and took them five miles down the river and let them loose in a good place where there were plenty of fish. They flew off and I went home. When I got to the house they'd been there three hours, looking at the dip net and squalling, and they ate a pail heaping full of fish, and you could have put both gulls into the pail when they got through. I was going on a long trip with a party next morning, and we took the gulls along. We fed them about a bushel of trout and left them seventeen miles down the river, just before night, and drove home in the dark. I didn't think the gulls would find their way back that time, but they did. They were there before daybreak, fresh and hungry as ever. Then I knew it was no use. The ax was the only thing that would get me out of that mess. The children haven't brought home any wild pets since." That you see is just unembellished history, and convincing. I regret that I cannot say as much for Charlie's narrative. It is a likely story enough, as such things go, but there are points about it here and there which seem to require confirmation. I am told that it is a story well known and often repeated in Nova Scotia, but even that cannot be accepted as evidence of its entire truth. Being a fish-story it would seem to require something more. This is the tale as Charlie told it. "Once there was a half-breed Indian," he said, "who had a pet trout named Tommy, which he kept in a barrel. But the trout got pretty big and had to have the water changed a good deal to keep him alive. The Indian was too lazy to do that, and he thought he would teach the trout to live out of water. So he did. He commenced by taking Tommy out of the barrel for a few minutes at a time, pretty often, and then he took him out oftener and kept him out longer, and by and by Tommy got so he could stay out a good while if he was in the wet grass. Then the Indian found he could leave him in the wet grass all night, and pretty soon that trout could live in the shade whether the grass was wet or not. By that time he had got pretty tame, too, and he used to follow the Indian around a good deal, and when the Indian would go out to dig worms for him, Tommy would go along and pick up the worms for himself. The Indian thought everything of that fish, and when Tommy got so he didn't need water at all, but could go anywhere--down the dusty road and stay all day out in the hot sun--you never saw the Indian without his trout. Show people wanted to buy Tommy, but the Indian said he wouldn't sell a fish like that for any money. You'd see him coming to town with Tommy following along in the road behind, just like a dog, only of course it traveled a good deal like a snake, and most as fast. "Well, it was pretty sad the way that Indian lost his trout, and it was curious, too. He started for town one day with Tommy coming along behind, as usual. There was a bridge in the road and when the Indian came to it he saw there was a plank off, but he went on over it without thinking. By and by he looked around for Tommy and Tommy wasn't there. He went back a ways and called, but he couldn't see anything of his pet. Then he came to the bridge and saw the hole, and he thought right away that maybe his trout had got in there. So he went to the hole and looked down, and sure enough, there was Tommy, floating on the water, bottom-side up. He'd tumbled through that hole into the brook and drowned." I think these stories impressed Eddie a good deal. I know they did me. Even if Charlie's story was not pure fact in certain minor details, its moral was none the less evident. I saw clearer than ever that it is not proper to take wild creatures from their native element and make pets of them. Something always happens to them sooner or later. We were through breakfast and Eddie went over to look at his porcupine. He had left it in a basket, well covered with a number of things. He came back right away--looking a little blank I thought. "He's gone!" he said. "The basket's just as I left it, all covered up, but he isn't in it." We went over to look. Sure enough, our visitor had set out on new adventures. How he had escaped was a mystery. It didn't matter--both he and Eddie were better off. But that was a day for animal friends. Where we camped for luncheon, Eddie and I took a walk along the river bank and suddenly found ourselves in a perfect menagerie. We were among a regular group of grown porcupines--we counted five of them--and at the same time there were two blue herons in the water, close by. A step away a pair of partridges ran through the brush and stood looking at us from a fallen log, while an old duck and her young came sailing across the river. We were nearing civilization now, but evidently these creatures were not much harassed. It was like the Garden of Eden before the Fall. It is true the old duck swam away, calling to her brood, when she saw us; the partridges presently hid in the brush, and the blue herons waded a bit further off. But the porcupines went on galumphing around us, and none of the collection seemed much disturbed. During the afternoon we came upon two fishermen, college boys, camping, who told us they had seen some young loons in a nest just above, and Eddie was promptly seized with a desire to possess them. In fact we left so hastily that Del forgot his extra paddle, and did not discover the loss until we were a half-mile or so upstream. Then he said he would leave me in the canoe to fish and would walk back along the shore. An arm of the river made around an island just there, and it looked like a good place. There seemed to be not much current in the water, and I thought I could manage the canoe in such a spot and fish, too, without much trouble. [Illustration: "I never realized before what a crazy thing a canoe can be when you want it to do something out of its regular line of work."] It was not as easy as it looked. Any one who has tried to handle a canoe from the front end with one hand and fish with the other will tell you so. I couldn't seem to keep out of the brush along the shore, and I couldn't get near some brush in the middle of the river where I believed there were trout. I was right about the trout being there, too. Eddie proved that when he came up with his canoe. He had plenty of business with big fellows right away. But the fact didn't do me any good. Just when I would get near the lucky place and ready to cast, a twitch in the current or a little puff of wind would get hold of the stern of my craft, which rode up out of the water high and light like a sail, and my flies would land in some bushes along the bank, or hang in a treetop, or do some other silly thing which was entertaining enough to Eddie and his guide, apparently, but which did not amuse me. I never realized before what a crazy thing a canoe can be when you want it to do something out of its regular line of work. A canoe is a good sort of a craft in its place, and I would not wish to go into the woods without one, but it is limited in its gifts, very limited. It can't keep its balance with any degree of certainty when you want to stand up and fish, and it has no sort of notion of staying in one place, unless it's hauled out on the bank. If that canoe had been given the versatility of an ordinary flat-bottomed john-boat I could have got along better than I did. I said as much, and disparaged canoes generally. Eddie declared that he had never heard me swear with such talent and unreserve. He encouraged me by holding up each fish as he caught it and by suggesting that I come over there. He knew very well that I couldn't get there in a thousand years. Whenever I tried to do it that fool of a canoe shot out at a tangent and brought up nowhere. Finally in an effort to reconstruct my rod I dropped a joint of the noibwood overboard, and it went down in about four hundred feet of water. Then I believe I did have a few things to say. I was surprised at my own proficiency. It takes a crucial moment like that to develop real genius. I polished off the situation and I trimmed up the corners. Possibly a touch of sun made me fluent, for it was hot out there, though it was not as hot as a place I told them about, and I dwelt upon its fitness as a permanent abiding place for fishermen in general and for themselves in particular. When I was through and empty I see-sawed over to the bank and waited for Del. I believe I had a feverish hope that they would conclude to take my advice, and that I should never see their canoe and its contents again. There are always compensations for those who suffer and are meek in spirit. That was the evening I caught the big fish, the fish that Eddie would have given a corner of his immortal soul (if he has a soul, and if it has corners) to have taken. It was just below a big fall--Loon Lake Falls I think they call it--and we were going to camp there. Eddie had taken one side of the pool and I the other and neither of us had caught anything. Eddie was just landing, when something that looked big and important, far down the swift racing current, rose to what I had intended as my last cast. I had the little four-ounce bamboo, but I let the flies go down there--the fly, I mean, for I was casting with one (a big Silver Doctor)--and the King was there, waiting. He took it with a great slop and carried out a long stretch of line. It was a test for the little rod. There had been unkind remarks about the tiny bamboo whip; this was to be justification; a big trout on a long line, in deep, swift water--the combination was perfect. Battle now, ye ruler of the rapids! Show your timber now, thou slender wisp of silk and cane! But we have had enough of fishing. I shall not dwell upon the details of that contest. I may say, however, that I have never seen Del more excited than during the minutes--few or many, I do not know how few or how many--that it lasted. Every guide wants his canoe to beat, and it was evident from the first that this was the trout of the expedition. I know that Del believed I would never bring that fish to the canoe, and when those heavy rushes came I was harrassed with doubts myself. Then little by little he yielded. When at last he was over in the slower water--out of the main channel--I began to have faith. So he came in, slowly, slowly, and as he was drawn nearer to the boat, Del seized the net to be ready for him. But I took the net. I had been browbeaten and humiliated and would make my triumph complete. I brought him to the very side of the boat, and I lifted him in. This time the big fish did not get away. We went to where the others had been watching, and I stepped out and tossed him carelessly on the ground, as if it were but an everyday occurrence. Eddie was crushed. I no longer felt bitterness toward him. I think I shall not give the weight of that fish. As already stated, no one can tell the truth concerning a big fish the first trial, while more than one attempt does not look well in print, and is apt to confuse the reader. Besides, I don't think Eddie's scales were right, anyway. Chapter Twenty-eight _Then breathe a sigh and a long good-by_ _To the wilderness to-day,_ _For back again to the trails of men_ _Follows the waterway._ Chapter Twenty-eight Through the Eel-wier--a long and fruitful rapid--we entered our old first lake, Kedgeemakoogee, this time from another point. We had made an irregular loop of one hundred and fifty miles or more--a loop that had extended far into the remoter wilderness, and had been marked by what, to me, were hard ventures and vicissitudes, but which, viewed in the concrete, was recorded in my soul as a link of pure happiness. We were not to go home immediately. Kedgeemakoogee is large and there are entering streams, at the mouth of which the sport at this season was good. Besides, the teams that were to come for us would not be due yet for several days, if we had kept proper account of time. It was above the Eel-weir, at George's Run, that Eddie had his first and only success with dry flies. It was just the place--a slow-moving current between two islands, with many vicious and hungry trout. They would rise to the ordinary fly, two at a cast, and when Eddie put on the dry fly--the artificial miller that sits upright on the water and is an exact imitation of the real article--and let it go floating down, they snapped it up eagerly. It is beautiful fishing--I should really have liked to try it a little. But Eddie had been good to me in so many ways: I hadn't the heart to ask him for one of his precious dry flies. During our trip across Kedgeemakoogee, Del--inspired perhaps by the fact that we were getting nearer to the walks and wiles of men--gave me some idea of Nova Scotia political economies. He explained the system of government there, the manner of voting and the like. The representation is by districts, of course, similar to our own, and the parties have similar methods of making the vote of these districts count on the right side. In Queens, for instance, where we had been most, if not all, of the time, the voters are very scattering. I had suspected this, for in our one hundred and fifty miles travel we had seen but two natives, and only one of these was believed to have political residence. Del said the district had been gerrymandered a good deal to make the votes count right, and it was plain enough that if this man was the only voter in that much country, and he chasing bears most of the time, they would have to gerrymander around a good deal to keep up with him. Del said that when election time came they would go gunning for that voter over the rocks and through the burnt timber, and would beat up the brush for him as if he were a moose, and valuable. Somehow politics did not seem to belong in this place, but either Del exaggerated, this time, or there is a good deal of it to the individual. I suppose it's well to have it condensed in that way. We camped that night at Jim Charles's Point, our old first camp, and it was like getting home after long absence. For the time seemed an age since we had left there. It was that. Any new and wonderful experience is long--as long as eternity--whether it be a day or a decade in duration. Next morning, across to the mouth of West River--a place of many fish and a rocky point for our camp, with deep beds of sweet-fern, but no trees. That rocky open was not the best selection for tents. Eddie and his guide had gone up the river a little way when a sudden shower came up, with heavy darkness and quick wind. Del and I were stowing a few things inside that were likely to get wet, when all at once the tents became balloons that were straining at their guy ropes, and then we were bracing hard and clinging fast to the poles to keep everything from sailing into the sky. It was a savage little squall. It laid the bushes down and turned the lake white in a jiffy. A good thing nobody was out there, under that black sky. Then the wind died and there came a swish of rain--hard rain for a few minutes. After that the sun once more, the fragrance of the fern and the long, sweet afternoon. Looking at those deep tides of sweet-fern, I had an inspiration. My stretcher had never been over comfortable. I longed to sleep flat. Why not a couch of this aromatic balm? It was dry presently, and spreading the canvas strip smoothly on the ground I covered it with armfuls of the fern, evenly laid. I gathered and heaped it higher until it rose deep and cushiony; then I sank down upon it to perfect bliss. This was Arcady indeed: a couch as soft and as fragrant as any the gods might have spread by the brooks of Hymettus in that far time when they stole out of Elysium to find joy in the daughters of men. Such a couch Leda might have had when the swan came floating down to bestow celestial motherhood. I buried my face in the odorous mass and vowed that never again would I cramp myself in a canvas trough between two sticks, and I never did. I could not get sweet-fern again, but balsam boughs were plentiful, and properly laid in a manner that all guides know, make a couch that is wide and yielding and full of rest. Up Little River, whose stones like the proverbial worm, turned when we stepped on them and gave Eddie a hard fall; across Frozen Ocean--a place which justified its name, for it was bitterly cold there and we did nothing but keep the fire going and play pedro (to which end I put on most of my clothes and got into my sleeping-bag)--through another stream and a string of ponds, loitering and exploring until the final day. It was on one reach of a smaller stream that we found the Beaver Dam--the only one I ever saw, or am likely to see, for the race that builds them is nearly done. I had been walking upstream and fishing some small rapids above the others when I saw what appeared to be a large pool of still water just above. I made my way up there. It was in reality a long stillwater, but a pond rather than a pool. It interested me very much. The dam was unlike any I had ever seen. For one thing, I could not understand why a dam should be in that place, for there was no sign of a sluice or other indication of a log industry; besides, this dam was not composed of logs or of stone, or anything of the sort. It was a woven dam--a dam composed of sticks and brush and rushes and vines, some small trees, and dirt--made without much design, it would seem, but so carefully put together and so firmly bound that no piece of it could work loose or be torn away. I was wondering what people could have put together such a curious and effective thing as that, when Del came up, pushing the canoe. He also was interested when he saw it, but he knew what it was. It was a beaver dam, and they were getting mighty scarce. There was a law against killing the little fellows, but their pelts were worth high prices, and the law did not cover traffic in them. So long as that was the case the beavers would be killed. I had heard of beaver dams all my life, but somehow I had not thought of their being like this. I had not thought of those little animals being able to construct a piece of engineering that, in a swift place like this, could stand freshet and rot, year after year, and never break away. Del said he had never known one of them to go out. The outlet was in the right place and of the proper size. He showed me some new pieces which the builders had recently put into the work, perhaps because it seemed to be weakening there. He had watched once and had seen some beavers working. They were as intelligent as human beings. They could cut a tree of considerable size, he said, and make it fall in any chosen direction. Then he showed me some pieces of wood from which they had gnawed the sweet bark, and he explained how they cut small trees and sank lengths of them in the water to keep the bark green and fresh for future use. I listened and marveled. I suppose I had read of these things, but they seemed more wonderful when I was face to face with the fact. The other canoe came up and it was decided to cut a small section out of the dam to let us through. I objected, but was assured that the beavers were not very busy, just now, and would not mind--in fact might rather enjoy--a repair job, which would take them but a brief time. "They can do it sometime while I'm making a long carry," Charlie said. But it was no easy matter to cut through. Charlie and Del worked with the ax, and dragged and pulled with their hands. Finally a narrow breach was made, but it would have been about as easy to unload the canoes and lift them over. Half-way up the long hole we came to the lodge--its top rising above the water. Its entrance, of course, was below the surface, but the guides said there is always a hole at the top, for air. It was a well-built house--better, on the whole, than many humans construct. "They'll be scrambling around, pretty soon," Charlie said, "when they find the water getting lower in their sitting room. Then they'll send out a repair gang. Poor little fellers! Somebody'll likely get 'em before we come again. I know one chap that got seven last year. It's too bad." Yes, it is too bad. Here is a wonderful race of creatures--ingenious, harmless--a race from which man doubtless derived his early lessons in constructive engineering. Yet Nova Scotia is encouraging their assassination by permitting the traffic in their skins, while she salves her conscience by enacting a law against their open slaughter. Nova Scotia is a worthy province and means well. She protects her moose and, to some extent, her trout. But she ought to do better by the beavers. They are among her most industrious and worthy citizens. Their homes and their industries should be protected. Also, their skins. It can't be done under the present law. You can't put a price on a man's head and keep him from being shot, even if it is against the law. Some fellow will lay for him sure. He will sneak up and shoot him from behind, just as he would sneak up and shoot a beaver, and he will collect his reward in either case, and the law will wink at him. Maybe it would be no special crime to shoot the man. Most likely he deserved it, but the beaver was doing nobody any harm. Long ago he taught men how to build their houses and their dams, and to save up food and water for a dry time. Even if we no longer need him, he deserves our protection and our tender regard.[6] FOOTNOTES: [6] I have just learned from Eddie that Nova Scotia has recently enacted a new law, adequately protecting the beaver. I shall leave the above, however, as applying to other and less humane districts, wherever located. Chapter Twenty-nine _Once more, to-night, the woods are white_ _That lee so dim and far,_ _Where the wild trout hide and the moose abide_ _Under the northern star._ Chapter Twenty-nine Perhaps the brightest spot of that sad period when we were making ready to leave the woods, with all their comfort, their peace and their religion, and go back to the harrying haunts of men, to mingle with the fever and fret of daily strife, is the memory of a trip to Jeremy's Bay. I don't know in the least where Jeremy's Bay is, but it is somewhere within an hour's paddle of Jim Charles's Point, and it is that hour and the return that sticks with me now. It was among the last days of June--the most wonderful season in the north woods. The sun seems never ready to set there, then, and all the world is made of blues and greens and the long, lingering tones of evening. We had early tea in preparation for the sunset fishing. It was best, Del said, in Jeremy's Bay about that time. So it was perhaps an hour earlier when we started, the canoes light. In any one life there are not many evenings such as that. It is just as well, for I should account it a permanent sadness if they became monotonous. Perhaps they never would. Our course lay between shores--an island on the one hand, the mainland on the other. When we rounded the point, we were met by a breeze blown straight from the sunset--a breath that was wild and fresh and sweet, and billowed the water till it caught every hue and shimmering iridescence that the sky and shores and setting sun could give. We were eager and rested, for we had done little that day, and the empty canoes slipped like magic into a magical sea of amethyst and emerald gold, the fresh breeze filling us with life and ecstasy until we seemed almost to fly. The eyes could not look easily into the glory ahead, though it was less easy to look away from the enchantment which lay under the sunset. The Kingdom of Ponemah was there, and it was as if we were following Hiawatha to that fair and eternal hunting-ground. Yet when one did turn, the transformation was almost worth while. The colors were all changed. They were more peaceful, more like reality, less like a harbor of dreams and visions too fair for the eyes of man to look upon. A single glance backward, and then away once more between walls of green, billowing into the sunset--away, away to Jeremy's Bay! The sun was just on the horizon when we reached there--the water already in shadow near the shore. So deep and vivid were its hues that we seemed to be fishing in dye-stuff. And the breeze went out with the sun, and the painted pool became still, ruffled only where the trout broke water or a bird dipped down to drink. I will not speak of the fishing there. I have already promised that I would not speak of fishing again. But Jeremy's Bay is a spot that few guides know and few fishermen find. It was our last real fishing, and it was worthy. Then home to camp, between walls of dusk--away, away from Jeremy's Bay--silently slipping under darkening shores--silently, and a little sadly, for our long Day of Joy was closing in--the hour of return drew near. And postpone it as you will, the final moment must come--the time when the rod must be taken down for good; the leaders stripped and coiled in their box, the fly-book tenderly gone over and the last flies you have used fitted into place and laid away. One does not go through that final ritual without a little sentiment--a little tugging about the heart. The flies were all new and trim and properly placed when you set out. They were a gay array and you were as proud of them as of a little garden. They are in disarray now. They have an unkempt look. The shells are shredded, the feathers are caked and bitten, the hackle is frazzled and frayed out. Yet you are even more proud of them than in the beginning. Then they were only a promise, fair and beautiful to look upon; now they conjure up pictures of supreme fulfillment--days and moments so firmly set upon the past that they shall not soon fade away. That big Silver Doctor--from which the shell has twice been broken, and the feathers wrapped and rewrapped--that must have been wound with a special blessing, for when all else failed it was a certain lure. The big trout below Loon Lake rose to that fly, and accordingly this battered thing will forever be preserved. This scarlet Breck, with almost every gay feather gone and the silver wrapping replaced with tinfoil--even when it displayed a mere shred of its former glory it proved far more fatal than many a newer fly. How vividly it recalls a certain wild pool of strange, dim lucence where, for me, the trout would take no other lure. And this Montreal--it has become a magic brush that paints a picture of black rocks and dark water, and my first trout taken on a cast. For a hundred years, if I live that long, this crumpled book and these broken, worn-out flies will bring back the clear, wild water and the green shores of a Nova Scotia June, the remoter silences of the deeper forest, the bright camps by twisting pools and tumbling falls, the flash of the leaping trout, the feel of the curved rod and the music of the singing reel. I shall always recall Eddie, then, and I shall bless him for many things--and forgive him for others. I shall remember Del, too, the Stout, and Charles the Strong, and that they made my camping worth while. I was a trial to them, and they were patient--almost unreasonably so. I am even sorry now for the time that my gun went off and scared Del, though it seemed amusing at the moment. When the wind beats up and down the park, and the trees are bending and cracking with ice; when I know that once more the still places of the North are white and the waters fettered--I shall shut my eyes and see again the ripple and the toss of June, and hear once more the under voices of the falls. And some day I shall return to those far shores, for it is a place to find one's soul. Yet perhaps I should not leave that statement unqualified, for it depends upon the sort of a soul that is to be found. The north wood does not offer welcome or respond readily to the lover of conventional luxury and the smaller comforts of living. Luxury is there, surely, but it is the luxury that rewards effort, and privation, and toil. It is the comfort of food and warmth and dry clothes after a day of endurance--a day of wet, and dragging weariness, and bitter chill. It is the bliss of reaching, after long, toilsome travel, a place where you can meet the trout--the splendid, full-grown wild trout, in his native home, knowing that you will not find a picnic party on every brook and a fisherman behind every tree. Finally, it is the preciousness of isolation, the remoteness from men who dig up and tear down and destroy, who set whistles to tooting and bells to jingling--who shriek themselves hoarse in the market place and make the world ugly and discordant, and life a short and fevered span in which the soul has a chance to become no more than a feeble and crumpled thing. And if that kind of a soul pleases you, don't go to the woods. It will be only a place of mosquitoes, and general wetness, and discomfort. You won't care for it. You will hate it. But if you are willing to get wet and stay wet--to get cold and stay cold--to be bruised, and scuffed, and bitten--to be hungry and thirsty and to have your muscles strained and sore from unusual taxation: if you will welcome all these things, not once, but many times, for the sake of moments of pure triumph and that larger luxury which comes with the comfort of the camp and the conquest of the wilderness, then go! The wilderness will welcome you, and teach you, and take you to its heart. And you will find your own soul there; and the discovery will be worth while! THE END Interesting Fiction _Bar-20_ _By CLARENCE E. MULFORD_ _Illustrated, cloth, decorative. Price, $1.50._ The doings of the famous outfit of Bar-20, an old-time ranch in Arizona, are here recorded. Fifth edition. _The Cleveland News_: "The author knows old Arizona as Harte knew Poverty Row and Poker Flat." _Cleveland Plain Dealer_: "After the style of Mr. Wister." _The Orphan_ _Illustrated, cloth, decorative. Price, $1.50._ This stirring tale deals with the same characters, time, and country as the former success, "Bar-20." It is a yarn decidedly worth while. Greater even than the author's first book. Third edition. _The Salt Lake City Tribune says_: "This is a live, virile story of the boundless West ... of very great attractiveness." _At the Foot of the Rainbow_ _By GENE STRATTON-PORTER_ _Illustrated, cloth, decorative. Price, $1.50._ The scene of this charming, idyllic love story is laid in Central Indiana. It is for the man who loves the earth under his foot, the splash of the black bass, the scent of the pine wood, and the hum of earth close to his ear. _The New York Times says_: "The novel is imbued throughout with a poet's love of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment place it in the category of heart romances." _The Way of a Man_ _By EMERSON HOUGH_ _Illustrated, cloth, decorative. Price, $1.50._ A great, strong, masterful romance of American life in the early sixties. Love, romance and adventure are paramount in this wonderful story. _The Chicago Record-Herald says_: "A story that grips the reader's attention, whets his appetite, and leaves him ever eager for more." _The Sportsman's Primer_ _By NORMAN H. CROWELL_ _Illustrated, decorative cover design, boards. Price, $1.25._ For the man who enjoys sport of all kinds--for every person who has even an "ounce" of humor--this book will prove a gold mine of fun. _The St Louis Republic says_: "Most enjoyable." _Albany Times-Union says_: "One of the jolliest of fun making books." _THE OUTING PUBLISHING CO._ _35-37 WEST 31ST STREET, NEW YORK_ 
6502	----	CHRONICLES OF CANADA Edited by George M. Wrong and H. H. Langton In thirty-two volumes Volume 9 THE ACADIAN EXILES A Chronicle of the Land of Evangeline By ARTHUR G. DOUGHTY TORONTO, 1916 CHAPTER I THE FOUNDERS OF ACADIA The name Acadia, [Footnote: The origin of the name is uncertain. By some authorities it is supposed to be derived from the Micmac algaty, signifying a camp or settlement. Others have traced it to the Micmac akade, meaning a place where something abounds. Thus, Sunakade (Shunacadie, C. B.), the cranberry place; Seguboon-akade (Shubenacadie), the place of the potato, etc. The earliest map marking the country, that of Ruscelli (1561), gives the name Lacardie. Andre Thivet, a French writer, mentions the country in 1575 as Arcadia; and many modern writers believe Acadia to be merely a corruption of that classic name.] which we now associate with a great tragedy of history and song, was first used by the French to distinguish the eastern or maritime part of New France from the western part, which began with the St Lawrence valley and was called Canada. Just where Acadia ended and Canada began the French never clearly defined--in course of time, as will be seen, this question became a cause of war with the English--but we shall not be much at fault if we take a line from the mouth of the river Penobscot, due north to the St Lawrence, to mark the western frontier of the Acadia of the French. Thus, as the map shows, Acadia lay in that great peninsula which is flanked by two large islands, and is washed on the north and east by the river and gulf of St Lawrence, and on the south by the Atlantic Ocean; and it comprised what are to-day parts of Quebec and Maine, as well as the provinces of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward Island. When the French came, and for long after, this country was the hunting ground of tribes of the Algonquin race--Micmacs, Malecites, and Abnakis or Abenakis. By right of the discoveries of Jean Verrazano (1524) and Jacques Cartier (1534-42) the French crown laid claim to all America north of the sphere of Spanish influence. Colonial enterprise, however, did not thrive during the religious wars which rent Europe in the sixteenth century; and it was not until after the Edict of Nantes in 1598 that France could follow up the discoveries of her seamen by an effort to colonize either Acadia or Canada. Abortive attempts had indeed been made by the Marquis de la Roche, but these had resulted only in the marooning of fifty unfortunate convicts on Sable Island. The first real colonizing venture of the French in the New World was that of the Sieur de Monts, the patron and associate of Champlain. [Footnote: See The founder of New France in this Series, chap. ii.] The site of this first colony was in Acadia. Armed with viceregal powers and a trading monopoly for ten years, De Monts gathered his colonists, equipped two ships, and set out from Havre de Grace in April 1604. The company numbered about a hundred and fifty Frenchmen of various ranks and conditions, from the lowest to the highest--convicts taken from the prisons, labourers and artisans, Huguenot ministers and Catholic priests, some gentlemen of noble birth, among them Jean de Biencourt, Baron de Poutrincourt, and the already famous explorer Champlain. The vessels reached Cape La Heve on the south coast of Nova Scotia in May. They rounded Cape Sable, sailed up the Bay of Fundy, and entered the Annapolis Basin, which Champlain named Port Royal. The scene here so stirred the admiration of the Baron de Poutrincourt that he coveted the place as an estate for his family, and begged De Monts, who by his patent was lord of the entire country, to grant him the adjoining lands. De Monts consented; the estate was conveyed; and Poutrincourt became the seigneur of Port Royal. The adventurers crossed to the New Brunswick shore, turned their vessel westward, passed the mouth of the river St John, which they named, and finally dropped anchor in Passamaquoddy Bay. Here, on a small island near the mouth of the river St Croix, now on the boundary-line between New Brunswick and Maine, De Monts landed his colonists. They cleared the ground; and, within an enclosure known as the Habitation de l'Isle Saincte-Croix, erected a few buildings--'one made with very fair and artificial carpentry work' for De Monts, while others, less ornamental, were for 'Monsieur d'Orville, Monsieur Champlein, Monsieur Champdore, and other men of high standing.' Then as the season waned the vessels, which linked them to the world they had left, unfurled their sails and set out for France. Seventy-nine men remained at St Croix, among them De Monts and Champlain. In the vast solitude of forest they settled down for the winter, which was destined to be full of horrors. By spring thirty-five of the company had died of scurvy and twenty more were at the point of death. Evidently St Croix was not a good place for a colony. The soil was sandy and there was no fresh water. So, in June, after the arrival of a vessel bringing supplies from France, De Monts and Champlain set out to explore the coasts in search of a better site. But, finding none which they deemed suitable, they decided to tempt fortune at Poutrincourt's domain of Port Royal. Thither, then, in August the colonists moved, carrying their implements and stores across the Bay of Fundy, and landing on the north side of the Annapolis Basin, opposite Goat Island, where the village of Lower Granville now stands. The colony thus formed at Port Royal in the summer of 1605--the first agricultural settlement of Europeans on soil which is now Canadian--had a broken existence of eight years. Owing to intrigues at the French court, De Monts lost his charter in 1607 and the colony was temporarily abandoned; but it was re-established in 1610 by Poutrincourt and his son Charles de Biencourt. The episode of Port Royal, one of the most lively in Canadian history, introduces to us some striking characters. Besides the leaders in the enterprise, already mentioned --De Monts, Champlain, Poutrincourt, and Biencourt--we meet here Lescarbot, [Footnote: Lescarbot was the historian of the colony. His History of New France, reprinted by the Champlain Society (Toronto, 1911), with an English translation, notes, and appendices by W. L. Grant, is a delightful and instructive work.] lawyer, merry philosopher, historian, and farmer; likewise, Louis Hebert, planting vines and sowing wheat--the same Louis Hebert who afterwards became the first tiller of the soil at Quebec. Here, also, is Membertou, sagamore of the Micmacs, 'a man of a hundred summers' and 'the most formidable savage within the memory of man.' Hither, too, in 1611, came the Jesuits Biard and Masse, the first of the black-robed followers of Loyola to set foot in New France. But the colony was to perish in an event which foreshadowed the struggle in America between France and England. In 1613 the English Captain Argall from new-founded Virginia sailed up the coasts of Acadia looking for Frenchmen. The Jesuits had just begun on Mount Desert Island the mission of St Sauveur. This Argall raided and destroyed. He then went on and ravaged Port Royal. And its occupants, young Biencourt and a handful of companions, were forced to take to a wandering life among the Indians. Twenty years passed before the French made another organized effort to colonize Acadia. The interval, however, was not without events which had a bearing on the later fortunes of the colony. Missionaries from Quebec, both Recollets and Jesuits, took up their abode among the Indians, on the river St John and at Nipisiguit on Chaleur Bay. Trading companies exploited the fur fields and the fisheries, and French vessels visited the coasts every summer. It was during this period that the English Puritans landed at Plymouth (1620), at Salem (1628), and at Boston (1630), and made a lodgment there on the south-west flank of Acadia. The period, too, saw Sir William Alexander's Scots in Nova Scotia and saw the English Kirkes raiding the settlements of New France. [Footnote: See The Jesuit Missions in this Series, chap. iv.] The Baron de Poutrincourt died in 1615, leaving his estate to his son Biencourt. And after Biencourt's own death in 1623, it was found that he had bequeathed a considerable fortune, including all his property and rights in Acadia, to his friend and companion, that interesting and resourceful adventurer, Charles de la Tour. This man, when a lad of fourteen, and his father, Claude de la Tour, had come out to Acadia in the service of Poutrincourt. After the destruction of Port Royal, Charles de la Tour had followed young Biencourt into the forest, and had lived with him the nomadic life of the Indians. Later, the elder La Tour established himself for trade at the mouth of the Penobscot, but he was driven away from this post by a party from the English colony at Plymouth. The younger La Tour, after coming into Biencourt's property, built Fort Lomeron, afterwards named St Louis, at the place now known as Port Latour, near Cape Sable. This made him in fact, if not in name, the French ruler of Acadia, for his Fort St Louis was the only place of any strength in the whole country. By 1627 the survivors of Biencourt's wandering companions had settled down, some of them in their old quarters at Port Royal, but most of them with La Tour at Cape Sable. Then came to Acadia seventy Scottish settlers, sent hither by Sir William Alexander, who took up their quarters at Port Royal and named it Scots Fort. The French described these settlers as 'all kinds of vagabonds, barbarians, and savages from Scotland'; and the elder La Tour went to France to procure stores and ammunition, and to petition the king to grant his son a commission to hold Acadia against the intruders. But the elder La Tour was not to come back in the role of a loyal subject of France. He was returning in 1628 with the ships of the newly formed Company of One Hundred Associates, under Roquemont, when, off the Gaspe coast, appeared the hostile sail of the Kirkes; and La Tour was taken prisoner to England. There he entered into an alliance with the English, accepted grants of land from Sir William Alexander, had himself and his son made Baronets of Nova Scotia, and promised to bring his son over to the English side. Young La Tour, when his father returned, accepted the gift, and by some means procured also, in 1631, a commission from the French king as lieutenant-general of Acadia. Later, as we shall see, his dual allegiance proved convenient. The restoration of Acadia to France in 1632, by the Treaty of St Germain-en-Laye, was to Cardinal Richelieu the signal for a renewal of the great colonizing project which he had set on foot five years earlier and which had been interrupted by the hostile activities of the Kirkes. [Footnote: See The founder of New France, chap. v, and The Jesuit Missions, chap. iv.] Richelieu appointed lieutenant-general of Acadia Isaac de Razilly, one of the Company of One Hundred Associates and commander of the Order of Malta, with authority to take over Acadia from the Scots. Razilly brought out with him three hundred settlers, recruited mainly from the districts of Touraine and Brittany--the first considerable body of colonists to come to the country. He was a man of more than ordinary ability, of keen insight and affable manners. 'The commander,' wrote Champlain, 'possessed all the qualities of a good, a perfect sea-captain; prudent, wise, industrious; urged by the saintly motive of increasing the glory of God and of exercising his energy in New France in order to erect the cross of Christ and plant the lilies of France therein.' He planned for Acadia on a large scale. He endeavoured to persuade Louis XIII to maintain a fleet of twelve vessels for the service of the colony, and promised to bring out good settlers from year to year. Unfortunately, his death occurred in 1635 before his dreams could be realized. He had been given the power to name his successor; and on his death-bed he appointed his cousin and companion, Charles de Menou, Sieur d'Aulnay Charnisay, adjuring him 'not to abandon the country, but to pursue a task so gloriously begun.' Years of strife and confusion followed. Razilly had made La Heve his headquarters; but Charnisay took up his at Port Royal. [Footnote: Charnisay built his fort about six miles farther up than the original Port Royal, and on the opposite side of the river, at the place thenceforth known as Port Royal until 1710, and since then as Annapolis Royal or Annapolis.] This brought him into conflict with Charles de la Tour, who had now established himself at the mouth of the river St John, and whose commission from the king, giving him jurisdiction over the whole of Acadia, had, apparently, never been rescinded. The king, to whom the dispute was referred, instructed that an imaginary line should be drawn through the Bay of Fundy to divide the territory of Charnisay from that of La Tour. But this arrangement did not prevent the rivalry between the two feudal chiefs from developing into open warfare. In the struggle the honours rested with Charnisay. Having first undermined La Tour's influence at court, he attacked and captured La Tour's Fort St John. This happened in 1645. La Tour himself was absent; but his wife, a woman of heroic mould, made a most determined resistance. [Footnote: This follows the story as told by Denys (see p. 18 note), which has been generally accepted by historians. But Charnisay in an elaborate memoir (Memoire Instructif) gives a very different version of this affair.] La Tour was impoverished and driven into exile; his remarkable wife died soon afterwards; and Charnisay remained lord of all he surveyed. But Charnisay was not long to enjoy his dominion. In May 1650 he was thrown by accident from his canoe into the Annapolis river and died in consequence of the exposure. In the year following Charnisay's death Charles de la Tour reappeared on the scene. Armed with a new patent from the French king, making him governor and lieutenant- general of Acadia, he took possession of his fort at the mouth of the St John, and further strengthened his position by marrying the widow of his old rival Charnisay. Three years later (1654), when the country fell again into the hands of the English, La Tour turned to good account his previous relations with them. He was permitted to retain his post, and lived happily with his wife [Footnote: They had five children, who married and settled in Acadia. Many of their descendants may be counted among the Acadian families living at the present time in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.] at Fort St John, so far as history records, until his death in 1666. By the Treaty of Breda in 1667 Acadia was restored to France, and a period ensued of unbroken French rule. The history of the forty-three years from the Treaty of Breda until the English finally took possession is first a history of slow but peaceful development, and latterly of raids and bloody strife in which French and English and Indians were involved. In 1671 the population, according to a census of that year, numbered less than four hundred and fifty. This was presently increased by sixty new colonists from France. By 1685 this population had more than doubled and the tiny settlements appeared to be thriving. But after 1690 war again racked the land. During this period Acadia was under the government of Quebec, but there was always a local governor. The first of these, Hubert de Grandfontaine, came out in 1670. He and some of his successors were men of force and ability; but others, such as Brouillan, who issued card money without authority and applied torture to an unconvicted soldier, and Perrot, who sold liquor by the pint and the half-pint in his own house, were unworthy representatives of the crown. By 1710 the population of Acadia had grown to about twenty-one hundred souls, distributed chiefly in the districts of Port Royal, Minas, and Chignecto. Most of these were descended from the settlers brought over by Razilly and Charnisay between 1633 and 1638. On the whole, they were a strong, healthy, virtuous people, sincerely attached to their religion and their traditions. The most notable singularity of their race was stubbornness, although they could be led by kindness where they could not be driven by force. Though inclined to litigation, they were not unwilling to arbitrate their differences. They 'had none who were bred mechanics; every farmer was his own architect and every man of property a farmer.' 'The term Mister was unknown among them.' They took pride in their appearance and wore most attractive costumes, in which black and red colours predominated. Content with the product of their labour and having few wants, they lived in perfect equality and with extreme frugality. In an age when learning was confined to the few, they were not more illiterate than the corresponding class in other countries. 'In the summer the men were continually employed in husbandry.' They cultivated chiefly the rich marsh-lands by the rivers and the sea, building dikes along the banks and shores to shut out the tides; and made little effort to clear the woodlands. 'In the winter they were engaged in cutting timber and wood for fuel and fencing, and in hunting; the women in carding, spinning, and weaving wool, flax, and hemp, of which their country furnished abundance; these, with furs from bears, beavers, foxes, otters, and martens, gave them not only comfortable, but in some cases handsome clothing.' Although they had large herds of cattle, 'they never made any merchantable butter, being used to set their milk in small noggins which were kept in such order as to turn it thick and sour in a short time, of which they ate voraciously.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada, Brown Collection, M 651a, 171.] The lands which the Acadians reclaimed from the sea and cultivated were fertile in the extreme. A description has come down to us of what was doubtless a typical Acadian garden. In it were quantities of 'very fine well-headed cabbages and of all other sorts of pot herbs and vegetables.' Apple and pear trees brought from France flourished. The peas were 'so covered with pods that it could only be believed by seeing.' The wheat was particularly good. We read of one piece of land where 'each grain had produced six or eight stems, and the smallest ear was half a foot in length, filled with grain.' The streams and rivers, too, teemed with fish. The noise of salmon sporting in the rivers sounded like the rush of a turbulent rapid, and a catch such as 'ten men could not haul to land' was often made in a night. Pigeons were a plague, alighting in vast flocks in the newly planted gardens. If the economic progress of the country had been slow, the reason had lain, not in any poverty of natural resources, but in the scantiness of the population, the neglect of the home government, the incessant turmoil within, and the devastating raids of English enemies. CHAPTER II THE BRITISH IN ACADIA Almost from the first England had advanced claims, slender though they were, to the ownership of Acadia. And very early, as we have seen, the colony had been subjected to the scourge of English attacks. Argall's expedition had been little more than a buccaneering exploit and an earnest of what was to come. Nor did any permanent result, other than the substitution of the name Nova Scotia for Acadia, flow from Sir William Alexander's enterprise. Alexander, afterwards Lord Stirling, was a Scottish courtier in the entourage of James I, from whom he obtained in 1621 a grant of the province of New Scotland or Nova Scotia. A year later he sent out a small body of farm hands and one artisan, a blacksmith, to establish a colony. The expedition miscarried; and another in the next year shared a similar fate. A larger company of Scots, however, as already mentioned, settled at Port Royal in 1627 and erected a fort, known as Scots Fort, on the site of the original settlement of De Monts. This colony, with some reinforcements from Scotland, stood its ground until the country was ceded to France in 1632. On the arrival of Razilly in that year most of the Scottish settlers went home, and the few who remained were soon merged in the French population. For twenty-two years after this Acadia remained French, under the feudal sway of its overlords, Razilly, Charnisay, La Tour, and Nicolas Denys, the historian of Acadia. [Footnote: He wrote The Description and Natural History of the Coasts of North America. An edition, translated and edited, with a memoir of the author, by W. F. Ganong, will be found in the publications of the Champlain Society (Toronto, 1908).] But in 1654 the fleet of Robert Sedgwick suddenly appeared off Port Royal and compelled its surrender in the name of Oliver Cromwell. Then for thirteen years Acadia was nominally English. Sir Thomas Temple, the governor during this period, tried to induce English-speaking people to settle in the province, but with small success. England's hold of Acadia was, in fact, not very firm. The son of Emmanuel Le Borgne, who claimed the whole country by right of a judgment he had obtained in the French courts against Charnisay, apparently found little difficulty in turning the English garrison out of the fort at La Heve, leaving his unfortunate victims without means of return to New England, or of subsistence; but in such destitution that they were forced 'to live upon grass and to wade in the water for lobsters to keep them alive.' Some amusing correspondence followed between France and England. The French ambassador in London complained of the depredations committed in the house of a certain Monsieur de la Heve. The English government, better informed about Acadia, replied that it knew of no violence committed in the house of M. de la Heve. 'Neither is there any such man in the land, but there is a place so called, which Temple purchased for eight thousand pounds from La Tour, where he built a house. But one M. le Borny, two or three years since, by force took it, so that the violence was on Le Borny's part.' The strife was ended, however, as already mentioned, by the Treaty of Breda in 1667, in the return of Acadia to France in exchange for the islands in the West Indies of St Christopher, Antigua, and Montserrat. Nearly a quarter of a century passed. France and England were at peace and Acadia enjoyed freedom from foreign attack. But the accession of William of Orange to the throne of England heralded the outbreak of another Anglo-French war. The month of May 1690 saw Sir William Phips with a New England fleet and an army of over a thousand men off Port Royal, demanding its surrender. Menneval, the French governor, yielded his fortress on the understanding that he and the garrison should be transported to French soil. Phips, however, after pillaging the place, desecrating the church, hoisting the English flag, and obliging the inhabitants to take the oath of allegiance to William and Mary, carried off his prisoners to Boston. He was bent on the capture of Quebec in the same year and had no mind to make the necessary arrangements to hold Acadia. Hardly had he departed when a relief expedition from France, under the command of Menneval's brother Villebon, sailed into Port Royal. But as Villebon had no sufficient force to reoccupy the fort, he pulled down the English flag, replaced it by that of France, and proceeded to the river St John. After a conference with the Indians there he went to Quebec, and was present with Frontenac in October when Phips appeared with his summons to surrender. [Footnote: See The Fighting Governor in this Series, chap. vii.] Villebon then went to France. A year later he returned as governor of Acadia and took up his quarters at Fort Jemseg, about fifty miles up the St John river. Here he organized war-parties of Indians to harry the English settlements; and the struggle continued, with raid and counter-raid, until 1697, when the Treaty of Ryswick halted the war between the two crowns. The formal peace, however, was not for long. In 1702 Queen Anne declared war against France and Spain. And before peace returned the final capture of Acadia had been effected. It was no fault of Subercase, the French officer who in 1706 came to Port Royal as governor, that the fortunes of war went against him. In 1707 he beat off two violent attacks of the English; and if sufficient means had been placed at his disposal, he might have retained the colony for France. But the ministry at Versailles, pressed on all sides, had no money to spare for the succour of Acadia. Subercase set forth with clearness the resources of the colony, and urged strong reasons in favour of its development. In 1708 a hundred soldiers came to his aid; but as no funds for their maintenance came with them, they became a burden. The garrison was reduced almost to starvation; and Subercase was forced to replenish his stores by the capture of pirate vessels. The last letter he wrote home was filled with anguish over the impending fate of Port Royal. His despair was not without cause. In the spring of 1710 Queen Anne placed Colonel Francis Nicholson, one of her leading colonial officers, in command of the troops intended for the recovery of Nova Scotia. An army of about fifteen hundred soldiers was raised in New England, and a British fleet gathered in Boston Harbour. On October 5 (New Style) this expedition arrived before Port Royal. The troops landed and laid siege once more to the much-harassed capital of Acadia. The result was a foregone conclusion. Five days later preliminary proposals were exchanged between Nicholson and Subercase. The starving inhabitants petitioned Subercase to give up. He held out, however, till the cannonade of the enemy told him that he must soon yield to force. He then sent an officer to Nicholson to propose the terms of capitulation. It was agreed that the garrison should march out with the honours of war and be transported to France in English ships, and that the inhabitants within three miles of the fort should 'remain upon their estates, with their corn, cattle, and furniture, during two years, in case they are not desirous to go before, they taking the oath of allegiance and fidelity to Her Sacred Majesty of Great Britain.' Then to the roll of the drum, and with all the honours of war, the French troops marched out and the New Englanders marched in. The British flag was raised, and, in honour of the queen of England, Port Royal was named Annapolis Royal. A banquet was held in the fortress to celebrate the event, and the French officers and their ladies were invited to it to drink the health of Queen Anne, while cannon on the bastions and cannon on the ramparts thundered forth a royal salute. The celebration over, Subercase sent an envoy to Quebec, to inform Vaudreuil, the governor of New France, of the fall of Port Royal, and then embarked with his soldiers for France. A few days later Nicholson took away most of his troops and repaired to Boston, leaving a garrison of four hundred and fifty men and officers under the command of Colonel Samuel Vetch to hold the newly-won post until peace should return and Her Majesty's pleasure concerning it be made known. As far as he was able, Vetch set up military rule at Annapolis Royal. He administered the oath of allegiance to the inhabitants of the banlieue--within three miles of the fort--according to the capitulation, and established a court to try their disputes. Many and grave difficulties faced the new governor and his officers. The Indians were hostile, and, quite naturally in the state of war which prevailed, emissaries of the French strove to keep the Acadians unfriendly to their English masters. Moreover, Vetch was badly in want of money. The soldiers had no proper clothing for the winter; they had not been paid for their services; the fort stood in need of repair; and the military chest was empty. He could get no assistance from Boston or London, and his only resource seemed to be to levy on the inhabitants in the old-fashioned way of conquerors. The Acadians pleaded poverty, but Vetch sent out armed men to enforce his order, and succeeded in collecting at least a part of the tribute he demanded, not only from the inhabitants round the fort over whom he had authority, but also from the settlers of Minas and Chignecto, who were not included in the capitulation. The first winter passed, in some discomfort and privation, but without any serious mishap to the English soldiers. With the month of June, however, there came a disaster. The Acadians had been directed to cut timber for the repair of the fort and deliver it at Annapolis. They had complied for a time and had then quit work, fearing, as they said, attacks from the Indian allies of the French, who threatened to kill them if they aided the enemy. Thereupon Vetch ordered an officer to take seventy-five men and go up the river to the place where the timber was being felled and 'inform the people that if they would bring it down they would receive every imaginable protection,' but if they were averse or delayed to do so he was to 'threaten them with severity.' 'And let the soldiers make a show of killing their hogs,' the order ran, 'but do not kill any, and let them kill some fowls, but pay for them before you come away.' Armed with this somewhat peculiar military order, the troops set out. But as they ascended the river they were waylaid by a war-party of French and Indians, and within an hour every man of the seventy-five English was either killed or taken captive. Soon after this tragic affair Vetch went to Boston to take a hand in an invasion of Canada which was planned for that summer. This invasion was to take place by both sea and land simultaneously. Vetch joined the fleet of Sir Hovenden Walker, consisting of some sixty vessels which sailed from Boston in July. Meanwhile Colonel Nicholson stood near Lake Champlain, with a force of several thousand colonial troops and Six Nation Indians, in readiness to advance on Canada to co-operate with the fleet. But the fleet never got within striking distance. Not far above the island of Anticosti some of the ships ran aground and were wrecked with a loss of nearly a thousand men; and the commander gave up the undertaking and bore away for England. When news of this mishap reached Nicholson he retreated and disbanded his men. But, though the ambitious enterprise ended ingloriously, it was not wholly fruitless, for it kept the French of Quebec on guard at home; while but for this menace they would probably have sent a war-party in force to drive the English out of Acadia. The situation of the English at Annapolis was indeed critical. Their numbers had been greatly reduced by disease and raids and the men were in a sorry plight for lack of provisions and clothing. Vetch could obtain neither men nor money from England or the colonies. Help, however, of a sort did come in the summer of 1712. This was in the form of a band of Six Nation Indians, allies of the English, from the colony of New York. [Footnote: Collections of the Nova Scotia Historical Society, vol. iv, p. 41.] These savages pitched their habitations not far from the fort, and thereafter the garrison suffered less from the Micmac and Abnaki allies of the French. The Acadians were in revolt; and as long as they cherished the belief that their countrymen would recover Acadia, all attempts to secure their allegiance to Queen Anne proved unavailing. At length, in April 1713, the Treaty of Utrecht set at rest the question of the ownership of the country. Cape Breton, Ile St Jean (Prince Edward Island), and other islands in the Gulf were left in the hands of the French. But Newfoundland and 'all Nova Scotia or Acadia, with its ancient boundaries, as also the city of Port Royal, now called Annapolis Royal,' passed to the British crown. CHAPTER III THE OATH OF ALLEGIANCE We have now to follow a sequence of events leading up to the calamity to be narrated in a later chapter. By the Treaty of Utrecht the old king, Louis XIV, had obtained certain guarantees for his subjects in Acadia. It was provided that 'they may have liberty to remove themselves within a year to any other place with all their movable effects'; and that 'those who are willing to remain therein and to be subject to the kingdom of Britain are to enjoy the free exercise of their religion.' And these terms were confirmed by a warrant of Queen Anne addressed to Nicholson, under date of June 23, 1713. [Footnote: 'Trusty and Well-beloved, We greet you Well! Whereas Our Good Brother the Most Christian King hath at Our desire released from imprisonment on board His Galleys, such of His subjects as were detained there on account of their professing the Protestant religion, We being willing to show by some mark of Our Favour towards His subjects how kindly we take His compliance therein, have therefore thought fit hereby to Signifie Our Will and Pleasure to you that you permit and allow such of them as have any lands or Tenements in the Places under your Government in Acadie and Newfoundland, that have been or are to be yielded to Us by Vertue of the late Treaty of Peace, and are Willing to Continue our Subjects to retain and Enjoy their said Lands and Tenements without any Lett or Molestation as fully and freely as other our Subjects do or may possess their Lands and Estates or to sell the same if they shall rather Chuse to remove elsewhere--And for so doing this shall be your Warrant, And so we bid you fare well. Given at our Court at Kensington the 23rd day of June 1713 in the Twelfth Year of our Reign.'--Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. iv, p. 97.] The status of the Acadians under the treaty, reinforced by this warrant, seems to be sufficiently clear. If they wished to become British subjects, which of course implied taking the oath of allegiance, they were to enjoy all the privileges of citizenship, not accorded at that time to Catholics in Great Britain, as well as the free exercise of their religion. But if they preferred to remove to another country within a year, they were to have that liberty. The French authorities were not slow to take advantage of this part of the treaty. In order to hold her position in the New World and assert her authority, France had transferred the garrison which she had formerly maintained at Placentia, Newfoundland, to Cape Breton. This island she had renamed Ile Royale, and here she was shortly to rear the great fortress of Louisbourg. It was to her interest to induce the Acadians to remove to this new centre of French influence. In March 1713, therefore, the French king intimated his wish that the Acadians should emigrate to Ile Royale; every inducement, indeed, must be offered them to settle there; though he cautioned his officers that if any of the Acadians had already taken the oath of allegiance to Great Britain, great care must be exercised to avoid scandal. Many Acadians, then, on receiving attractive offers of land in Ile Royale, applied to the English authorities for permission to depart. The permission was not granted. It was first refused by Governor Vetch on the ground that he was retiring from office and was acting only in the absence of Colonel Nicholson, who had been recently appointed governor. The truth is that the English regarded with alarm the removal of practically the entire population from Nova Scotia. The governor of Ile Royale intervened, and sent agents to Annapolis Royal to make a formal demand on behalf of the Acadians, presenting in support of his demand the warrant of Queen Anne. The inhabitants, it was said, wished to leave Nova Scotia and settle in Ile Royale, and 'they expect ships to convey themselves and effects accordingly.' Nicholson, who had now arrived as governor, took the position that he must refer the question to England for the consideration of Her Majesty. When the demand of the governor of Ile Royale reached England, Vetch was in London; and Vetch had financial interests in Nova Scotia. He at once appealed to the Lords of Trade, who in due course protested to the sovereign 'that this would strip Nova Scotia and greatly strengthen Cape Breton.' Time passed, however, and the government made no pronouncement on the question. Meanwhile Queen Anne had died. Matters drifted. The Acadians wished to leave, but were not allowed to employ British vessels. In despair they began to construct small boats on their own account, to carry their families and effects to Ile Royale. These boats, however, were seized by order of Nicholson, and the Acadians were explicitly forbidden to remove or to dispose of their possessions until a decision with regard to the question should arrive from England. In January 1715 the accession of George I was proclaimed throughout Acadia. But when the Acadians were required to swear allegiance to the new monarch, they proved obdurate. They agreed not to do anything against His Britannic Majesty as long as they remained in Acadia; but they refused to take the oath on the plea that they had already pledged their word to migrate to Ile Royale. John Doucette, who arrived in the colony in October 1717 as lieutenant-governor, was informed by the Acadians that 'the French inhabitants had never own'd His Majesty as Possessor of this His Continent of Nova Scotia and L'Acadie.' When Doucette presented a paper for them to sign, promising them the same protection and liberty as the rest of His Majesty's subjects in Acadia, they brought forward a document of their own, which evidently bore the marks of honest toil, since Doucette 'would have been glad to have sent' it to the secretary of state 'in a cleaner manner.' In it they declared, 'We shall be ready to carry into effect the demand proposed to us, as soon as His Majesty shall have done us the favour of providing some means of sheltering us from the savage tribes, who are always ready to do all kinds of mischief... In case other means cannot be found, we are ready to take an oath, that we will take up arms neither against His Britannic Majesty, nor against France, nor against any of their subjects or allies.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. viii, p. 181 et seq.] The attitude of both France and England towards the unfortunate Acadians was thoroughly selfish. The French at Louisbourg, after their first attempt to bring the Acadians to Ile Royale, relapsed into inaction. They still hoped doubtless that Acadia would be restored to France, and while they would have been glad to welcome the Acadians, they perceived the advantage of keeping them under French influence in British territory. In order to do this they had at their hand convenient means. The guarantee to the Acadians of the freedom of their religion had entailed the presence in Acadia of French priests not British subjects, who were paid by the French government and were under the direction of the bishop of Quebec. These priests were, of course, loyal to France and inimical to Great Britain. Another source of influence possessed by the French lay in their alliance with the Indian tribes, an alliance which the missionary priests helped to hold firm. The fear of an Indian attack was destined on more than one occasion to keep the Acadians loyal to France. On the other hand, the British, while loth to let the Acadians depart, did little to improve their lot. It was a period of great economy in English colonial administration. Walpole, in his desire to reduce taxation, devoted very little money to colonial development; and funds were doled out to the authorities at Annapolis in the most parsimonious manner. 'It is a pity,' wrote Newton, the collector of the customs at Annapolis and Canso, in 1719, that 'so fine a province as Nova Scotia should lie so long neglected. As for furs, feathers, and a fishery, we may challenge any province in America to produce the like, and beside that here is a good grainery; masting and naval stores might be provided hence. And was here a good establishment fixt our returns would be very advantageous to the Crown and Great Britain.' As it was, the British ministers were content to send out elaborate instructions for the preservation of forests, the encouragement of fisheries and the prevention of foreign trade, without providing either means for carrying out the schemes, or troops for the protection of the country. Nothing further was done regarding the oath of allegiance until the arrival of Governor Philipps in 1720, when the Acadians were called upon to take the oath or leave the country within four months, taking with them only two sheep per family. This, it seems, was merely an attempt to intimidate the people into taking the oath, for when the Acadians, having no boats at their disposal, proposed to travel by land, and began to cut out a road for the passage of vehicles, they were stopped in the midst of their labours by order of the governor. In a letter to England Philipps expressed the opinion that the Acadians, if left alone, would no doubt become contented British subjects, that their emigration at this time would be a distinct loss to the garrison, which was supplied by their labours. He added that the French were active in maintaining their influence over them. One potent factor in keeping them restless was the circulation of reports that the English would not much longer tolerate Catholicism. [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xi, p. 186.] The Lords of Trade took this letter into consideration, and in their reply of December 28, 1720, we find the proposal to remove the Acadians as a means of settling the problem. [Footnote: 'As to the French inhabitants of Nova Scotia, who appear so wavering in their inclinations, we are apprehensive they will never become good subjects to His Majesty whilst the French Governors and their Priests retain so great an influence over them, for which reason we are of opinion, that they ought to be removed so soon as the forces which we have proposed to be sent to you shall arrive in Nova Scotia for the protection and better settlement of your Province, but as you are not to attempt their removal without His Majesty's positive orders for that purpose, you will do well in the meanwhile to continue the same prudent and cautious conduct towards them, to endeavour to undeceive them concerning the exercise of their religion, which will doubtless be allowed them if it should be thought proper to let them stay where they are.'--Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xii, p. 210.] This, however, was not the first mooting of the idea. During the same year Paul Mascarene, in 'A Description of Nova Scotia,' had given two reasons for the expulsion of the inhabitants: first, that they were Roman Catholics, under the full control of French priests opposed to British interests; secondly, that they continually incited the Indians to do mischief or disturb English settlements. On the other hand, Mascarene discovered two motives for retaining them: first, in order that they might not strengthen the French establishments; secondly, that they might be employed in furnishing supplies for the garrison and in preparing fortifications until such time as the English were strong enough to do without them. [Footnote: 'A Description of Nova Scotia,' by Paul Mascarene, transmitted to the Lords of Trade by Governor Philipps.--Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xii, p. 118.] It does not appear that either the English or the French government had any paternal affection for the poor Acadians; but each was fully conscious of the use to which they might be put. In a letter to the Lords of Trade Philipps sums up the situation. 'The Acadians,' he says, 'decline to take the oath of allegiance on two grounds--that in General Nicholson's time they had signed an obligation to continue subjects of France and retire to Cape Breton, and that the Indians would cut their throats if they became Englishmen.' If they are permitted [he continues] to remain upon the footing they propose, it is very probable they will be obedient to government as long as the two Crowns continue in alliance, but in case of a rupture will be so many enemies in our bosom, and I cannot see any hopes, or likelihood, of making them English, unless it was possible to procure these Priests to be recalled who are tooth and nail against the Regent; not sticking to say openly that it is his day now, but will be theirs anon; and having others sent in their stead, which (if anything) may contribute in a little time to make some change in their sentiments. He further suggests an 'oath of obliging the Acadians to live peaceably,' to take up arms against the Indians, but not against the French, to acknowledge the king's right to the country, to obey the government, and to hold their lands of the king by a new tenure, 'instead of holding them (as at present) from lords of manors who are now at Cape Breton, where at this day they pay their rent.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xii, p. 96.] There were signs that the situation was not entirely hopeless. The Acadians were not allowed to leave the country, or even to settle down to the enjoyment of their homes; they were employed in supplying the needs of the troops, or in strengthening the British fortifications; yet they seem to have patiently accepted the inevitable. The Indians committed acts of violence, but the Acadians remained peaceable. There was, too, a certain amount of intermarriage between Acadian girls and the British soldiers. In those early days of Nova Scotia, girls of a marriageable age were few and were much sought after. There was in Annapolis an old French gentlewoman 'whose daughters, granddaughters, and other relatives' had married British officers. These ladies soon acquired considerable influence and were allowed to do much as they pleased. The old gentlewoman, Marie Magdalen Maisonat, who had married Mr William Winniett, a leading merchant and one of the first British inhabitants of Annapolis, became all-powerful in the town, not only on account of her own estimable qualities, but also on account of the position held by her daughters and granddaughters. Soldiers arrested for breach of discipline often pleaded that they had been 'sent for to finish a job of work for Madame'; and this excuse was usually sufficient to secure an acquittal. If not, the old lady would on her own authority order the culprit's release, and 'no further enquiry was made into the matter.' One British officer, who had incurred her displeasure, was told that 'Me have rendered King Shorge more important service dan ever you did or peut-etre ever shall, and dis is well known to peoples en autorite,' which may have been true if, as was asserted, she sometimes presided at councils of war in the fort. [Footnote: Knox, An Historical Journal of the Campaigns in North America, Edited, etc., by A. G. Doughty. Vol. i, pp. 94-6. (Toronto: The Champlain Society, 1914.)] It was with the Indians, rather than with the Acadians, that the authorities had the greatest trouble. After several hostile acts had been committed, the governor determined to try the effect of the gentle art of persuasion. He sent to England an agent named Bannfield to purchase a large quantity of presents for the Indians. Bannfield was thoroughly dishonest, and appropriated two-thirds of the money to his own use, expending the remainder on the purchase of articles of 'exceeding bad quality.' A gorgeous entertainment was prepared for the savages, and the presents were given to them. The Indians took away the presents, but their missionaries had little difficulty in showing them the inferiority of the English gifts; and Philipps noted that they did not appear satisfied. 'They will take all we give them,' he wrote, 'and cut our throats next day.' At length the Indians boldly declared war against the British, an action which Philipps attributed to the scandalous conduct of the agent Bannfield. At the instigation of the French of Ile Royale, they kept up hostilities for two years and committed many barbarities. The Micmacs seized fishing smacks, and killed and scalped a number of English soldiers and fishermen. It was not until a more attractive supply of presents arrived, and were distributed among the chiefs, that they could be induced to make peace. During the progress of the Indian war Governor Philipps had prudently refrained from discussing with the Acadians the question of the oath; but in 1726 Lawrence Armstrong, the lieutenant-governor, resolved to take up the matter again. In the district of Annapolis he had little trouble. The inhabitants there consented, after some discussion, to sign a declaration of allegiance, with a clause exempting them from the obligation of taking up arms. [Footnote: This oath applied only to the inhabitants of the district of Annapolis.] But to deal with the Acadians of Minas and of Beaubassin on Chignecto Bay proved more difficult. Certain 'anti-monarchical traders' from Boston and evil-intentioned French inhabitants had represented in these districts that the governor had no authority in the land, and no power to administer oaths. No oath would these Acadians take but to their own Bon Roy de France. They promised, however, to pay all the rights and dues which the British demanded. The death of George I in 1727, and the accession of George II, made it necessary for the Acadians to acknowledge the new monarch. This time the lieutenant-governor was determined to do the business in a thorough and comprehensive manner. He chartered a vessel at a cost of a hundred pounds, and commissioned Ensign Wroth to proceed from place to place at the head of a detachment of troops proclaiming the new king and obtaining the submission of the people. Wroth was eminently successful in proclaiming His Majesty; but he had less success in regard to the oath. Finding the Acadians obdurate, he promised them on his own authority freedom in the exercise of their religion, exemption from bearing arms, and liberty to withdraw from the province at any time. These 'unwarrantable concessions' Armstrong refused to ratify; and the Council immediately declared them null and void, although they resolved that 'the inhabitants... having signed and proclaimed His Majesty and thereby acknowledged his title and authority to and over this Province, shall have the liberties and privileges of English subjects.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia B, vol. i, p. 177.] This was all the Acadians wished for. The commission of Ensign Wroth did not extend to the district of Annapolis, which was dealt with by the Council. The deputies of the Acadians there were summoned to appear before the Council on September 6, 1727. But the inhabitants, instead of answering the summons, called a meeting on their own account and passed a resolution, signed by seventy-one of their people, which they forwarded to the Council. In this document they offered to take the oath on the conditions offered by Wroth. This the Council considered 'insolent and defiant,' and ordered the arrest of the deputies. On September 16 Charles Landry, Guillaume Bourgois, Abraham Bourg, and Francois Richard were brought before the Council, and, on refusing to take the oath except on the terms proposed by themselves, were committed to prison for contempt and disrespect to His Majesty. Next day the lieutenant-governor announced that 'they had been guilty of several enormous crimes in assembling the inhabitants in a riotous manner contrary to the orders of government both as to time and place and likewise in framing a rebellious paper.' It was then resolved: 'That Charles Landry, Guillaume Bourgois and Francis Richard, for their said offence, and likewise for refusing the oath of fidelity to His Majesty which was duly tendered them, be remanded to prison, laid in irons, and there remain until His Majesty's pleasure shall be made known concerning them, and that Abraham Bourg, in consideration of his great age, shall have leave to retire out of this His Majesty's Province, according to his desire and promise, by the first opportunity, leaving his effects behind him.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia B, vol. i, p. 159.] The rest of the inhabitants were to be debarred from fishing on the British coasts. It is difficult to reconcile the actions of the Council. The inhabitants who cheerfully subscribed to the oath, with the exceptions made by Ensign Wroth, were to be accorded the privileges of British subjects, while some of those who would have been glad to accept the same terms were laid in irons, and the others debarred from fishing, their main support. Shortly after this Philipps was compelled to return to Nova Scotia in order to restore tranquillity; for his lieutenant Armstrong, a man of quick temper, had fallen foul of the French priests, especially the Abbe Breslay, whom he had caused to be handled somewhat roughly. Armstrong, seeking an alliance with the Abnakis, had been foiled by the French and had laid the blame at the door of the priest, demanding the keys of the church and causing the presbytery to be pillaged. In the end Breslay had escaped in fear of his life. It was his complaints, set forth in a memorial to the government, that had brought about Philipps's return. The Acadians, with whom Philipps was popular, welcomed him in a public manner; and Philipps took advantage of the occasion to approach them again on the subject of the oath. He restored the Abbe Breslay to his flock, promised the people freedom in religious matters, and assured them that they would not be required to take up arms. Then all the Acadians in the district of Annapolis subscribed to the following oath: 'I promise and swear on the faith of a Christian that I will be truly faithful and will submit myself to His Majesty King George the Second, whom I acknowledge as the lord and sovereign of Nova Scotia or Acadia. So help me God.' In the spring of 1728 Philipps obtained also the submission of the inhabitants of the other districts, on similar terms; and even the Indians professed a willingness to submit. This was a triumph for the administration of Philipps, and laid at rest for a time the vexed question of the oath. The triumph was, however, more superficial than real, as we shall see by and by. CHAPTER IV IN TIMES OF WAR When Philipps had set at rest the question of the oath of allegiance, he returned to England, and Armstrong, less pacific than his chief, again assumed the administration, and again had some trouble with the priests. Two Acadian missionaries had been expelled from the country for want of respect to the governor; and Armstrong informed the inhabitants that in future he must be consulted regarding the appointment of ecclesiastics, and that men from Quebec would not be acceptable. Brouillan, the governor of Ile Royale, had taken the ground that the Acadian priests, not being subjects of Great Britain, were not amenable to the British authorities. This view was held by the priests themselves. The president of the Navy Board at Paris, however, rebuked Brouillan, and informed him that the priests in Acadia should by word and example teach the obedience due to His Britannic Majesty. This pronouncement cleared the air; the disagreements with the missionaries were soon adjusted; and one of them, St Poncy, after being warned to cultivate the goodwill of the governor, was permitted to resume his pastoral duties at Annapolis Royal. On the death of Armstrong, on December 6, 1739, from wounds supposed to have been inflicted by his own hand, John Adams was appointed lieutenant-governor and president of the Council. In the following spring, however, Adams was displaced by a vote of the Council in favour of Major Paul Mascarene. 'The Secretary came to my House,' wrote Adams to the Duke of Newcastle, 'and reported to me the judgment of the Council in favour of Major Mascarene, from whose judgment I appealed to His Majesty and said if you have done well by the House of Jerubable [Jerubbaal] then rejoice ye in Abimelech and let Abimelech rejoice in you.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xxv, p. 9.] After this lucid appeal, Adams, who had deep religious convictions, retired to Boston and bemoaned the unrighteousness of Annapolis. [Footnote: Writing from Boston to the Lords of Trade, Adams said: 'I would have returned to Annapolis before now. But there was no Chaplain in the Garrison to administer God's word and sacrament to the people. But the Officers and Soldiers in Garrison have Prophaned the Holy Sacrament of Baptism and Ministeriall Function, by presuming to Baptize their own children. Why His Majesty's Chaplain does not come to his Duty I know not, but am persuaded it is a Disservice and Dishonour to our Religion and Nation; and as I have heard, some have got their children Baptized by the Popish Priest, for there has been no Chaplain here for above these four years.'--Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xxv, p. 176.] It was under Mascarene's administration that Nova Scotia passed through the period of warfare which now supervened. For some time relations between France and England had been growing strained in the New World, owing chiefly to the fact that the Peace of Utrecht had left unsettled the perilous question of boundary between the rival powers. There was the greatest confusion as to the boundaries of Nova Scotia or Acadia. The treaty had given Great Britain the province of Acadia 'with its ancient boundaries.' The 'ancient boundaries,' Great Britain claimed, included the whole mainland of the present maritime provinces and the Gaspe peninsula; whereas France contended that they embraced only the peninsula of Nova Scotia. Both powers, therefore, claimed the country north of the isthmus of Chignecto, and the definition of the boundary became a more and more pressing question. The outbreak of the war of the Austrian Succession in Europe in 1741 set the match to the fuse. By 1744 the French and English on the Atlantic seaboard were up in arms. The governor of Ile Royale lost no time in attacking Nova Scotia. He invaded the settlements at Canso with about five hundred men; and presently a band of Indians, apparently led by the Abbe Le Loutre, missionary to the Micmacs, marched against Annapolis Royal. Towards these aggressions the Acadians assumed an attitude of strict neutrality. On the approach of Le Loutre's Micmacs they went to their homes, refusing to take part in the affair. Then when the raiders withdrew, on the arrival of reinforcements from Boston, the Acadians returned to their work on the fort. During the same year, when Du Vivier with a considerable French force appeared before Annapolis, the Acadians aided him with provisions. But when the French troops desired to winter at Chignecto, the Acadians objected and persuaded them to leave, which 'made their conduct appear to have been on this occasion far better than could have been expected from them.' [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 147.] Once more the Acadians resumed their work on the fortifications and supplied the garrison with provisions. They frankly admitted giving assistance to the French, but produced an order from the Sieur du Vivier threatening them with punishment at the hands of the Indians if they refused. In May of the following year (1745) a party of Canadians and Indians, under the raider Marin, invested Annapolis. Again the Acadians refused to take up arms and again assisted the invaders with supplies. By the end of the month, however, Marin and his raiders had vanished and the garrison at Annapolis saw them no more. They had been urgently summoned by the governor of Ile Royale to come to his assistance, for Louisbourg was even then in dire peril. An army of New Englanders under Pepperrell, supported by a squadron of the British Navy under Warren, had in fact laid siege to the fortress in the same month. [Footnote: See The Great Fortress in this Series, chap. ii.] But Marin's raiders could render no effective service. On the forty-ninth day of the siege Louisbourg surrendered to the English, [Footnote: June 17, Old Style, June 28, New Style, 1745. The English at this time still used the Old Style Julian calendar, while the French used the Gregorian, New Style. Hence some of the disagreement in respect to dates which we find in the various accounts of this period.] and shortly afterwards the entire French population, civil and military, among them many Acadians, were transported to France. The fall of Louisbourg and the removal of the inhabitants alarmed the French authorities, who now entertained fears for the safety of Canada and determined to take steps for the recapture of the lost stronghold, and with it the whole of Acadia, in the following year. Accordingly, a formidable fleet, under the command of the Duc d'Anville, sailed from La Rochelle in June 1746; while the governor of Quebec sent a strong detachment of fighting Canadians under Ramesay to assist in the intended siege. But disaster after disaster overtook the fleet. A violent tempest scattered the ships in mid-ocean and an epidemic carried off hundreds of seamen and soldiers. In the autumn the commander, with a remnant of his ships, arrived in Chebucto Bay (Halifax), where he himself died. The battered ships finally put back to France, and nothing came of the enterprise. [Footnote: See The Great Fortress, chap. iii.] Meanwhile, rumours having reached Quebec of a projected invasion of Canada by New England troops, the governor Beauharnois had recalled Ramesay's Canadians for the defence of Quebec; but on hearing that the French ships had arrived in Chebucto Bay, and expecting them to attack Annapolis, Ramesay marched his forces into the heart of Acadia in order to be on hand to support the fleet. Then, when the failure of the fleet became apparent, he retired to Beaubassin at the head of Chignecto Bay, and proceeded to fortify the neck of the peninsula, building a fort at Baie Verte on the eastern shore. He was joined by a considerable band of Malecites and Micmacs under the Abbe Le Loutre; and emissaries were sent out among the Acadians as far as Minas to persuade them to take up arms on the side of the French. William Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, who exercised supervision over the affairs of Nova Scotia, seeing in this a real menace to British power in the colony, raised a thousand New Englanders and dispatched them to Annapolis. Of these only four hundred and seventy, under Colonel Arthur Noble of Massachusetts, arrived at their destination. Most of the vessels carrying the others were wrecked by storms; one was driven back by a French warship. In December, however, Noble's New Englanders, with a few soldiers from the Annapolis garrison, set out to rid Acadia of the Canadians; and after much hardship and toil finally reached the village of Grand Pre in the district of Minas. Here the soldiers were quartered in the houses of the Acadians for the winter, for Noble had decided to postpone the movement against Ramesay's position on the isthmus until spring. It would be impossible, he thought, to make the march through the snow. But the warlike Canadians whom Ramesay had posted in the neck of land between Chignecto Bay and Baie Verte did not think so. No sooner had they learned of Noble's position at Grand Pre than they resolved to surprise him by a forced march and an attack by night. Friendly Acadians warned the British of the intended surprise; but the over-confident Noble scouted the idea. The snow in many places was 'twelve to sixteen feet deep,' and no party, even of Canadians, thought Noble, could possibly make a hundred miles of forest in such a winter. So it came to pass that one midnight, early in February, Noble's men in Grand Pre found themselves surrounded. After a plucky fight in which sixty English were killed, among them Colonel Noble, and seventy more wounded, Captain Benjamin Goldthwaite, who had assumed the command, surrendered. The enemies then, to all appearances, became the best of friends. The victorious Canadians sat down to eat and drink with the defeated New Englanders, who made, says Beaujeu, one of the Canadian officers, 'many compliments on our polite manners and our skill in making war.' The English prisoners were allowed to return to Annapolis with the honours of war, while their sick and wounded were cared for by the victors. This generosity Mascarene afterwards gratefully acknowledged. When the Canadians returned to Chignecto with the report of their victory over the British, Ramesay issued a proclamation to the inhabitants of Grand Pre setting forth that 'by virtue of conquest they now owed allegiance to the King of France,' and warning them 'to hold no communication with the inhabitants of Port Royal.' This proclamation, however, had little effect. With few exceptions the Acadians maintained their former attitude and refused to bear arms, even on behalf of France and in the presence of French troops. 'There were,' says Mascarene, 'in the last action some of those inhabitants, but none of any account belonging to this province... The generality of the inhabitants of this province possess still the same fidelity they have done before, in which I endeavour to encourage them.' Quite naturally, however, there was some unrest among the Acadians. After the capture of Louisbourg in 1745 the British had transported all the inhabitants of that place to France; and rumours were afloat of an expedition for the conquest of Canada and that the Acadians were to share a similar fate. This being made known to the British ministry, the Duke of Newcastle wrote to Governor Shirley of Massachusetts, instructing him to issue a proclamation assuring the Acadians 'that there is not the least foundation for any apprehension of that nature: but that on the contrary it is His Majesty's resolution to protect and maintain all such of them as shall continue in their duty and allegiance to His Majesty in the quiet and peaceable possession of their habitations and settlements and that they shall continue to enjoy the free exercise of their religion.' [Footnote: Newcastle to Shirley, May 30, 1747.--Canadian Archives Report, 1905, Appendix C, vol. ii, p. 47.] Shirley proceeded to give effect to this order. He issued a proclamation informing the inhabitants of the intention of the king towards them; omitting, however, that clause relating to their religion, a clause all-important to them. The document was printed at Boston in French, and sent to Mascarene to be distributed. Mascarene thought at the time that it produced a good effect. Shirley's instructions were clear; but in explanation of his omission he represented that such a promise might cause inconvenience, as it was desirable to wean the Acadians from their attachment to the French and the influence of the bishop of Quebec. He contended, moreover, that the Treaty of Utrecht did not guarantee the free exercise of religion. In view of this explanation, [Footnote: Bedford to Shirley, May 10, 1748.] Shirley's action was approved by the king. In Shirley's proclamation several persons were indicted for high treason, [Footnote: Canadian Archives Report, 1906, Appendix C, vol. ii, p. 48.] and a reward of 50 pounds was offered for the capture of any one offender named. These, apparently, were the only pronounced rebels in the province. There were more sputterings in Acadia of the relentless war that raged between New France and New England. Shirley had sent another detachment of troops in April to reoccupy Grand Pre; and the governor of Quebec had sent another war-party. But in the next year (1748) the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, by which Ile Royale (Cape Breton) and Ile St Jean (Prince Edward Island) were restored to France, brought hostilities to a pause. CHAPTER V CORNWALLIS AND THE ACADIANS In Nova Scotia England was weak from the fact that no settlements of her own people had been established there. After thirty years of British rule Mascarene had written, 'There is no number of English inhabitants settled in this province worth mentioning, except the five companies here [at Annapolis] and four at Canso.' Now the restoration to France of Cape Breton with the fortress of Louisbourg exposed Nova Scotia to attack; and in time of war with France the Acadians would be a source of weakness rather than of strength. Great Britain, therefore, resolved to try the experiment of forming in Nova Scotia a colony of her own sons. Thus it came to pass that a fleet of transports carrying over twenty-five hundred colonists, counting women and children, escorted by a sloop-of-war, cast anchor in Chebucto Bay in July 1749. This expedition was commanded by Edward Cornwallis, the newly appointed governor and captain-general of Nova Scotia. He was a young officer of thirty-six, twin-brother of the Rev. Frederick Cornwallis, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, and uncle of the more famous Lord Cornwallis who surrendered at Yorktown thirty-two years later. With the colonists came many officers and disbanded soldiers; came, also, the soldiers of the garrison which had occupied Louisbourg before the peace; for the new settlement, named Halifax in honour of the president of the Lords of Trade, was to be a military stronghold, as well as a naval base, and the seat of government for the province. While Cornwallis and his colonists laid the foundations of Halifax, cleared the land, formed the streets, put up their dwellings and defences, and organized their government, the home authorities took up the problem of securing more settlers for Nova Scotia. Cornwallis had been instructed to prepare for settlements at Minas, La Heve, Whitehead, and Baie Verte, the intention being that the newcomers should eventually absorb the Acadians living at these places. It had been suggested to the Lords of Trade, probably by John Dick, a merchant of Rotterdam, that the most effective means to this end would be to introduce a large French Protestant element into Nova Scotia. The government thereupon gave instructions that the land should be surveyed and plans prepared dividing the territory into alternate Protestant and Catholic sections. Through intercourse and intermarriage with neighbours speaking their own tongue, it was fondly hoped that the Acadians, in course of time, would become loyal British subjects. The next step was to secure French Protestant emigrants. In December 1749 the Lords of Trade entered into a contract with John Dick to transport 'not more than fifteen hundred foreign Protestants to Nova Scotia.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xxxv, p. 189.] Dick was a man of energy and resource and, in business methods, somewhat in advance of his age. He appears to have understood the value of advertising, judging from the handbills which he circulated in France and from his advertisements in the newspapers. But as time passed emigrants in anything like the numbers expected were not forthcoming. Evil reports concerning Nova Scotia had been circulated in France, and other difficulties arose. After many delays, however, two hundred and eighty persons recruited by Dick arrived at Halifax. The character of some gave rise to complaint, and Dick was cautioned by the government. His troubles in France crept on apace. It began to be rumoured that the emigrants were being enrolled in the Halifax militia; and, France being no longer a profitable field, Dick transferred his activities to Germany. Alluring handbills in the German tongue were circulated, and in the end a considerable number of Teutons arrived at Halifax. Most of these were afterwards settled at Lunenburg. The enterprise, of course, failed of its object to neutralize and eventually assimilate the Acadian Catholic population; nevertheless several thousand excellent 'foreign Protestant' settlers reached Nova Scotia through various channels. They were given land in different parts of the province and in time became good citizens. Cornwallis's instructions from the British ministry contained many clauses relating to the Acadians. Though they had given assistance to the enemy, they should be permitted to remain in the possession of their property. They must, however, take the oath of allegiance 'within three months from the date of the declaration' which the governor was to make. Liberty of conscience should be permitted to all. In the event of any of the inhabitants wishing to leave the province, the governor should remind them that the time allowed under the Treaty of Utrecht for the removal of their property had long since expired. The governor should take particular care that 'they do no damage, before such their removal, to their respective homes and plantations.' Determined efforts should be made, not only to Anglicize, but to Protestantize the people. Marriages between the Acadians and the English were to be encouraged. Trade with the French settlements was prohibited. No episcopal jurisdiction might be exercised in the province, a mandate intended to shut out the bishop of Quebec. Every facility was to be given for the education of Acadian children in Protestant schools. Those who embraced Protestantism were to be confirmed in their lands, free from quit-rent for a period of ten years. [Footnote: Canadian Archives Report, 1905, Appendix C, vol. ii, p. 50.] Armed with these instructions, Cornwallis adopted at first a strong policy. On July 14, 1749, he issued a proclamation containing 'the declaration of His Majesty regarding the French inhabitants of Nova Scotia,' and calling on the Acadians to take the oath of allegiance within three months. At a meeting of the Council held the same day, at which representatives of the Acadians were present, the document was discussed. The deputies listened with some concern to the declaration, and inquired whether permission would be given them to sell their lands if they decided to leave the country. The governor replied that under the Treaty of Utrecht they had enjoyed this privilege for one year only, and that they could not now 'be allowed to sell or carry off anything.' The deputies asked for time to consult the inhabitants. This was granted, with a warning that those who 'should not take the oath of allegiance before the 15th of October should forfeit all their possessions and rights in the Province.' Deputies from nine districts appeared before the Council on July 31 and spoke for the Acadians. The Council deliberated and decided that no priest should officiate without a licence from the governor; that no exemption from bearing arms in time of war could be made; that the oath must be taken as offered; and that all who wished to continue in the possession of their lands must appear and take the oath before October 15, which would be the last day allowed them. [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia B, vol. iv, p. 14.] A month later they presented to Cornwallis a petition signed by one thousand inhabitants to the effect that they had faithfully served King George, and were prepared to renew the oath which was tendered to them by Governor Philipps; that two years before His Majesty had promised to maintain them in the peaceable enjoyment of their possessions: 'And we believe, Your Excellency, that if His Majesty had been informed of our conduct towards His Majesty's Government, he would not propose to us an oath which, if taken, would at any moment expose our lives to great peril from the savage nations, who have reproached us in a strange manner as to the oath we have taken to His Majesty... But if Your Excellency is not disposed to grant us what we take the liberty of asking, we are resolved, every one of us, to leave the country.' In reply Cornwallis reminded them that, as British subjects, they were in the enjoyment of their religion and in possession of their property. 'You tell me that General Philipps granted you the reservation which you demand; and I tell you gentlemen, that the general who granted you such reservation did not do his duty... You have been for more than thirty-four years past the subjects of the King of Great Britain... Show now that you are grateful.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia B, vol. iv, p. 49.] The Acadians, however, showed still a decided aversion to an unqualified oath; and Cornwallis apparently thought it best to recede somewhat from the high stand he had taken. He wrote to the home government explaining that he hesitated to carry out the terms of his proclamation of July 14 by confiscating the property of those who did not take the oath, on the ground that the Acadians would not emigrate at that season of the year, and that in the meantime he could employ them to advantage. If they continued to prove obstinate, he would seek new instructions to force things to a conclusion. [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xxxv, p. 48.] The Acadians, used by this time to the lenity of the British government, were probably not surprised to find, at the meeting of the Council held on October 11, no mention of the oath which had to be taken before the 15th of the month. The winter passed, and still Cornwallis took no steps to enforce his proclamation. He had his troubles; for the French, from Quebec on the one side and from Louisbourg on the other, were fomenting strife; and the Indians were on the war-path. And, in February 1750, the Lords of Trade wrote that as the French were forming new settlements with a view to enticing the Acadians into them, any forcible means of ejecting them should be waived for the present. Cornwallis replied that he was anxious to leave matters in abeyance until he ascertained what could be done in the way of fortifying Chignecto. 'If a fort is once built there,' he explained, 'they [the Indians] will be driven out of the peninsula or submit. He also wished to know what reinforcements he might expect in the spring. Until then he would 'defer making the inhabitants take the oath of allegiance.' Meanwhile the Acadians were not idle on their own behalf. In October 1749 they addressed a memorial to Des Herbiers, the governor of Ile Royale, to be transmitted to the French king. They complained that the new governor intended to suppress their missionaries, [Footnote: Cornwallis had denied the jurisdiction of the bishop of Quebec, but had intimated that he would grant a licence to any good priest, his objection being to missionaries such as Le Loutre, who stirred up the Indians to commit hostilities.] and to force them to bear arms against the Indians, with whom they had always been on friendly terms. They therefore prayed the king to obtain concessions from Great Britain-- the maintenance of the Quebec missionaries, the exemption from bearing arms, or an extension of a year in which they might withdraw with their effects. [Footnote: Canadian Archives Report, 1905, Appendix N, vol. ii, p. 298.] Two months later they sent a petition to the Marquis de la Jonquiere, the governor of Canada, actuated, they said, by the love of their country and their religion. They had refused to take the oath requiring them to bear arms against their fellow-countrymen. They had, it is true, appeared attached to the interests of the English, in consequence of the oath which they had consented to take only when exempted from bearing arms. Now that this exemption was removed, they wished to leave Nova Scotia, and hoped that the king would help them with vessels, as they had been refused permission to build them. Great offers had been made to them, but they preferred to leave. [Footnote: Ibid., p. 301.] In the spring of 1750, unable to obtain permission from Cornwallis to take a restricted oath, the Acadians almost unanimously decided to emigrate. On April 19 deputies from several settlements in the district of Minas--the river Canard, Grand Pre, and Pisiquid--appeared before the Council at Halifax and asked to be allowed to leave the province with their effects. [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia B, vol. iv, p. 130.] According to Cornwallis, they professed that this decision was taken against their inclination, and that the French had threatened them with destruction at the hands of the Indians if they remained. [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xxxvii, p. 7.] On May 25 the inhabitants of Annapolis Royal came with a like petition. In reply to these petitions Cornwallis reminded the inhabitants that the province was the country of their fathers, and that they should enjoy the product of their labours. As soon as there should be tranquillity he would give them permission to depart, if they wished to do so; but in the present circumstances passports could not be granted to any one. They could not be permitted to strengthen the hand of Great Britain's enemy. But in spite of the prohibition, of the forts that were built to enforce it, and of British cruisers patrolling the coasts to prevent intercourse with the French, there was a considerable emigration. A number of families crossed to Ile St Jean in the summer of 1750. They were aided by the missionaries, and supplied with vessels and arms by the French authorities at Louisbourg. By August 1750 we know that eight hundred Acadians were settled in Ile St Jean. CHAPTER VI THE 'ANCIENT BOUNDARIES' By the terms of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle the question of the limits of Acadia had been referred to a commission of arbitration, and each of the powers had agreed to attempt no settlement on the debatable ground until such time as the decision of the commissioners should be made known. Each, however, continued to watch jealously over its own interests. The English persisted in their claim that the ancient boundaries included all the country north of the Bay of Fundy to the St Lawrence, and Cornwallis was directed to see to it that no subjects of the French king settled within these boundaries. The French, on the other hand, steadily asserted their ownership in all land north of a line drawn from Baie Verte to Chignecto Bay. The disputants, though openly at peace, glowered at each other. Hardly had Cornwallis brought his colonists ashore at Halifax, when La Galissoniere, the acting-governor of Canada, sent Boishebert, with a detachment of twenty men, to the river St John, to assert the French claim to that district; and when La Galissoniere went to France as a commissioner in the boundary dispute, his successor, La Jonquiere, dispatched a force under the Chevalier de la Corne to occupy the isthmus of Chignecto. About the same time the Indians went on the war-path, apparently at the instigation of the French. Des Herbiers, the governor of Ile Royale, when dispatching the Abbe Le Loutre to the savages with the usual presents, had added blankets and a supply of powder and ball, clearly intended to aid them should they be disposed to attack the English settlements. Indians from the river St John joined the Micmacs and opened hostilities by seizing an English vessel at Canso and taking twenty prisoners. The prisoners were liberated by Des Herbiers; but the Micmacs, their blood up, assembled at Chignecto, near La Corne's post, and declared war on the English. The Council at Halifax promptly raised several companies for defence, and offered a reward of 10 pounds for the capture of an Indian, dead or alive. Cornwallis complained bitterly to Louisbourg that Le Loutre was stirring up trouble; but Des Herbiers disingenuously disclaimed all responsibility for the abbe. The Indians, he said, were merely allies, not French subjects, and Le Loutre acted under the direction of the governor of Canada. He promised also that if any Frenchman molested the English, he should be punished, a promise which, as subsequent events showed, he had no intention of keeping. In November 1749 a party of one hundred and fifty Indians captured a company of engineers at Grand Pre, where the English had just built a fort. Le Loutre, however, ransomed the prisoners and sent them to Louisbourg. The Indians, emboldened by their success, then issued a proclamation in the name of the king of France and their Indian allies calling upon the Acadians to arm, under pain of death for disobedience. On learning that eleven Acadians obeyed this summons, Cornwallis sent Captain Goreham of the Rangers to arrest them. The rebels, however, made good their escape, thanks to the Indians; and Goreham could only make prisoners of some of their children, whom he brought before the governor. The children declared that their parents had not been free agents, and produced in evidence one of the threatening orders of the Indians. In any case, of course, the children were in no way responsible, and were therefore sent home; and the governor described Goreham as 'no officer at all.' When spring came Cornwallis took steps to stop the incursions of the savages and at the same time to check the emigration of the Acadians. He sent detachments to build and occupy fortified posts at Grand Pre, at Pisiquid, and at other places. He ordered Major Lawrence to sail up the Bay of Fundy with four hundred settlers for Beaubassin, the Acadian village at the head of Chignecto Bay. For the time being, however, this undertaking did not prosper. On arriving, Lawrence encountered a band of Micmacs, which Le Loutre had posted at the dikes to resist the disembarkation. Some fighting ensued before Lawrence succeeded in leading ashore a body of troops. The motive of the turbulent abbe was to preserve the Acadians from the contaminating presence of heretics and enemies of his master, the French king. And, when he saw that he could not prevent the English from making a lodgment in the village, he went forward with his Micmacs and set it on fire, thus forcing the Acadian inhabitants to cross to the French camp at Beausejour, some two miles off. Here La Corne had set up his standard to mark the boundary of New France, beyond which he dared the British to advance at their peril. At a conference which was arranged between Lawrence and La Corne, La Corne said that the governor of Canada, La Jonquiere, had directed him to take possession of the country to the north, 'or at least he was to keep it and must defend it till the boundaries between the two Crowns should be settled.' [Footnote: Canadian Archives Report, 1906, Appendix N, vol. ii, p. 321.] Moreover, if Lawrence should try to effect a settlement, La Corne would oppose it to the last. And as Lawrence's forces were quite inadequate to cope with La Corne's, it only remained for Lawrence to return to Halifax with his troops and settlers. Meanwhile Boishebert stood guard for the governor of Quebec at the mouth of the river St John. In the previous year, when he had arrived there, Cornwallis had sent an officer to protest against what he considered an encroachment; but Boishebert had answered simply that he was commissioned to hold the place for his royal master without attempting a settlement until the boundary dispute should be adjusted. Now, in July 1750, Captain Cobb of the York, cruising in the Bay of Fundy, sighted a French sloop near the mouth of the St John, and opened fire. The French captain immediately lowered his boats and landed a party of sailors, apparently with the intention of coming to a conference. Cobb followed his example. Presently Boishebert came forward under a flag of truce and demanded Cobb's authority for the act of war in territory claimed by the French. Cobb produced his commission and handed it to Boishebert. Keeping the document in his possession, Boishebert ordered Cobb to bring his vessel under the stern of the French sloop, and sent French officers to board Cobb's ship and see the order carried out. The sailors on the York, however, held the Frenchmen as hostages for the safe return of their captain. After some parleying Cobb was allowed to return to his vessel, and the Frenchmen were released. Boishebert, however, refused to return the captain's commission. Cobb thereupon boarded the French sloop, seized five of the crew, and sailed away. So the game went on. A month later the British sloop Trial, at Baie Verte, captured a French sloop of seventy tons which was engaged in carrying arms and supplies to Le Loutre's Indians. On board were four deserters from the British and a number of Acadians. Among the papers found on the Acadians were letters addressed to their friends in Quebec and others from Le Loutre and officers of Fort St John and of Port La Joie in Ile St Jean. From one of these letters we obtain a glimpse of the conditions of the Acadians: I shall tell you that I was settled in Acadia. I have four small children. I lived contented on my land. But that did not last long, for we were compelled to leave all our property and flee from under the domination of the English. The King undertakes to transport us and support us under the expectation of news from France. If Acadia is not restored to France I hope to take my little family and bring it to Canada. I beg you to let me know the state of things in that country. I assure you that we are in poor condition, for we are like the Indians in the woods. [Footnote: A. Doucet to Mde Langedo of Quebec, August 5, 1750.] By other documents taken it was shown that supplies from Quebec were frequently passing to the Indians, and that the dispatches addressed to Cornwallis were intercepted and forwarded to the governor of Quebec. [Footnote: Cornwallis to Bedford, August 19, 1750.] These papers revealed to Cornwallis the peril which menaced him. But, having been reinforced by the arrival from Newfoundland of three hundred men of Lascelles's regiment, he resolved to occupy Chignecto, which Lawrence had been forced to abandon in April. Accordingly Lawrence again set out, this time with about seven hundred men. In mid-September his ships appeared off the burnt village of Beaubassin. Again the landing was opposed by a band of Indians and about thirty Acadians entrenched on the shore. These, after some fighting and losses, were beaten off; and the English troops landed and proceeded to construct a fort, named by them Fort Lawrence, and to erect barracks for the winter. La Corne, from his fort at Beausejour, where he had his troops and a body of Acadians, addressed a note to Lawrence, proposing a meeting in a boat in the middle of the river. Lawrence replied that he had no business with La Corne, and that La Corne could come to him if he had anything to communicate. Acts of violence followed. It was not long before a scouting party under the command of Captain Bartelot was surrounded by a band of Indians and Acadians. [Footnote: La Valliere, one of the French officers on the spot, says that the Indians and Acadians were encouraged by Le Loutre during this attack.--Journal of the Sieur de la Valliere.] Forty-five of the party were killed, and Bartelot and eight men were taken prisoners. A few weeks later there was an act of treachery which greatly embittered the British soldiers. This was the murder of Captain Howe, one of the British officers, by some of Le Loutre's Micmacs. It was stated that Le Loutre was personally implicated in the crime, but there appears not the slightest foundation for this charge. One morning in October Howe saw an Indian carrying a flag of truce on the opposite side of the Missaguash river, which lay between Fort Lawrence and Fort Beausejour. Howe, who had often held converse with the savages, went forward to meet the Indian, and the two soon became engaged in conversation. Suddenly the Indian lowered his flag, a body of savages concealed behind a dike opened fire, and Howe fell, mortally wounded. In the work of bringing the dying officer into the fort ten of his company also fell. Meanwhile an event occurred which seemed likely to promote more cordial relations between the French and the English. Early in October Des Herbiers returned to Halifax thirty- seven prisoners, including six women, who had been captured by the Indians but ransomed and sent to Louisbourg by the Abbe Le Loutre. It is difficult to reconcile the conduct of the meddlesome missionary on this occasion with what we know of his character. He was possessed of an inveterate hatred of the English and all their works; yet he was capable of an act of humanity towards them. After all, it may be that generosity was not foreign to the nature of this fanatical French patriot. Cornwallis was grateful, and cheerfully refunded the amount of the ransom. [Footnote: Des Herbiers to Cornwallis, October 2, 1750.--Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. xxxix, p. 13.] But the harmony existing between Des Herbiers and Cornwallis was of short duration. In the same month the British sloop Albany, commanded by Captain Rous, fell on the French brigantine St Francois, Captain Vergor, on the southern coast. Vergor, who was carrying stores and ammunition to Louisbourg, ran up his colours, but after a fight of three hours he was forced by Rous to surrender. The captive ship was taken to Halifax and there condemned as a prize, the cargo being considered contraband of war. La Jonquiere addressed a peremptory letter to Cornwallis, demanding whether he was acting under orders in seizing a French vessel in French territory. He likewise instructed Des Herbiers to seize ships of the enemy; and as a result four prizes were sold by the Admiralty Court at Louisbourg. Open hostilities soon became the order of the day. During the winter a party of Canadians and Indians and Acadians disguised as Indians assembled near Fort Lawrence. They succeeded in killing two men, and continued to fire on the British position for two days. But, as the garrison remained within the shelter of the walls, the attackers grew weary of wasting ammunition and withdrew to harry the settlement at Halifax. According to the French accounts, these savages killed thirty persons on the outskirts of Halifax in the spring of 1751, and Cornwallis reported that four inhabitants and six soldiers had been taken prisoners. Then in June three hundred British troops from Fort Lawrence invaded the French territory to attempt a surprise. They were discovered, however, and St Ours, who had succeeded La Corne, brought out his forces and drove them back to Fort Lawrence. A month later the British made another attack and destroyed a dike, flooding the lands of the Acadians in its neighbourhood. And during all this time England and France were theoretically at peace. Their commissioners sat in Paris, La Galissoniere on one side, Shirley on the other, piling up mountains of argument as to the 'ancient boundaries' of Acadia. All to no purpose; for neither nation could afford to recede from its position. It was a question for the last argument of kings. Meanwhile the officials in the colonies anxiously waited for the decision; and the poor Acadians, torn between the hostile camps, and many of them now homeless, waited too. CHAPTER VII A LULL IN THE CONFLICT The years 1752 and 1753 were, on the whole, years of peace and quiet. This was largely due to changes in the administration on both sides. At the end of 1751 the Count de Raymond had replaced Des Herbiers as governor of Ile Royale; in 1752 Duquesne succeeded La Jonquiere at Quebec as governor of New France; and Peregrine Hopson took the place of Cornwallis in the government of Nova Scotia. Hopson adopted a policy of conciliation. When the crew of a New England schooner in the summer of 1752 killed an Indian lad and two girls whom they had enticed on board, Hopson promptly offered a reward for the capture of the culprits. He treated the Indians with such consistent kindness that he was able in the month of September to form an alliance with the Micmacs on the coast. He established friendly relations also with Duquesne and Raymond, and arranged with them a cartel of exchange regarding deserters. Towards the Acadians Hopson seemed most sympathetic. From the experience of Cornwallis he knew, of course, their aversion to the oath of allegiance. In writing to the Lords of Trade for instructions he pointed out the obstinacy of the people on this question, but made it clear how necessary their presence was to the welfare of the province. Meanwhile he did his best to conciliate them. When complaints were made that Captain Hamilton, a British officer, had carried off some of their cattle, Hamilton was reprimanded and the cattle were paid for. Instructions were then issued to all officers to treat the Acadians as British subjects, and to take nothing from them by force. Should the people refuse to comply with any just demand, the officer must report it to the governor and await his orders. When the Acadians provided wood for the garrison, certificates must be issued which should entitle them to payment. The political horizon at the opening of the year 1753 seemed bright to Hopson. But in the spring a most painful occurrence threatened for a time to involve him in an Indian war. Two men, Connor and Grace, while cruising off the coast, had landed at Ile Dore, and with the assistance of their ruffianly crew had plundered an Indian storehouse. They were overtaken by a storm, their schooner became a total wreck, and Connor and Grace alone survived. They were rescued by the Indians, who cared for them and gave them shelter. But the miserable cowards seized a favourable moment to murder and scalp their benefactors. Well satisfied with their brutal act, they proceeded to Halifax with the ghastly trophies, and boldly demanded payment for the scalps of two men, three women, and two children. Their story seemed so improbable that the Council ordered them to give security to appear in the court at the next general session. [Footnote: Hopson to Lords of Trade, April 30, 1753, p. 30. Deposition of Connor and Grace, April 16, 1753, p. 30 et seq.--Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. liii.] The prospect of a permanent peace with the Indians vanished. They demanded that the Council should send a schooner to Ile Dore to protect their shores. The Council did send a vessel. But no sooner had it arrived than the Indians seized and massacred the whole crew save one man, who claimed to be of French origin and was later ransomed by the French. In September the inhabitants of Grand Pre, Canso, and Pisiquid presented a petition to the Council at Halifax, praying that their missionaries be excused from taking the ordinary oath. The Acadians were entitled to the free exercise of their religion, and the bishop of Quebec would not send priests if they were required to become British subjects. The Council deliberated. Fearing to give the Acadians a pretext for leaving the country on the plea that they had been deprived of the services of their priests, the Council decided to grant the petition, providing, however, that the priests should obtain a licence from the governor. The Lords of Trade approved Hopson's policy, which appeared to be bearing good fruit. Later in the autumn came another delegation of Acadians who had formerly resided at Pisiquid but had migrated to French territory, asking to be allowed to return to their old homes. They had left on account of the severe oath proposed by Cornwallis, but were now willing to come back and take a restricted oath. For fear of the Indians, they could not swear to bear arms in aid of the English in time of war. They wished also to be able to move from the province whenever they desired, and to take their effects with them. Evidently they had not found Utopia under the French flag. The Council gave them the permission they desired, promised them the free exercise of their religion, a sufficient number of priests for their needs, and all the privileges conferred by the Treaty of Utrecht. On the whole, the situation in the autumn of 1753 was most promising. The Acadians, said Hopson, behaved 'tolerably well,' though they still feared the Indians should they attach themselves to the English. Of the French on the frontier there was nothing to complain; and an era of peace seemed assured. But before the end of the year another page in the history of Nova Scotia had been turned. Raymond, the governor of Ile Royale, gave place to D'Ailleboust. Hopson was compelled to return to England on leave of absence through failing eyesight, and Charles Lawrence reigned in his stead. CHAPTER VIII THE LAWRENCE REGIME The policy both of France and of England towards the Acadians was based upon political expediency rather than upon any definite or well-conceived plan for the development of the country. The inhabitants, born to serve rather than to command, had honestly striven according to their light to maintain respect for constituted authority. But the state of unrest into which they were so frequently thrown had deprived them of all sense of security in their homes and had created among them a spirit of suspicion. Unable to reason, disinclined to rebel, they had settled down into a morose intractability, while their confidence in the generosity or even in the justice of their rulers gradually disappeared. Those who could have restored them to a normal condition of healthy citizenship saw fit to keep them in disquietude, holding over their heads the tomahawk of the Indian. England and France were nominally at peace. But each nation was only waiting for a favourable moment to strike a decisive blow, not merely for Acadia or any part of it, but for the mastery of the North American continent. With this object ever in the background, France, through her agents, strove to make the Acadians a thorn in Great Britain's side, while England hesitated to allow them to pass over to the ranks of her enemies. At the same time she was anxious that they should, by some visible sign, acknowledge her sovereignty. But to become a British subject it was necessary to take the oath of allegiance. Most of the Acadians had refused to take this oath without reservations. Great Britain should then have allowed them to depart or should have deported them. She had done neither. On the contrary, she had tried to keep them, had made concessions to them to remain, and had closed her eyes to violations of the law, until many of them had been, by various means, acknowledged as British subjects. A Murray or a Dorchester would have humoured the people and would probably have kept them in allegiance. But this was an impossible task for Lawrence. He was unaccustomed to compromise. He kept before him the letter of the law, and believed that any deviation from it was fraught with danger. He entered upon his duties as administrator in the month of October 1753. Six weeks later he made a report on the condition of affairs in the province. This report contains one pregnant sentence. He is referring to the emigrant Acadians who had left their homes for French soil and were now wishing to come back, and he says: 'But Your Lordships may be assured they will never have my consent to return until they comply [take the oath] without any reservation whatever.' [Footnote: Lawrence to Lords of Trade, December 5, 1753.] This was the keynote of all Lawrence's subsequent action. The Acadians must take the oath without reserve, or leave the country. He does not appear to have given any consideration to the fact that for forty years the Lords of Trade had, for various motives, nursed the people, or that only two years before the Council at Halifax had declared the Acadians to be still entitled to the privileges accorded to them by the Treaty of Utrecht. To him the Acadians were as an enemy in the camp, and as such they were to be treated. The Lords of Trade partly acquiesced in Lawrence's reasoning, yet they warned him to be cautious. A year before they had announced that those who remained in the country were to be considered as holding good titles; but they now maintained that the inhabitants had 'in fact no right, but upon condition of taking the oath of allegiance absolute and unqualified.' Officials might be sent among them to inquire into their disputes, but 'the more we consider the point, the more nice and difficult it appears to us; for, as on the one hand great caution ought to be used to avoid giving alarm and creating such a diffidence in their minds as might induce them to quit the province, and by their numbers add strength to the French settlements, so on the other hand we should be equally cautious of creating an improper and false confidence in them, that by a perseverance in refusing to take the oath of allegiance, they may gradually work out in their own way a right to their lands and to the benefit and protection of the law, which they are not entitled to but on that condition.' [Footnote: Lords of Trade to Lawrence, March 4, 1754.] After nine months' tenure of office Lawrence had fully made up his mind as to his policy in dealing with the Acadians. On August 1, 1754, he addressed a letter to the Lords of Trade, to acquaint them with the measures which appeared to him to be 'the most practicable and effectual for putting a stop to the many inconveniences we have long laboured under, from their obstinacy, treachery, partiality to their own countrymen, and their ingratitude for the favour, indulgence, and protection they have at all times so undeservedly received from His Majesty's Government. Your Lordships well know that they always affected a neutrality, and as it has been generally imagined here that the mildness of an English Government would by degrees have fixed them in their own interest, no violent measures have ever been taken with them. But I must observe to Your Lordships that this lenity has not had the least good effect; on the contrary, I believe they have at present laid aside all thoughts of taking the oaths voluntarily, and great numbers of them at present are gone to Beausejour to work for the French, in order to dyke out the water at the settlement.' [Footnote: Lawrence to Lords of Trade, August 1, 1754.] Lawrence explained that he had offered the Acadians work at Halifax, which they had refused to accept; and that he had then issued a proclamation calling upon them 'to return forthwith to their lands as they should answer the contrary at their peril.' Moreover, 'They have not for a long time brought anything to our markets, but on the other hand have carried everything to the French and Indians whom they have always assisted with provisions, quarters, and intelligence. And indeed while they remain without taking the oaths to His Majesty (which they never will do till they are forced) and have incendiary French priests among them there are no hopes of their amendment. As they possess the best and largest tracts of land in this province, it cannot be settled with any effect while they remain in this situation. And tho' I would be very far from attempting such a step without Your Lordships' approbation, yet I cannot help being of opinion that it would be much better, if they refuse the oaths, that they were away. The only ill consequences that can attend their going would be their taking arms and joining with the Indians to distress our settlements, as they are numerous and our troops are much divided; tho' indeed I believe that a very large part of the inhabitants would submit to any terms rather than take up arms on either side; but that is only my conjecture, and not to be depended upon in so critical a circumstance. However, if Your Lordships should be of opinion that we are not sufficiently established to take so important a step, we could prevent any inconvenience by building a fort or a few blockhouses on Chibenacadie [Shubenacadie] river. It would hinder in a great measure their communication with the French.' In order to prevent the Acadians from trading with the French, Lawrence issued a proclamation forbidding the exportation of corn from the province, imposing a penalty of fifty pounds for each offence, half of such sum to be paid to the informer. The exact purpose of the proclamation was explained in a circular. First, it was to prevent 'the supplying of corn to the Indians and their abettors, who, residing on the north side of the Bay of Fundy, do commit hostilities upon His Majesty's subjects which they cannot so conveniently do, that supply being cut off.' Secondly, it was for the better supply of the Halifax market, which had been obliged to supply itself from other colonies. The inhabitants were not asked to sell their corn to any particular person or at any fixed price; all that was insisted upon was their supplying the Halifax market before they should think of sending corn elsewhere. There was, of course, nothing objectionable in this proclamation. It was only a protective measure for the benefit of the whole colony, and did 'not bind the French inhabitants more or less than the rest of His Majesty's subjects in the Province.' Towards the Indians Lawrence adopted the same tone as towards the Acadians. The tribes at Cape Sable had for some time talked of peace, and an alliance with them was particularly to be encouraged. The French were becoming more of a menace, having strengthened their works at 'Baye Verte and Beausejour, between which places they lately have made a very fine road and continue to seduce our French inhabitants to go over to them.' The message, however, which Lawrence sent to the Indians was hardly calculated to produce the desired results. 'In short if the Indians,' the message ran, 'or he [Le Loutre] on their behalf, have anything to propose of this kind about which they are really in earnest, they very well know where and how to apply.' [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 210.] The answer of the Indians was communicated by Le Loutre. They agreed to offer no insult to the English who kept to the highway, but they promised to treat as enemies all those who departed from it. If a durable peace was to be made, they demanded the cession to them of an exclusive territory suitable for hunting and fishing and for a mission. This territory was to extend from Baie Verte through Cobequid (Truro) to the Shubenacadie, along the south coast to the peninsula of Canso, and back to Baie Verte--an area comprising half the province of Nova Scotia. Whether the Indians were serious in their application for this immense domain, we know not; probably it was an answer to the haughty note of Lawrence. Considering the demand of the Indians insolent, the Council at Halifax vouchsafed no reply to it; but the commandant of Fort Lawrence at Chignecto was instructed to inform the Indians 'that if they have any serious thoughts of making peace... they may repair to Halifax,' where any reasonable proposal would be considered. A case instructive of the new temper of the administration was that of the Abbe Daudin of Pisiquid. The abbe had been suspected of stirring up trouble among the Indians, and Captain Murray of Fort Edward was requested to keep an eye on him. When the inhabitants refused to bring in wood for fuel and for the repair of the fort, as they had been ordered to do, and presented to Murray a statement signed by eighty-six of their people, declaring that their oath of fidelity did not require them to furnish the garrison with wood, Murray attributed their conduct to the influence of Daudin. Murray therefore received instructions to repeat his orders, and to summon Daudin and five others to appear at Halifax under pain of arrest. When questioned by Murray, Daudin took the ground that the people, who were free, should have been contracted with, and not treated as slaves; but he asserted that if Murray had consulted him instead of reporting to Lawrence, he could have brought the inhabitants to him in a submissive manner. When requested to repair to Halifax, Daudin pleaded illness; and his followers became insolent, and questioned Murray's authority. Daudin and five others were immediately arrested and sent under escort to the capital. At a special meeting of the Council held on the evening of October 2, 1754, Claude Brossart, Charles Le Blanc, Baptiste Galerne, and Joseph Hebert were required to explain their refusal to obey the orders of Murray, and the following examination took place: Q. Why did you not comply with that order to bring in firewood? A. Some of them had wood and some had not, therefore they gave in the remonstrance to Captain Murray. Q. Why was that not represented in the remonstrance, which contained an absolute refusal without setting forth any cause? A. They did not understand the contents of it. Q. Was the proclamation ever published at the church and stuck up against the wall, and by whom? A. It was, and they believe by John Hebert. Q. Was it put up with the wrong side uppermost? A. They heard that it was. The inhabitants were never known to boast of a reckless facility in reading, even under normal conditions, and no doubt the grotesque appearance of the letters in the inverted document prompted the answer that 'they did not understand the contents of it.' Neither have we any evidence to prove that John Hebert contributed to their enlightenment by reading the document. The prisoners, however, were severely reprimanded by the Council, and were ordered under pain of military execution to bring in the firewood. The Abbe Daudin, when brought before the Council, was questioned as to his position in the province. He replied that he served 'only as a simple missionary to occupy himself in spiritual affairs; not in temporal.' The abbe denied that he had made the statements attributed to him, and was allowed to prepare a paper which he termed his defence. The next day his defence was presented and read; but the Council considered that it did not contain anything 'material towards his justification' and ordered his removal from the province. A few weeks later, however, the inhabitants addressed a communication to Lawrence, asking for the reinstatement of the abbe. They expressed their submission to the government, promising to comply with the order regarding the supply of wood; and the Council, considering that the Acadians could not obtain another priest, relented and permitted the abbe to return to his duties. It is noteworthy, however, that Lawrence's regime was not so rigorous as to prevent some of the Acadians who had abandoned their lands and emigrated to French territory from returning to Nova Scotia. In October 1754 six families, consisting of twenty-eight persons who had settled in Cape Breton, returned to Halifax in a destitute condition. They declared that they had been terrified by the threats of Le Loutre, and by the picture he had drawn of the fate that would befall them at the hands of the Indians if they remained under the domination of the English; that they had retired to Cape Breton, where they had remained ever since; but that the lands given them had been unproductive, and that they had been unable to support their families. They therefore wished to return to their former habitations. They cheerfully subscribed to the oath which was tendered them, and in consideration of their poverty twenty-four of them were allowed provisions during the winter, and the other four a week's provisions 'to subsist them till they returned to their former habitations at Pisiquid.' The Council considered that their return would have a good effect. Thus it came about that the pangs of hunger accomplished a result which threats and promises had failed to produce. While Lawrence was formulating his policy with regard to the Acadians, events were at the same time rapidly moving towards a renewal of war between France and Great Britain in North America. Indeed, though as yet there had been no formal declaration, the American phase of the momentous Seven Years' War had already begun. France had been dreaming of a colonial empire stretching from Newfoundland to the Gulf of Mexico. She had asserted her ownership of the valleys of the Ohio and the Mississippi; and she had set before herself the object of confining the English colonies within limits as narrow as possible. In May 1754 Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, had advised the home government that he had received intelligence from Halifax 'that some of the rebel inhabitants of Chignecto, together with the Indians of the Peninsula and St John River, are through the influence of the French garrison at Beausejour engaged in an enterprise to break up all the eastern settlements,' and he pointed out that 'if the advices are true, they will afford ... one instance of the many mischievous consequences to the colonists of New England as well as to His Majesty's Province of Nova Scotia which must proceed from the French of Canada having possessed themselves of the isthmus of the Peninsula and St John's river in the Bay of Fundy, and continuing their encroachments within His Majesty's territories.' [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 382. Shirley to Sir T. Robinson, May 23, 1754.] To this communication the government had replied in July 1754 that it was the king's wish that Shirley should co-operate with Lawrence in attacking the French forts in Nova Scotia. The British, therefore, determined upon aggressive action. In December Shirley acknowledged having received certain proposals made by Lawrence 'for driving the French of Canada out of Nova Scotia according to the scheme laid down in your letters to me and instructions to Colonel Monckton. I viewed this plan most justly calculated by Your Honour for His Majesty's Service with great pleasure and did not hesitate to send you the assistance you desir'd of me for carrying it into execution, as soon as I had perused it. ...I came to a determination to co-operate with you in the most vigorous manner, for effecting the important service within your own Government, which Your Honour may depend upon my prosecuting to the utmost of my power.' [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 389. Shirley says: 'It is now near eleven at night and I have been writing hard since seven in the morning... and can scarce hold the pen in my hand.'] In a letter to the Lords of Trade in January 1755, Lawrence expressed the opinion that 'no measure I could take for the security of the Province would have the desired effect until the fort at Beausejour and every French settlement on the north side of the Bay of Fundy was absolutely extirpated, having very good intelligence that the French had determined as soon as ever they had put the fortifications of Louisbourg into a tolerable condition to make themselves masters of the Bay of Fundy by taking our fort at Chignecto.' [Footnote: Lawrence to Lords of Trade, January 12, 1755.] In accordance with this Colonel Monckton was instructed to prepare for an expedition against Beausejour and St John in the spring of 1755. He was given for the purpose a letter of unlimited credit on Boston; and every regiment in Nova Scotia was brought up to the strength of one thousand men. By May the expedition was ready. Monckton, with two thousand troops, embarked at Annapolis Royal, and by June 1 the expedition was at Chignecto. In the meantime Vergor, the French commandant at Beausejour, had not been passive. He had strengthened his defences, had summoned the inhabitants of the surrounding districts to his help, had mounted cannon in a blockhouse defending the passage of the river, and had thrown up a strong breastwork of timber along the shore. On June 3 the British landed. They had little difficulty in driving the French from their entrenchments. The inhabitants had no heart in the work of defence; and the French, unable to make a stand, threw their cannon into the river and burned the blockhouse and other buildings. They then retired to the fort, together with about two hundred and twenty of the Acadians; the rest of the Acadians threw away their arms and ammunition, asserting that they did not wish to be hanged. The British took up a position in the woods about a mile and a half from the fort; and on the 13th they succeeded in establishing a battery on a hill within easy range. The bombardment of the place, which began the next day, was at first ineffective; and for a time the British were driven back. But, in the meantime, news reached the French that no reinforcements could be expected from Louisbourg; and such disaffection arose among the Acadians that they were forbidden by a council of war to deliberate together or to desert the fort under pain of being shot. When the British renewed the attack, however, the Acadians requested Vergor to capitulate; and he feebly acquiesced. The British offered very favourable terms. So far as the Acadians were concerned, it was proposed that, since they had taken up arms under threat of death, they were to be pardoned and allowed to return to their homes and enjoy the free exercise of their religion. The soldiers of the garrison were sent as prisoners to Halifax. After the fall of Beausejour, which Monckton renamed Fort Cumberland, the British met with little further resistance. Fort Gaspereau on Baie Verte, against which Monckton next proceeded, was evacuated by the commandant Villeray, who found himself unable to obtain the assistance of the Acadians. And the few Acadians at the river St John, when Captain Rous appeared before the settlement with three ships, made an immediate submission. Rous destroyed the cannon, burned the fort, and retired with his troops up the river. The Indians of the St John, evidently impressed by the completeness of the British success and awed by their strong force, invited Rous to come ashore, and assured him of their friendliness. Having removed the menace of the French forts, Lawrence was now able to deal more freely with the question of the Acadians. The opportunity for action was not long in presenting itself. In June the Acadians of Minas presented to Lawrence a petition couched in language not as tactful as it might have been. In this memorial they requested the restoration of some of their former privileges. They first assured the lieutenant-governor of their fidelity, which they had maintained in face of threats on the part of the French, and of their determination to remain loyal when in the enjoyment of former liberties. They asked to be allowed the use of their canoes, a privilege of which they were deprived on the pretext that they had been carrying provisions to the French at Beausejour. Some refugees might have done so, but they had not. They used these canoes for fishing to maintain their families. By an order of June 4 they had been required to hand in their guns. Some of them had done so, but they needed them for protection against the wild beasts, which were more numerous since the Indians had left these parts. The possession of a gun did not induce them to rebel, neither did the withdrawal of the weapon render them more faithful. Loyalty was a matter of conscience. If they decided to remain faithful, they wished to know what were the lieutenant-governor's intentions towards them. On receiving this memorial Lawrence ordered the deputies of the Acadians to remain in Halifax, on the ground that the paper was impertinent. Upon this the deputies presented another memorial, in which they disclaimed any intention of disrespect, and wished to be allowed a hearing in order to explain. The Council held a meeting; and the lieutenant-governor explained 'that Captain Murray had informed him that for some time before the delivery of the first of the said memorials the French inhabitants in general had behaved with greater submission and obedience to the orders of Government than usual, and had already delivered to him a considerable number of their firearms; but that at the delivery of the said memorial they treated him with great indecency and insolence, which gave him strong suspicions that they had obtained some intelligence which we were then ignorant of, and which the lieutenant-governor conceived might most probably be a report that had been about that time spread amongst them of a French fleet being then in the Bay of Fundy.' [Footnote: Minutes of Council, July 3, 1755.] The deputies were then brought in and told that if they had not submitted the second memorial they would have been punished for their presumption. 'They were severely reprimanded for their audacity in subscribing and presenting so impertinent a paper, but in compassion to their weakness and ignorance of the nature of our constitution,' the Council professed itself still ready to treat them with leniency, and ordered the memorial to be read paragraph by paragraph. When the question of the oath came up for discussion, the deputies said they were ready to take it as they had done before. To this the Council replied that 'His Majesty had disapproved of the manner of their taking the oath before' and 'that it was not consistent with his honour to make any conditions.' The deputies were then allowed until the following morning to come to a resolution. On the next day they declared that they could not consent to take the oath in the form required without consulting others. They were then informed that as the taking of the oath was a personal act and as they had for themselves refused to take it as directed by law, and had therefore sufficiently evinced the sincerity of their unfriendliness towards the government, the Council could look upon them no longer as subjects of His Majesty, but must treat them hereafter as subjects of the king of France. They were ordered to withdraw. The Council then decided that with regard to the oath none of them should for the future be admitted to take it after having once refused to do so, but that effectual measures ought to be taken to remove all such recusants out of the province. The deputies, again being called in and informed of this resolution, offered to take the oath, but were informed that there was no reason to hope that 'their proposed compliance proceeds from an honest mind and can be esteemed only the effect of compulsion and force, and is contrary to a clause in 1 Geo. II, c. 13, whereby persons who have once refused to take oaths cannot be afterwards permitted to take them, but are considered as Popish recusants.' Therefore they could not be indulged with such permission. Later they were ordered into confinement. On the 25th of July a memorial signed by over two hundred of the inhabitants of Annapolis Royal was laid before the Council. The memorialists said they had unanimously consented to deliver up their firearms, although they had never had any desire to use them against His Majesty's government. They declared that they had nothing to reproach themselves with, for they had always been loyal, and that several of them had risked their lives in order to give information regarding the enemy. They would abide by the old oath, but they could not take a new one. The deputies who had brought this memorial from Annapolis, on being called before the Council and asked what they had to say regarding the new oath, declared 'that they could not take any other oath than what they had formerly taken.' If it was the king's intention, they added, to force them out of the country, they hoped 'that they should be allowed a convenient time for their departure.' The Council warned them of the consequences of their refusal; and they were allowed until the following Monday to decide. Their final answer was polite, but obdurate: Inasmuch as a report is in circulation among us, the French inhabitants of this province, that His Excellency the Governor demands of us an oath of obedience conformable, in some manner, to that of natural subjects of His Majesty King George the Second, and as, in consequence, we are morally certain that several of our inhabitants are detained and put to inconvenience at Halifax for that object; if the above are his intentions with respect to us, we all take the liberty of representing to His Excellency, and to all the inhabitants, that we and our fathers, having taken an oath of fidelity, which has been approved of several times in the name of the King, and under the privileges of which we have lived faithful and obedient, and protected by His Majesty the King of Great Britain, according to the letters and proclamation of His Excellency Governor Shirley, dated 16th of September 1746, and 21st of October 1747, we will never prove so fickle as to take an oath which changes, ever so little, the conditions and the privileges obtained for us by our sovereign and our fathers in the past. And as we are well aware that the King, our master, loves and protects only constant, faithful, and free subjects, and as it is only by virtue of his kindness, and of the fidelity which we have always preserved towards His Majesty, that he has granted to us, and that he still continues to grant to us, the entire possession of our property and the free and public exercise of the Roman Catholic Religion, we desire to continue, to the utmost of our power, to be faithful and dutiful in the same manner that we were allowed to be by His Excellency Mr Richard Philipps. Charity for our detained inhabitants, and their innocence, obliged us to beg Your Excellency, to allow yourself to be touched by their miseries, and to restore to them that liberty which we ask for them, with all possible submission and the most profound respect. The inhabitants of Pisiquid presented a similar petition. They hoped that they would be listened to, and that the imprisoned deputies would be released. Another memorial was presented by the inhabitants of Minas. They refused to take a new oath; and thereupon their deputies were ordered to be imprisoned. There was now, the Council considered, only one course left open for it to pursue. Nothing remained but to consider the means which should be taken to send the inhabitants out of the province, and distribute them among the several colonies on the continent. 'I am determined,' Lawrence had written, 'to bring the inhabitants to a compliance, or rid the province of such perfidious subjects.' [Footnote: Lawrence to Lords of Trade, July 18, 1755.] He was now about to fulfil his promise. CHAPTER IX THE EXPULSION The imprisonment of the deputies, on George's Island at Halifax, naturally agitated the minds of the simple Acadians. In the ripening fields and in the villages might be seen groups discussing the fate of their companions. But, though they may have feared further punitive acts at the hands of the British, they were totally unprepared for the approaching catastrophe, and did not for a moment dream that they were to be cast out of their homes, deprived of all they held dear in the land of their nativity, and sent adrift as wanderers and exiles. It is no part of this narrative to sit in judgment or to debate whether the forcible expatriation of the Acadians was a necessary measure or a justifiable act of war. However this may be, it is important to fix the responsibility for a deed so painful in its execution and so momentous in its consequences. The Council at Halifax had no power to enact laws. Its action was limited to the authority vested in the governor by his commission and his instructions. And, as Lawrence had as yet neither commission nor instructions, [Footnote: He had not yet been appointed governor. Hopson had wished to resign in the summer of 1754; but the Lords of Trade, who held him in high esteem, had refused to accept his resignation, and Lawrence had been made merely lieutenant-governor, though with the full salary of a governor.] he asked the chief justice, Jonathan Belcher, to prepare an opinion, as he desired to be fortified with legal authority for the drastic act on which he had determined. Belcher had arrived in Nova Scotia from New England nine months before. He does not appear to have examined the official correspondence between the years 1713 and 1755, or even the Minutes of Council. At any rate, he presented a document ill-founded in fact and contemptible in argument. The Acadians are not to be allowed to remain, he said, because 'it will be contrary to the letter and spirit of His Majesty's instructions to Governor Cornwallis, and in my humble apprehension would incur the displeasure of the crown and the parliament.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia A, vol. lviii, p. 380. Opinion of Chief Justice Belcher.] What the instructions to Cornwallis had to do with it is not clear. There is no clause in that document contemplating the forcible removal of the people. But even this is immaterial, since the instructions to Cornwallis were not then in force. Hopson, who had succeeded Cornwallis, had been given new instructions, and the Council was governed by them, since, legally at any rate, Hopson was still governor in 1755; and, according to his instructions, Hopson was 'to issue a declaration in His Majesty's name setting forth, that tho' His Majesty is fully sensible that the many indulgences ... to the said inhabitants in allowing them the entirely free exercise of their religion and the quiet peaceable possession of their lands, have not met with a dutiful return, but on the contrary, divers of the said inhabitants have openly abetted or privately assisted His Majesty's enemies ... yet His Majesty being desirous of shewing marks of his royal grace to the said inhabitants, in hopes thereby to induce them to become for the future true and loyal subjects, is pleased to declare, that the said inhabitants shall continue in the free exercise of their religion, as far as the Laws of Great Britain shall admit of the same ... provided that the said inhabitants do within three months from the date of such declaration ... take the Oath of Allegiance.' The next clause instructed the governor to report to the Lords of Trade on the effect of the declaration. If the inhabitants or any part of them should refuse the oath, he was to ascertain 'His Majesty's further directions in what manner to conduct yourself towards such of the French inhabitants as shall not have complied therewith.' [Footnote: Public Archives, Canada. Nova Scotia E, vol. ii. Instructions to Governors.] Hopson had tendered the oath to the Acadians. The oath had been refused by them. Their refusal had been reported to the government; and there the matter rested. In another paragraph of the opinion the chief justice asserted that 'persons are declared recusants if they refuse on a summons to take the oath at the sessions, and can never after such refusal be permitted to take them.' This, no doubt, was the law. But the king had ignored the law, and had commanded his representatives in Nova Scotia to tender the oath again to a people who, upon several occasions, had refused to take it. It was not reasonable, therefore, to suppose, as the chief justice did, that the king would be displeased at the performance of an act which he had expressly commanded. We have seen that, in the spring of 1754, when Lawrence had intimated to the government that a number of the Acadians who had gone over to the enemy were now anxious to return to their lands, which he would not permit until they had taken an oath without reserve, he was advised not to 'create a diffidence in their minds which might induce them to quit the province.' That this was still the policy is evident from a letter to the same effect written to Lawrence by Sir Thomas Robinson of the British ministry on August 13, 1755, two weeks after the ominous decision of the Halifax Council. [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 279. Here is a sentence from the letter: 'It cannot therefore be too much recommended to you, to use the greatest caution and prudence in your conduct towards these neutrals, and to assure such of them as may be trusted, especially upon their taking the oaths to His Majesty and his government, that they may remain in the quiet possession of their settlements, under proper regulations.'] Lawrence, however, could not have received this last communication until the plans for the expulsion were well advanced. On the other hand, the decision of the Council was not received in England until November 20, so that the king was not aware of it until the expulsion was already a reality. The meaning of these facts is clear. The thing was done by Lawrence and his Council without the authority or knowledge of the home government. [Footnote: At the meeting of the Halifax Council which decreed the removal of the Acadians the following members were present: the lieutenant-governor, Benjamin Green, John Collier, William Cotterell, John Rous, and Jonathan Belcher. Vice-Admiral Boscawen and Rear-Admiral Mostyn were also present at the 'earnest request' of the Council.--Minutes of Council, July 28, 1755.] The proceedings in connection with the expulsion were carried on simultaneously in different parts of the province; and the circumstances varied according to the temper or situation of the people. It will be convenient to deal with each group or district separately. On July 31, 1755, Lawrence ordered Colonel Monckton, who lay with his troops at the newly captured Fort Cumberland, to gather in the inhabitants of the isthmus of Chignecto, and of Chepody, on the north shore of the Bay. The district of Minas was committed to the care of Colonel Winslow. Captain Murray, in command at Fort Edward, was to secure the inhabitants of Pisiquid, and Major Handfield, at Annapolis Royal, the people in his district. It is regrettable that we do not find in the instructions to these officers any discrimination made between the Acadians who had persistently refused to take the oath and those who had been recognized by the governor and Council as British subjects. Monckton was advised to observe secrecy, and to 'endeavour to fall upon some stratagem to get the men, both young and old (especially the heads of families)' into his power, and to detain them until the transports should arrive. He was also to inform the inhabitants that all their cattle and corn were now the property of the crown, and no person should be allowed to carry off 'the least thing but their ready money and household furniture.' [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 267.] On August 8 Monckton was advised that the transports would be available soon, and that in the interval he would do well to destroy all the villages in the vicinity of Beausejour or Cumberland, and to use 'every other method to distress as much as can be, those who may attempt to conceal themselves in the woods.' Monckton promptly conceived a plan to entrap the people. He issued a summons, calling upon the adult males to appear at Fort Cumberland on the 11th. About four hundred responded to the call. The proceedings were summary. Monckton merely told them that by the decision of the Council they were declared rebels on account of their past misdeeds; that their lands and chattels were forfeited to the crown, and that in the meantime they would be treated as prisoners. [Footnote: Collections of the Nova Scotia Historical Society, vol. iv, Journal of Colonel John Winslow, part i, p. 227.] The gates of the fort were then closed. Less successful was Captain Cobb, who had been sent to Chepody to capture the Acadians there. Before his arrival the people had fled to the woods. Three other parties, detached from Fort Cumberland to scour the country in search of stragglers, reported various successes. Major Preble returned the next day with three Acadians, and Captain Perry brought in eleven. Captain Lewis, who had gone to Cobequid, had captured two vessels bound for Louisbourg with cattle and sheep, and had taken several prisoners and destroyed a number of villages on the route. The more energetic of the Acadians still at large were not easily caught. The pangs of hunger, however, might tempt many to leave the security of their hiding-places, and Monckton determined to gather in as many more as possible. On August 28 Captain Frye sailed from Fort Cumberland for Chepody, Memramcook, and Petitcodiac, on the north shore, with orders to take prisoners and burn the villages on the way. [Footnote: 'Major Frye with a party of 200 men embarked on Board Captain Cobb Newel and Adams to go to Sheperday and take what French thay Could and burn thare vilges thare and at Petcojack.' --Collections of the Nova Scotia Historical Society, vol. i, p. 131. Diary of John Thomas.] Captain Gilbert was sent to Baie Verte on a similar mission. Finding the village deserted on his arrival at Chepody, Frye set fire to the buildings and sailed toward Petitcodiac. On the way the appearance of a house or a barn seems to have been the signal for the vessels to cast anchor, while a party of soldiers, torch in hand, laid waste the homes of the peasantry. On September 4, however, the expedition suffered a serious check. A landing party of about sixty were applying the torch to a village on the shore, when they were set upon by a hundred Indians and Acadians, and a general engagement ensued. The British, though reinforced by men from the ships, were severely handled; and in the end Frye regained the boats with a loss of twenty-three killed and missing and eleven wounded. This attack was the work of Boishebert, the Canadian leader, whom we met some time ago at St John. On the capture of that place by Rous in the summer Boishebert had taken to the woods with his followers, and was assisting the settlers of Chepody to gather in the harvest when Frye's raiders appeared. Frye did not attempt to pursue his assailants, but retired at once to Fort Cumberland with twenty-three captured women and children. He had, however, destroyed over two hundred buildings and a large quantity of wheat and flax. Meanwhile Gilbert had laid waste the village at Baie Verte and the neighbouring farms. [Footnote: 'A Party Likewise from ye Bay of verte under ye comand of Capt. Gilbert who had bin and consumed that vilige and the Houses adjasent.'--Diary of John Thomas.] By August 31 the transports had arrived at Beausejour, and early in the month of September the embarkation began. The work, however, was tedious, and in the interval the English met with another misfortune. On October 1 eighty-six Acadian prisoners dug a hole under the wall of Fort Lawrence and, eluding the vigilance of the guards, made good their escape in the night. [Footnote: 'Stormy Dark Night Eighty Six French Prisoners Dugg under ye Wall att Foart Lawrance and got Clear undiscovered by ye Centry.' --Diary of John Thomas.] But on October 13 a fleet of ten sail, carrying nine hundred and sixty Acadian exiles, left Chignecto Bay bound for South Carolina and Georgia. After the departure of the vessels the soldiers destroyed every barn and house in the vicinity and drove several herds of cattle into Fort Cumberland. [Footnote: We Burnt 30 Houses Brought away one Woman 200 Hed of Neat Cattle 20 Horses ... we mustered about Sunrise mustered the Cattle Togather Drove them over ye River near westcock Sot Near 50 Houses on Fyre and Returned to Fort Cumberland with our Cattle etc. about 6 Clock P.M.'--Diary of John Thomas, pp. 136-7.] Lawrence was now rid of nearly a thousand Acadians. It was less than he expected, to be sure, and yet no doubt it was a great relief to him. About this time he should have received Sir Thomas Robinson's letter of August 13, conveying to him the king's wishes in effect that the Acadians were not to be molested. [Footnote: The date of the receipt of this letter is uncertain; but it is evident that he received it before the 30th of November, as on that day he replied to a letter of the 13th of August.] This letter received in time would no doubt have stopped the whole undertaking. But now that some of the people had already been deported, there was nothing to be done but to go on with the business to the bitter end. At Annapolis Royal, more than a hundred miles south of Monckton's camp, matters proceeded more slowly. Handfield, the commandant there, had decided to wait for the arrival of the promised transports before attempting to round up the inhabitants. Then, when his soldiers went forward on their mission up the river, no sound of human voice met their ears in any of the settlements. The inhabitants had hidden in the woods. Handfield appealed to Winslow, who was then at Grand Pre, for more troops to bring the people to reason. [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 96.] But Winslow had no troops to spare. Handfield does not appear to have relished his task, which he described as a 'disagreeable and troublesome part of the service.' What induced the inhabitants to return to their homes is not clear, but early in the month of September they resumed their occupations. They remained unmolested until early in November, when a fresh detachment of troops arrived to assist in their removal. On December 4 over sixteen hundred men, women, and children were crowded into the transports, which lay off Goat Island and which four days later set sail at eight o'clock in the morning. Meanwhile Captain Murray of Fort Edward was doing his duty in the Pisiquid neighbourhood. On September 5 he wrote to Winslow at Grand Pre, only a few miles distant: 'I have succeeded finely and have got 183 men into my possession.' [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 96.] But there was still much to be done. Three days later he wrote again: 'I am afraid there will be some lives lost before they are got together, for you know our soldiers hate them, and if they can find a pretence to kill them, they will.' Of the means Murray employed to accomplish his task we are not told, but he must have been exceedingly active up to October 14, for on that date nine hundred persons had been gathered into his net. His real troubles now began; he was short of provisions and without transports. At last two arrived, one of ninety tons, and the other of one hundred and fifty: these, however, would not accommodate half the people. Another sloop was promised, but it was slow in coming. He became alarmed. 'Good God, what can keep her!' he wrote. 'I earnestly entreat you to send her with all despatch... Then with the three sloops and more vessels I will put them aboard, let the consequence be what it will.' [Footnote: Ibid., p. 173.] He was as good as his word. On October 23 Winslow wrote: 'Captain Murray has come from Pisiquid with upwards of one thousand people in four vessels.' [Footnote: Ibid., p. 178.] Colonel Winslow arrived on August 19 at Grand Pre, in the district of Minas. After requesting the inhabitants to remove all sacred objects from the church, which he intended to use as a place of arms, he took up his quarters in the presbytery. A camp was then formed around the church, and enclosed by a picket-fence. His first action was to summon the principal inhabitants to inform them that they would be required to furnish provisions for the troops during their occupancy, and to take effective measures to protect the crops which had not yet been garnered. There was danger that if the object of his visit were to become known, the grain might be destroyed. He was careful, therefore, to see that the harvest was gathered in before making any unfavourable announcement. On August 29 Winslow held a consultation with Murray as to the most expeditious means of effecting the removal of the people. The next day three sloops from Boston came to anchor in the basin. There was, of course, immediate and intense excitement among the inhabitants; yet, in spite of all inquiries regarding their presence, no information could be elicited from either the crews or the soldiers. On September 2, however, Winslow issued a proclamation informing the people that the lieutenant- governor had a communication to impart to them respecting a new resolution, and that His Majesty's intentions in respect thereto would be made known. They were, therefore, to appear in the church at Grand Pre on Friday, September 5, at three o'clock in the afternoon. No excuse would be accepted for non-attendance; and should any fail to attend, their lands and chattels would be forfeited to the crown. Winslow's position was by no means strong. He had taken all the precautions possible; but he was short of provisions, and there was no sign of the expected supply-ship, the Saul. Besides, the Acadians far outnumbered his soldiers, and should they prove rebellious trouble might ensue. 'Things are now very heavy on my heart and hands,' he wrote a few days later. 'I wish we had more men, but as it is shall I question not to be able to scuffle through.' [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 97.] The eventful 5th of September arrived, and at three o'clock four hundred and eighteen of the inhabitants walked slowly into the church, which had been familiar to them from their youth, and closely connected with the most solemn as well as with the most joyous events of their lives. Here their children had been baptized, and here many of them had been united in the bonds of matrimony. Here the remains of those they loved had been carried, ere they were consigned to their final resting-place, and here, too, after divine service, they had congregated to glean intelligence of what was going on in the world beyond their ken. Now, however, the scene was changed. Guards were at the door; and in the centre of the church a table had been placed, round which soldiers were drawn up. Presently Colonel Winslow entered, attended by his officers. Deep silence fell upon the people as he began to speak. The substance of his speech has been preserved in his Journal, as follows: Gentlemen, I have received from His Excellency, Governor Lawrence, the King's commission which I have in my hand. By his orders you are convened to hear His Majesty's final resolution in respect to the French inhabitants of this his province of Nova Scotia, who for almost half a century have had more indulgence granted them than any of his subjects in any part of his dominions. What use you have made of it, you yourselves best know. The duty I am now upon, though necessary, is very disagreeable to my natural make and temper, as I know it must be grievous to you who are of the same species. But it is not my business to animadvert, but to obey such orders as I receive; and therefore without hesitation I shall deliver you His Majesty's orders and instructions, namely: That your lands and tenements, cattle of all kinds and live stock of all sorts are forfeited to the Crown with all your other effects, saving your money and household goods, and that you yourselves are to be removed from this his province. Thus it is peremptorily His Majesty's orders that all the French inhabitants of these districts be removed; and through His Majesty's goodness I am directed to allow you liberty to carry with you your money and as many of your household goods as you can take without discommoding the vessels you go in. I shall do everything in my power that all these goods be secured to you, and that you be not molested in carrying them with you, and also that whole families shall go in the same vessel; so that this removal which I am sensible must give you a great deal of trouble may be made as easy as His Majesty's service will admit; and I hope that in whatever part of the world your lot may fall, you may be faithful subjects, and a peaceable and happy people. I must also inform you that it is His Majesty's pleasure that you remain in security under the inspection and direction of the troops that I have the honour to command. [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 94. It is not thought necessary here to follow the grotesque spelling of the original. It will be noted that the doom of the people is pronounced in the name of the king. But, as already stated, the king or the home government knew nothing of it; and instructions of a quite contrary tenor were even then on their way to Lawrence.] This address having been delivered and interpreted to the people, Winslow issued orders to the troops and seamen not to kill any of the cattle or rob the orchards, as the lands and possessions of the inhabitants were now the property of the king. He then withdrew to his quarters in the presbytery, leaving the soldiers on guard. The first thoughts of the stricken prisoners were of their families, with whom they had no means of communication and who would not understand the cause of their detention. After some conversation together, a few of the elders asked leave to speak to the commander. This being granted, they requested to be allowed to carry the melancholy news to the homes of the prisoners. Winslow at length ordered them to choose each day twenty men, for whom the others would be held responsible, to communicate with their families, and to bring in food for all the prisoners. Only five transports lay in the basin of Minas. No provisions were in sight. It was impossible as yet to put all the prisoners on board. More had been captured, and they now outnumbered Winslow's troops nearly two to one. Presently news came of the disaster to Frye's party at Chepody. Winslow, having observed suspicious movements among the prisoners, began to fear for the safety of his own position. He held a consultation with his officers. It was decided to divide the prisoners, and put fifty of the younger men on each of the transports. [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 108.--'September 10. Called my officers together and communicated to them what I had observed, and after debating matters it was determined, 'nemine contradicente', that it would be best to divide the prisoners.'] The parish priest, Father Landry, who had a good knowledge of English and was the principal spokesman of the Acadians, was told to inform the inhabitants that one hour would be given them to prepare for going on board. Winslow then brought up the whole of his troops, and stationed them between the door of the church and the gate. The Acadians were drawn up; the young men were told off and ordered to march. They refused to obey unless their fathers might accompany them. [Footnote: Ibid., p. 109.--'They all answered they would not go without their fathers. I told them that was a word I did not understand, for that the King's command was to me absolute and should be absolutely obeyed, and that I did not love to use harsh means, but that the time did not admit of parleys or delays; and then ordered the whole troops to fix their bayonets and advance towards the French. I bid the four right-hand files of the prisoners, consisting of twenty-four men, which I told off myself to divide from the rest, one of whom I took hold on.'] Winslow informed them that orders were orders, that this was not the time for parley, and commanded the troops to fix bayonets and advance. This appears to have had the effect desired, for, with the assistance of the commander, who pushed one of them along, twenty-four men started off and the rest followed. The road from the church to the ships, nearly a mile and a half in length, was lined by hundreds of women and children, who fell on their knees weeping and praying. Eighty soldiers conducted the procession, which moved but slowly. Some of the men sang, some wept, and others prayed. [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 109.--'They went off praying, singing, and crying, being met by the women and children all the way (which is a mile and a half), with great lamentations.'] At last the young men were put aboard and left under guard, while the escort returned to bring another contingent of the prisoners; and so until all who were deemed dangerous had been disposed of. The vessels had not been provisioned; but the women and children brought daily to the shore food which the soldiers conveyed to the prisoners. After this it appears that the soldiers committed some depredations in the neighbourhood, and Winslow issued an order forbidding any one to leave the camp after the roll-call. [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 113.--'September 13. No party or person will be permitted to go out after calling the roll on any account whatever, as many bad things have been done lately in the night, to the distressing of the distressed French inhabitants in this neighbourhood.'] In the meantime parties were sent to remote parts of the rivers in search of stragglers, but only thirty, very old and infirm, were found, and it was decided to leave them ashore until the ships should be ready to depart. It still remained, however, to bring in the inhabitants of the parish of Cobequid, and a detachment under Captain Lewis was dispatched on this errand. He returned without a prisoner. The inhabitants of Cobequid had fled; but Lewis reported that he had laid their habitations in ruins. Neither the needed transports nor the provisions had arrived. Winslow chafed and groaned. He longed to be rid of the painful and miserable business. At last, on the evening of September 28, came the belated supply-ship; but where were the transports? Winslow resolved to fill up the five vessels which lay in the basin, and ordered that the women and children should be brought to the shore. Families and those of the same village were to be kept together, as far as possible. Meanwhile twenty-four of the young men imprisoned on the ships made good their escape, and one Francois Hebert was charged as an abettor. Winslow ordered Hebert to be brought ashore, and, to impress upon the Acadians the gravity of his offence, his house and barn were set on fire in his presence. At the same time the inhabitants were warned that unless the young men surrendered within two days all their household furniture would be confiscated and their habitations destroyed. If captured, no quarter would be given them. The result was that twenty-two of the young men returned to the transports. The other two were overtaken by the soldiers and shot. [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 173.] Finally a number of transports arrived, and, on October 8, amid scenes of wild confusion, the embarkation began in earnest. From the villages far and near came the families of those who were detained in the church and on the vessels. Some came aiding the infirm or carrying the sick, while others were laden with bundles of their personal effects. Most were on foot, although a few rode in the vehicles bringing their household goods. Old and young wended their way to the vessels, weary and footsore and sad at heart. In all, eighty families were taken to the boats. The next day the men who had been imprisoned on the vessels since September 10 were brought ashore in order that they might join their families and accompany the people of their own villages. Four days later (October 13) several of the ships received sailing orders, some for Maryland, others for Pennsylvania, and others for Virginia. By the 1st of November Winslow had sent off over fifteen hundred exiles. But his anxieties were by no means at an end. There were still a large number of people to be deported. The difficulty lay in the shortage of transports. After the vessels had been taxed to their utmost, Winslow had still over six hundred persons on his hands; [Footnote: Winslow's Journal, part ii, p. 183.] and he was obliged in the meantime to quarter them in houses at Grand Pre. There remained also the task of destroying the villages to prevent their occupation by stragglers, in accordance with Lawrence's orders. Finally, on December 13, transports were provided for the unhappy remnant of the prisoners; and seven days later the last vessels left port. The cruel task was done. In all, over six thousand persons had been forcibly deported, while the rest of the population had been driven to the wilderness and their homes laid waste. Some wandered to the Isle St Jean and others to New Brunswick and Canada. The land of the Acadians was a solitude. And so, sorrow-framed, the story of the expulsion draws to its close. Hardly had the deplorable work ended, when England made with Frederick of Prussia the treaty which formally inaugurated her Seven Years' War with France. For Lawrence, perhaps, this was a fortunate circumstance. The day of mutual concessions had passed; and an act which a few months before might have been denounced as unwarrantable might now, in the heat of a mighty contest, be regarded as a patriotic service. Nor is this the only instance of the kind in history. Often, indeed, has war served, not only to cover the grossest inhumanities; it has even furnished an excuse for substantial reward. CHAPTER X THE EXILES Thus the Acadians passed from the land of their birth and from the scenes of their youth. Some were to wander as exiles in many lands for many years, separated from their children and from their kind, while others, more fortunate, were soon to regain their native soil. Lawrence, in his instructions to the governors of the colonies to which he had sent the exiles, said that they were 'to be received and disposed of in such a manner as may best answer our design of preventing their reunion' as a people. It was not intended to tear apart families and friends, but, owing to the scarcity of vessels and the inadequate arrangements for the deportation, there were many cruel separations. The deputies confined since July on George's Island, for example, were at the last moment transferred to Annapolis in order that they might accompany their families, but this was not effected, for the deputies themselves landed in North Carolina, while their wives and children were dispersed in other colonies. [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 280. Calnek and Savary, History of the County of Annapolis, p. 124.] One of the leading Acadians, and one who had loyally served the British, Rene Le Blanc, notary of Grand Pre, was landed with his wife and his two youngest children in New York, while his eighteen other children were scattered far and wide. [Footnote: Petition of the Acadians deported to Philadelphia. Printed in Richard, vol. ii, p. 371.] The real separation of families, however, began in the colonies. For example, four hundred persons were transported to Connecticut; but before the whole number arrived an order went forth for their dispersion in fifty towns. Nineteen were allotted to Norwich, while three only were sent to Haddon. In some colonies only the first boats were allowed to disembark the exiles, and the masters of the others were forced to seek other ports. The treatment of the exiles in the colonies varied according to circumstances. In some instances the younger men and women were bound out to service for periods varying from three to twelve weeks. In others they were left free to maintain themselves by their own efforts, the state to provide for such as were incapable, through age or infirmity, of performing manual labour. Hundreds of those who were placed under control escaped and wandered, footsore and half clad, from town to town in the hope of meeting their relatives or of finding means to return to their former homes. Little record has been preserved of the journeyings of these unfortunates or of the sufferings they endured. About a third of the people deported from Nova Scotia in 1755 found their way to South Carolina, although that does not appear to have been the destination proposed for them by Lawrence. On November 6, 1755, the South Carolina Gazette announced that 'the Baltimore Snow is expected from the Bay of Fundy with some French Neutrals on board to be distributed in the British colonies.' A fortnight later the first of these arrived, and in the course of a few weeks over a thousand had been landed at Charleston. Soon after, probably passed on by other colonies, a thousand more arrived. Alarmed by the presence of so many strangers, the authorities adopted measures to place them under restraint; and in February 1756 two parties of the prisoners broke loose: thirty of them outdistanced their pursuers; five or six, according to the Gazette, made their way to the plantation of a Mr Williams on the Santee, terrified the family, secured a quantity of clothing and firearms, broke open a box containing money, and headed across the Alleghanies, it was thought, for the French stronghold, Fort Duquesne, where Pittsburgh now stands. This conjecture is probable, since nine Acadians from Fort Duquesne arrived at the river St John some time later. In the interval the South Carolina legislature passed an act for the dispersion of four-fifths of the French Neutrals in various parishes at the public expense, the remaining fifth to be supported at Charleston by the vestry of St Phillips. On April 16 passports were given to one hundred and thirty persons to proceed to Virginia. Here they obtained the authority of the governor to return to Acadia, and they reached the river St John on June 16, 1756. Some time later the governor of South Carolina gave the remainder of the people permission to go where they pleased. Two old ships and a quantity of inferior provisions were placed at their disposal, and they sailed for Hampton, Virginia. In due course nine hundred of them landed in the district of the river St John, where they were employed by Vaudreuil, the governor of New France, in harrying the British. By the year 1763 only two hundred and eighty-three Acadians remained in South Carolina. One family of the name of Lanneau became Protestants and gave two ministers to the Presbyterian Church--the Rev. John Lanneau, who afterwards went as a missionary to Jerusalem, and the Rev. Basil Lanneau, who became Hebrew tutor in the Theological Seminary at Columbia. Among the refugees who put out from Minas on October 13, 1755, were some four hundred and fifty destined for Philadelphia. The vessels touched Delaware on November 20, when it was discovered that there were several cases of smallpox on board, and the masters were ordered to leave the shore. They were not permitted to land at Philadelphia until the 10th of December. Many of the exiles died during the winter, and were buried in the cemetery of the poor which now forms a part of Washington Park, Philadelphia. The survivors were lodged in a poor quarter of the town, in 'neutral huts,' as their mean dwellings were termed. When the plague-stricken people arrived, Philadelphia had scarcely recovered from the panic of a recent earthquake. Moreover, there was a letter, said to have been written by Lawrence, dated at Halifax, August 6, and published in the Philadelphia Gazette on September 4, not calculated to place the destitute refugees in a favourable light. This is the substance of the letter: We are now forming the noble project of driving the French Neutrals out of this province. They have long been our secret enemies and have assisted the Indians. If we are able to accomplish their expulsion, it will be one of the great achievements of the English in America, for, among other considerations, the lands which they occupy are among the best in the country, and we can place good English farmers in their stead. A few days later another letter was published to the effect that three Acadians had been arrested charged with poisoning the wells in the vicinity of Halifax. Their trial, it was stated, had not yet taken place; but if guilty they would have but a few hours to live. Robert Hunter Morris, the governor at this time of Pennsylvania, wrote to Shirley of Massachusetts saying that, as he had not sufficient troops to enforce order, he feared that the Acadians would unite with the Irish and German Catholics in a conspiracy against the state. He also addressed the governor of New Jersey [Footnote: Jonathan Belcher, governor of New Jersey and later of Massachusetts. He was the father of the chief justice of Nova Scotia.] to the same effect. The governor of New Jersey, in his reply, expressed surprise that those who planned to send the French Neutrals, or rather rebels and traitors to the British crown, had not realized that there were already too many strangers for the peace and security of the colonies: that they should have been sent to Old France. He was quite in accord with Morris in believing there was a danger of the people joining the Irish Papists in an attempt to ruin and destroy the king's colonies. The Acadians had arrived at Philadelphia in a most deplorable condition. One of the Quakers who visited the boats while they were in quarantine reported that they were without shirts and socks and were sadly in need of bed-clothing. A petition to the governor, giving an account of their conduct in Acadia and of the treatment they had received, fell on deaf ears. An act was passed for their dispersion in the counties of Bucks, Lancaster, and Chester. The refugees, however, were not without friends. To several Quakers they were indebted for many acts of kindness and generosity. Among those deported to Philadelphia was one of the Le Blanc family, a boy of seventeen, Charles Le Blanc. Early in life he engaged in commerce, and in the course of a long and successful career in Philadelphia amassed an enormous fortune, including large estates in the colonies and in Canada. After his death in 1816 there were many claimants to his estate, and the litigation over it is not yet ended. The Acadians taken to New York were evidently as poor as their fellow-refugees at Philadelphia. An Act of July 6, 1756, recites that 'a certain number have been received into this colony, poor, naked, and destitute of every convenience and support of life, and, to the end that they may not continue as they now really are, useless to His Majesty, to themselves, and a burthen to this colony, be it enacted ... that the Justices of the Peace ... be required and empowered to bind with respectable families such as are not arrived at the age of twenty-one years, for such a space of time as they may think proper.' The justices were to make the most favourable contracts for them, and when their term of service expired, they were to be paid either in implements of trade, clothing, or other gratuity. In the month of August 1756 one hundred and ten sturdy Acadian boys and girls made their appearance in New York. They had travelled all the way from Georgia in the hope of finding means to return to Acadia. Great was their disappointment when they were seized by the authorities and placed out to service. Later some of the parents straggled in, but they were dispersed immediately in Orange and Westchester counties, and some on Long Island, in charge of a constable. The New York Mercury of July 1757 reported that a number of the neutrals had been captured near Fort Edward while on their way to Crown Point. Between the arrival of the first detachment in New York and the month of August 1757 the colony was compelled to provide for large numbers who came in from distant places. To prevent any further escape the sheriffs were commanded to secure all the Acadians, except women and children, in the county gaol. At a later date these unfortunates were put to a strange use. Sir Harry Moore, governor of the colony of New York (1765-69), had designs upon the French colony at Santo Domingo, in the West Indies, and desired plans of the town and its fortifications. So he entered into correspondence with the French Admiral, Count d'Estaing, offering to transport thither seventy Acadian families in order that they might live under the French flag. The count accepted the offer and issued a proclamation to the Acadians inviting them to Santo Domingo. Moore had arranged that John Hanson should conduct the exiles to their new home. Hanson, on arriving at the French colony, was to take a contract to build houses and make out the desired military plans while so engaged. He succeeded in transporting the Acadians, but failed in the real object of his mission. He was not allowed the liberty of building houses in Santo Domingo. The Acadians who went to the West Indies suffered greatly. The tropical climate proved disastrous to men and women who had been reared in the atmosphere of the Bay of Fundy. They crawled under trees and shrubs to escape the fierce rays of the sun. Numbers of them perished and life became a burden to the others. Far different was the lot of the Acadians who were sent to Maryland. [Footnote: The Maryland Gazette, Annapolis, December 4, 1755, said: 'Sunday last [November 30] arrived here the last of the vessels from Nova Scotia with French Neutrals for this place, which makes four within this fortnight bringing upwards of nine hundred of them. As the poor people have been deprived of their settlements in Nova Scotia, and sent here for some political reason bare and destitute, Christian charity, nay, common humanity, calls on every one according to his ability to lend assistance and to help these objects of compassion.'] There they were kindly received and found, no doubt, a happier lot than in any of the other colonies. Those landed at Baltimore were at first lodged in private houses and in a building belonging to a Mr Fotherall, where they had a little chapel. And it was not long before the frugal and industrious exiles were able to construct small but comfortable houses of their own on South Charles Street, giving to that quarter of the city the name of French Town. Many of them found employment on the waterside and in navigation. The old and infirm picked oakum. Massachusetts at one time counted in the colony a thousand and forty of the exiles, but all these had not come direct on the ships from Nova Scotia. Many of them had wandered in from other colonies. The people of Massachusetts loved not Catholics and Frenchmen; nevertheless, in some instances they received the refugees with especial kindness. At Worcester a small tract of land was set aside for the Acadians to cultivate, with permission to hunt deer at all seasons. The able-bodied men and women toiled in the fields as reapers, and added to their income in the evening by making wooden implements. The Acadians were truly primitive in their methods. 'Although,' says a writer of the time, 'they tilled the soil they kept no animals for labour. The young men drew their material for fencing with thongs of sinew, and they turned the earth with a spade. The slightest allusion to their native land drew forth tears and many of the aged died of a broken heart.' As French Neutrals began to come into Boston from other towns, the selectmen of that city protested vigorously and passed the people on to outlying parishes, promising, however, to be responsible for their maintenance should they become a public charge. Several instances are recorded of children being sent to join their parents. A certain number were confined in the workhouse and in the provincial hospital. But on December 6, 1760, the authorities gave instructions for the hospital to be cleared to make room for the colonial troops who were returning home, many of them suffering from contagious diseases; and the Acadians were forthwith turned out. Although none of the Acadians appear to have been sent direct to Louisiana, large numbers of them found their way thither from various places, especially from Virginia, where they were not allowed to remain. Finding in Louisiana men speaking their own tongue, they felt a sense of security, and gradually settled down with a degree of contentment. There are to-day in various parishes of the state of Louisiana many thousand Acadian-Americans. Of the Acadians who succeeded in escaping deportation and went into voluntary exile, many sought shelter in New Brunswick, on the rivers Petitcodiac, Memramcook, Buctouche, Richibucto, and Miramichi, and along Chaleur Bay. The largest of the settlements so formed was the one on the Miramichi, at Pierre Beaubair's seigneury, where the village of Nelson now stands. For several years these refugees in New Brunswick bravely struggled against hardship, disease, and starvation; but in the late autumn of 1759 the several settlements sent deputies to Colonel Frye at Fort Cumberland, asking on what terms they would be received back to Nova Scotia. Frye took a number of them into the fort for the winter, and presented their case to Lawrence. It was decided to accept their submission and supply them with provisions. But when the people returned they were held as vassals; and many of them afterwards were either sent out of the province to France or England, or left it voluntarily for St Pierre and Miquelon or the West Indies. Other fugitives of 1755, fifteen hundred, according to one authority, [Footnote: Placide Gaudet, 'Acadian Genealogy and Notes,' Canadian Archives Report, 1905. vol. ii, part iii, Appendix A, p. xv.] succeeded in reaching Quebec. Here their lot was a hard one. Bigot and his myrmidons plundered everybody, and the starving Acadians did not escape. They had managed to bring with them a little money and a few household treasures, of which they were soon robbed. For a time they were each allowed but four ounces of bread a day, and were reduced, it is said, to searching the gutters for food. To add to their miseries smallpox broke out among them and many perished from the disease. After Quebec surrendered and the victorious British army entered the gates, some two hundred of them, under the leadership of a priest, Father Coquart, who apparently had a passport from General Murray, marched through the wilderness to the headwaters of the St John and went down to Fort Frederick at the mouth of that river. Colonel Arbuthnot, the British commandant there, treated them generously. In 1761, however, many Acadians at the St John were seized and deported to Halifax, where they were held as prisoners of war, but were provided with rations and given 'good wages for road-making.' [Footnote: MacMechan in Canada and its Provinces, vol. xiii, p. 115.] Of those who escaped this deportation, some established themselves on the Kennebecasis river and some went up the St John to St Anne's, now Fredericton. But even here the Acadians were not to have a permanent home. Twenty years later, when the war of the Revolution ended and land was needed for the king's disbanded soldiers, the lands of the Acadians were seized. Once more the unfortunate people sought new homes, and found them at last along the banks of Chaleur Bay and of the Madawaska, where thousands of their descendants now rudely cultivate the fields and live happy, contented lives. The deportation did not bring peace to Nova Scotia. Acadians of New Brunswick and of those who had sought refuge in the forest fastnesses of the peninsula and Cape Breton joined with the Indians in guerilla warfare against the British; and there was more killing of settlers and more destruction of property from Indian raids than ever before. Early in the month of January 1756 British rangers rounded up over two hundred Acadian prisoners at Annapolis, and put them on board a vessel bound for South Carolina. The prisoners, however, made themselves masters of the ship and sailed into the St John river in February. French privateers, manned by Acadians, haunted the Bay of Fundy and the Gulf of St Lawrence and carried off as prizes twelve British vessels. But in 1761 the British raided a settlement of the marauders on Chaleur Bay, and took three hundred and fifty prisoners to Halifax. We have seen in a preceding chapter that from time to time numbers of Acadians voluntarily left their homes in Nova Scotia and went over to French soil. Many of these took up their abode in Ile St Jean at Port La Joie (Charlottetown), where they soon formed a prosperous settlement and were able to supply not only the fortress but the town of Louisbourg with provisions. Those who were not engaged in agricultural pursuits found profitable employment in the fisheries. There were also thriving settlements at Point Prince, St Peter, and Malpeque. It is computed that in 1755 there were at least four thousand Acadians in Ile St Jean. A much larger estimate is given by some historians. Now, on the fall of Louisbourg in 1758, some of the British transports which had brought out troops from Cork to Halifax were ordered to Ile St Jean to carry the Acadians and French to France. The largest of these transports was the Duke William; another was named the Violet. Some of the Acadians made good their escape, but many were dragged on board the vessels. On the Duke William was a missionary priest, and before the vessels sailed he was called upon to perform numerous marriages, for the single men had learned that if they landed unmarried in France they would be forced to perform military service, for which they had no inclination. Nine transports sailed in consort, but were soon caught in a violent tempest and scattered. On December 10 the Duke William came upon the Violet in a sinking condition; and notwithstanding all efforts at rescue, the Violet went down with nearly four hundred souls. Meanwhile the Duke William herself had sprung a leak. For a time she was kept afloat by empty casks in the hold, but presently it became evident that the ship was doomed. The long-boat was put out and filled to capacity. And scarcely had the boat cleared when an explosion occurred and the Duke William went down, taking three hundred persons to a watery grave. The longboat finally reached Penzance with twenty-seven of the castaways. The other vessels probably found some French port. [Footnote In 1763 there were 2,370 Acadians in the maritime towns of France and 866 at various English ports. Many of these returned later to the land of their birth. See Canadian Archives Report, 1905, vol. ii, Appendix G, pp. 148 and 157.] In Nova Scotia the Acadians were sorely needed. Even their bitter enemy, Jonathan Belcher, now lieutenant- governor, [Footnote: He succeeded Lawrence, who died in October 1760. Two documents in the Colonial Office Records raise more than a suspicion that Lawrence had been by no means an exemplary public servant. The first is a complaint made by Robert Sanderson, speaker of the first legislature of Nova Scotia, elected in 1758, respecting the grave misconduct of Lawrence in many stated particulars, including the release from gaol before trial of prisoners charged with burglary and other grave offences as well as the misapplication of public funds. The second is a letter from the Lords of Trade to Belcher laying down rules for his conduct as lieutenant-governor and referring to the many serious charges against his predecessor, some of which they regard as having substantial foundation, and none of which they express themselves as altogether rejecting. Consult, in the Public Archives, Canada, Nova Scotia A, vol. lxv.] wrote on June 18, 1761: 'By representations made to me from the new settlements in this province, it appears extremely necessary that the inhabitants should be assisted by the Acadians in repairing the dykes for the preservation and recovery of the marsh lands, particularly as on the progress of this work, in which the Acadians are the most skilful people in the country, the support and subsistence of several hundred of the inhabitants will depend.' [Footnote: Nova Scotia Documents, p. 319.] It seemed almost impossible to induce settlers to come to the province; and those who did come seem to have been unable to follow the example of the former owners of the soil, for much of the land which had been reclaimed from the sea by the labour and ingenuity of the Acadian farmers was once more being swept by the ocean tides. Yet, when the Acadians began to return to Nova Scotia in ever-increasing numbers, Belcher and the Halifax Council decided to banish them again. In 1762 five transports loaded with prisoners were sent to Massachusetts, but that colony wanted no more Acadians and sent them back. Belcher had some difficulty in explaining his action to the home government. And the Lords of Trade did not scruple to censure him. When the Treaty of Paris (February 1763) brought peace between France and England and put an end to French power in America, the Acadians could no longer be considered a menace, and there was no good political reason for keeping them out of Canada or Nova Scotia. Almost immediately those in exile began to seek new homes among people of their own race and religion. The first migration seems to have been from New England by the Lake Champlain route to the province of Quebec. There they settled at various places, notably L'Acadie, St Gregoire, Nicolet, Becancour, St Jacques-l'Achigan, St Philippe, and Laprairie. In these communities hundreds of their descendants still live. In 1766 the exiles in Massachusetts assembled in Boston and decided to return to their native land. All who were fit to travel, numbering about nine hundred men, women, and children, marched through the wilderness along the Atlantic coast and across New Brunswick to the isthmus of Chignecto. Many perished by the way, overcome by the burden and fatigue of a journey which lasted over four months. But at last the weary pilgrims approached their destination. And near the site of the present village of Coverdale in Albert county, New Brunswick, they were attracted to a small farmhouse by the crowing of a cock in the early dawn. To their unspeakable joy they found the house inhabited by a family of their own race. Here they halted for a few days, making inquiry concerning their old friends. Then they tramped on in different directions. Everywhere on the isthmus the scene was changed. The old familiar farm buildings had disappeared or were occupied by strangers of an alien tongue, and even the names of places were known no more. Some journeyed to Windsor and some to Annapolis, where they remained for a time. At length, on the western shores of the present counties of Digby and Yarmouth, they found a home, and there to-day live the descendants of these pilgrims. For miles their neat villages skirt the shores of the ocean and the banks of the streams. For a century and a half they have lived in peace, cultivating their salt-marsh lands and fresh-water meadows, preserving the simple manners, customs, and language of their ancestors. They form a community apart, a hermit community. But they are useful citizens, good farmers, hardy fishermen and sailors. Both in Canada and in the United States are to be found many Acadians occupying exalted positions. The chief justice of the Supreme Court of Louisiana, Joseph A. Breaux, is of Acadian descent. In Canada the Rt Rev. Edward Le Blanc, bishop of Acadia, the Hon. P. E. Le Blanc, lieutenant-governor of the province of Quebec, and the Hon. Pascal Poirier, senator, are Acadians, as are many other prominent men. And Isabella Labarre, who married Jean Foret, of Beaubassin, was one of the maternal ancestors of Sir Wilfrid Laurier. Save in the Maritime Provinces, it is not possible to count the offspring of the original French settlers of Acadia who came out from France in the seventeenth century. It is estimated that there were at the time of the expulsion ten or eleven thousand under the British flag, and four or five thousand in Ile St Jean and elsewhere on French territory. About six thousand were deported, as we have seen, and scattered over the British colonies. Undoubtedly a great number of Americans of to-day are descendants of those exiles, but, except at the mouth of the Mississippi, they are merged in the general population and their identity is lost. Neither can we tell how many of those who found their way to Old France remained there permanently. For upwards of twenty years the French government was concerned in finding places for them. Some were settled on estates; some were sent to Corsica; others, as late as 1778, went to Louisiana. Nor can we estimate the number of Acadians in the province of Quebec, for no distinction has been made between them and the general French-Canadian population. For the Maritime Provinces, however, we have the count of the census of 1911. This shows 98,611 in New Brunswick, 51,746 in Nova Scotia, and 13,117 in Prince Edward Island, a total of 163,474 in the three provinces. The largest communities are those of Gloucester, Victoria, Madawaska, and Kent counties in New Brunswick, and of Digby and Yarmouth in Nova Scotia. Several thousand Acadians are counted in Cape Breton; so, too, in Halifax and Cumberland counties. But in the county of Annapolis, where stands the site of the first settlement formed on the soil of Canada--the site of the ancient stronghold of Acadia--and which for many generations was the principal home of the Acadian people, only two or three hundred Acadians are to be found to-day; while, looking out over Minas Basin, the scene of so much sorrow and suffering, one solitary family keeps its lonely vigil in the village of Grand Pre. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE The story of Acadia and the Acadians has been told many times, but most of the treatises on the subject are unsatisfactory from the historical point of view, either because of the biased attitude taken by the authors or because of their inadequate use of original sources. The present writer has deliberately avoided consulting secondary works. The following titles, however, are here suggested for the benefit of the reader who wishes to become acquainted with the literature of the subject. Thomas Chandler Haliburton, 'An Historical and Statistical Account of Nova Scotia' (2 vols., Halifax, 1829), the earliest general history of the province, based on but slight knowledge of the sources. Beamish Murdoch, 'A History of Nova Scotia' (3 vols., Halifax, 1865-1867), fuller and more accurate than Haliburton, but having less charm of style. Francis Parkman, 'France and England in North America' (9 vols., Boston, 1865-1892, and later editions). The chapters on Acadia are scattered through several volumes of this valuable series: see the volumes entitled 'Pioneers of France, The Old Regime, A Half-Century of Conflict', and 'Montcalm and Wolfe'. Celestin Moreau, 'Histoire de l'Acadie Francoise' (Paris, 1873). James Hannay, 'History of Acadia' (St John, 1879). P. H. Smith, 'Acadia: A Lost Chapter in American History' (Pawling, N.Y., 1884). Justin Winsor, 'Narrative and Critical History of America': see vols. iv and v (Boston, 1884, 1887), containing scholarly bibliographical notes. Abbe H. R. Casgrain, 'Un Pelerinage au pays d'Evangeline' (Quebec, 1887). Rameau de Saint-Pere, 'Une Colonie Feodale en Amerique, l'Acadie' (2 vols., Paris and Montreal, 1889): the appendix contains some interesting documents. Edouard Richard, 'Acadia: Missing Links of a Lost Chapter in American History' (2 vols., New York and Montreal, 1895). Rev. Wm. O. Raymond, 'The River St John' (2nd ed., St John, 1910). Some older works which incidentally contain interesting or valuable references to Acadia may be mentioned. F. X. Charlevoix, 'Histoire et Description Generale de la Nouvelle France' (3 vols., Paris, 1744; and translation by J. G. Shea, 6 vols., New York, 1866-1872). Abbe Guillaume Thomas Raynal, 'Histoire philosophique et politique des Etablissemens dans les deux Indes' (5 vols., Paris, 1770), which first painted a picture of an idyllic life of simplicity and happiness among the Acadians. Thomas Hutchinson, 'History of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay' (3 vols., London, 1765-1828). G. R. Minot, 'Continuation of the History of the Province of Massachusetts Bay' (2 vols., Boston, 1798-1803). Jeremy Belknap, 'History of New Hampshire' (3 vols., Boston, 1791-1792). W. D. Williamson, 'History of the State of Maine' (2 vols., Hallowell, 1832). The last four works are of much value for the relations between Acadia and the New England colonies. Among special studies of note are: J. G. Kohl, 'Discovery of Maine' ('Documentary History of the State of Maine,' vol. i, 1869). H. P. Biggar, 'Early Trading Companies of New France' (Toronto, 1901). Henry Kirke, 'The First English Conquest of Canada' (London, 1871; 2nd ed., 1908), a work which devotes much space to the early establishments in Nova Scotia. Rev. Edmund F. Slafter, 'Sir William Alexander and American Colonization' (Boston, 1873), which contains a valuable selection of documents. Abbe J. A. Maurault, 'Histoire des Abenakis' (Sorel, 1866). Pascal Poirier, 'Origine des Acadiens' (Montreal, 1874) and 'Des Acadiens deportes a Boston en 1755' ('Trans. Roy. Soc. of Can.,' 3rd series, vol. ii, 1908). Several local histories contain information regarding the Acadian exiles in the American colonies. William Lincoln, 'History of Worcester, Massachusetts' (Worcester, 1862). Bernard C. Steiner, 'History of the Plantation of Menunkatuck and of the Original Town of Guilford, Connecticut' (Baltimore, 1897). Rev. D. P. O'Neill, 'History of St Raymond's Church, Westchester New York.' J. T. Scharf, 'Chronicles of Baltimore' ( Baltimore, 1874). Edward M'Crady, 'History of South Carolina under the Royal Government, 1719-1776' (New York, 1899). Of original sources, many of the more important narratives are available in print. Champlain's Voyages, a work which appeared in its first form in 1604: recent editions are by Laverdiere (6 vols., Quebec, 1870); translation by Slafter (3 vols., The Prince Society, Boston, 1880-1882); and translations of portions by W. L. Grant in Jameson's 'Original Narratives of Early American History' (New York, 1907). Marc Lescarbot, 'Histoire de la Nouvelle France' (1st ed., Paris, 1609): a new edition with translation has been edited by W. L. Grant (The Champlain Society, 3 vols., Toronto, 1907-1914). Nicolas Denys, 'Description Geographique et Historique des Costes de l'Amerique Septentrionale' (Paris, 1672): new edition and translation by William F. Ganong (The Champlain Society, Toronto, 1908). Denys tells of De Monts, Poutrincourt, Biencourt, and the La Tours. Supplementary information can be obtained from 'The Jesuit Relations' (the first number, by Father Biard, was published at Lyons, 1616); see edition with translation, by R. G. Thwaites (Cleveland, 1896). See also Purchas, 'His Pilgrimes,' vol. iv (1625); and John Winthrop, 'History of New England,' edited by James Savage (2 vols., Boston, 1825-1826), and by J. K. Hosmer in 'Original Narratives of Early American History' (New York, 1908). Gaston du Boscq de Beaumont, 'Les Derniers Jours de l'Acadie,' 1748-1758 (Paris, 1899) contains many interesting letters and memoirs from the French side at the time of the expulsion. There are several important collections of documentary sources available in print. The 'Memorials of the English and French Commissaries concerning the Limits of Nova Scotia or Acadia' (London and Paris, 1755) contains the arguments and documents produced on both sides in the dispute regarding the Acadian boundaries. Many documents of general interest are to be found in the 'Collection de Documents relatifs a l'Histoire de la Nouvelle France' (4 vols., Quebec, 1885); in 'Documents relative to the Colonial History of the State of New York,' edited by O'Callaghan and Fernow (15 vols., Albany, 1856-1887), particularly vol. ix; and in the 'Collections' of the Massachusetts Historical Society (Boston, 1792-). The 'Collections' of the Nova Scotia Historical Society (Halifax, 1879-), besides modern studies, contain many valuable contemporary documents, including 'Journal of Colonel Nicholson at the Capture of Annapolis,' 'Diary of John Thomas,' and 'Journal of Colonel John Winslow.' Thomas and Winslow are among the most important sources for the expulsion. The 'Report on Canadian Archives' for 1912 prints several interesting documents bearing on the early history of Acadia, and the Report for 1905 (vol. ii) contains documents relating to the expulsion, edited by Placide Gaudet. The calendars contained in various Reports to which references are made below may also be consulted. The British Government publications, the 'Calendar of State Papers, Colonial Series, America and West Indies,' which has been brought down only to 1702, and the 'Acts of the Privy Council, Colonial Series,' are also useful. But perhaps the most valuable of all is the volume entitled 'Selections from the Public Documents of the Province of Nova Scotia,' edited by Thomas B. Akins (Halifax, 1869), though the editor has taken many liberties with his texts. A volume entitled 'Nova Scotia Archives II,' edited by Archibald MacMechan (Halifax, 1900), contains calendars of Governors' Letter Books and a Commission Book, 1713-1741. The principal manuscript collections of material for Acadian history are in Paris, London, Boston, Halifax, and Ottawa. In Paris are the official records of French rule in America. Of the 'Archives des Colonies,' deposited at the 'Archives Nationales,' the following series are most important: Series B: Letter Books of Orders of the King and Dispatches from 1663 onward (partially calendared in Canadian Archives 'Reports' for 1899; Supplement, 1904 and 1905). Series C: correspondence received from the colonies, which is subdivided geographically. All the American colonies have letters relating to the refugee Acadians, but the most important section for general Acadian history is C-11, which relates to Canada and its dependencies, including Acadia itself, Ile Royale, now Cape Breton, and Ile St Jean, now Prince Edward Island. Series F, which includes in its subdivisions documents relating to commercial companies and religious missions, and the Moreau St Mery Collection of miscellaneous official documents. Series G: registers, censuses, lists of Acadian refugees, and notarial records. The 'Ministere des Affaires Etrangeres' has, in the 'Angleterre' section of its 'Correspondence Politique' and the 'Amerique' section of its 'Memoires et Documents,' extensive material on the disputes with the English Government over Acadia. The 'Archives de la Marine' (Series B), which is divided into eight sub-series, has a vast collection of documents relating to America, including Acadia. Acadian material is also found scattered through other series of the 'Archives Nationales' and among the manuscripts of the 'Bibliotheque Nationale.' At the town of Vire, in France, among the municipal archives, are to be found the papers of Thomas Pichon, a French officer at Louisbourg and Beausejour, who after the fall of Beausejour lived on intimate terms with the British in Nova Scotia. In London most of the official documents for the period under consideration in this volume are preserved in the Public Record Office. The most useful collections are among the Colonial Office Papers: Series C.O. 5, formerly described as America and West Indies, embraces the papers of the office of the Secretary of State who had charge of the American colonies; and C.O. 217-221, formerly, for the most part, described as Board of Trade Nova Scotia, contains the correspondence of the Board of Trade relating to Nova Scotia. The 'Admiralty Papers and Treasury Board Papers' likewise contain considerable material for the story of British administration in Acadia. In the British Museum are some manuscripts of interest, the most noteworthy being Lieutenant-Governor Vetch's Letter Book (Sloane MS. 3607), and the Brown Collection (Additional MSS. 190694). These are papers relating to Nova Scotia and the Acadians, 1711-1794, including the correspondence of Paul Mascarene. In Boston two important collections are to be found: the Massachusetts State Archives, which contain some original documents bearing on the relations between New England and Nova Scotia, and others connected with the disposal of those Acadians who were transported to Massachusetts, and many transcripts made from the French Archives; and the Parkman Papers, which are now in the possession of the Massachusetts Historical Society. The Public Records of Nova Scotia at Halifax contain transcripts from the Paris and Massachusetts Archives relating to Acadia, transcripts from the Public Record Office at London and from the British Museum, letter-books of the Governors of Nova Scotia, minutes of the Executive Council, and much miscellaneous correspondence and papers belonging to our period. In the Public Archives of Canada at Ottawa a very extensive collection of transcripts has been assembled comprising all the more important official documents relating to Acadia. A full description of most of the series can be obtained from David W. Parker's 'Guide to the Documents in the Manuscript Room at the Public Archives of Canada,' vol. i (Ottawa, 1914). The series known as Nova Scotia State Papers is divided into several sub-series: A. Correspondence from 1603 onwards, made up chiefly of transcripts from the Papers of the Secretary of State and of the Board of Trade at the Public Record Office, but including some from the British Museum and elsewhere (a calendar is to be found in the 'Report on Canadian Archives' for 1894); B. Minutes of the Executive Council of Nova Scotia, 1720-1785; E. Instructions to Governors, 1708 onwards. The Archives also possess transcripts of the French 'Archives des Colonies,' Series B, down to 1746, Series C-11 and parts of Series F and G, and of many documents of the 'Ministere des Affaires Etrangeres,' of the 'Archives de la Marine,' Series B, and of the 'Bibliotheque Nationale' (among the latter being the 'Memoire instructif de la conduite du Sr. de la Tour'). Also transcripts of the Pichon Papers, of much of the C.O. 5 Series for this period in the Public Record Office, London; of Vetch's Letter Book, the Brown Collection and other sources in the British Museum; and of parts of the Parkman Papers, and other records regarding the exiled Acadians in the Massachusetts Archives. END 
23409	----	[Illustration: _"This, with the antique kirtle and picturesque petticoat is an Acadian portrait." PAGE 56._] [Illustration: _"There is nothing modern in the face or drapery of this figure. She might have stepped out of Normandy a century ago." PAGE 40._] ACADIA; OR, A MONTH WITH THE BLUE NOSES. BY FREDERIC S. COZZENS, AUTHOR OF "SPARROWGRASS PAPERS." This is Acadia--this is the land That weary souls have sighed for; This is Acadia--this is the land Heroic hearts have died for: Yet, strange to tell, this promised land Has never been applied for! PORTER. NEW YORK: DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET. 1859. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by FREDERIC S. COZZENS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. W.H. TINSON, Stereotyper. GEO. RUSSELL & Co., Printers. PREFACE. As I have a sort of religion in literature, believing that no author can justly intrude upon the public without feeling that his writings may be of some benefit to mankind, I beg leave to apologize for this little book. I know, no critic can tell me better than I know myself, how much it falls short of what might have been done by an abler pen. Yet it is something--an index, I should say, to something better. The French in America may sometime find a champion. For my own part, I would that the gentler principles which governed them, and the English under William Penn, and the Dutch under the enlightened rule of the States General, had obtained here, instead of the narrower, the more penurious, and most prescriptive policy of their neighbors. I am indebted to Judge Haliburton's "History of Nova Scotia" for the main body of historical facts in this volume. Let me acknowledge my obligations. His researches and impartiality are most creditable, and worthy of respect and attention. I have also drawn as liberally as time and space would permit from chronicles contemporary with the events of those early days, as well as from a curious collection of items relating to the subject, cut from the London newspapers a hundred years ago, and kindly furnished me by Geo. P. Putnam, Esq. These are always the surest guides. To Mrs. Kate Williams, of Providence, R. I., I am indebted also. Her story of the "Neutral French," no doubt, inspired the author of the most beautiful pastoral in the language. The "Evangeline" of Longfellow, and the "Pauline" of this lady's legend, are pictures of the same individual, only drawn by different hands. A word in regard to the two Acadian portraits. These are literal ambrotypes, to which Sarony has added a few touches of his artistic crayon. It may interest the reader to know that these are the first, the only likenesses of the real Evangelines of Acadia. The women of Chezzetcook appear at day-break in the city of Halifax, and as soon as the sun is up vanish like the dew. They have usually a basket of fresh eggs, a brace or two of worsted socks, a bottle of fir-balsam to sell. These comprise their simple commerce. When the market-bell rings you find them not. To catch such fleeting phantoms, and to transfer them to the frontispiece of a book published here, is like painting the burnished wings of a humming-bird. A friend, however, undertook the task. He rose before the sun, he bought eggs, worsted socks, and fir-balsam of the Acadians. By constant attentions he became acquainted with a pair of Acadian women, niece and aunt. Then he proposed the matter to them: "I want you to go with me to the daguerreotype gallery." "What for?" "To have your portraits taken." "What for?" "To send to a friend in New York." "What for?" "To be put in a book." "What for?" "Never mind 'what for,' will you go?" Aunt and niece--both together in a breath--"No." So my friend, who was a wise man, wrote to the priest of the settlement of Chezzetcook, to explain the "what for," and the consequence was--these portraits! But these women had a terrible time at the head of the first flight of stairs. Not an inch would these shy creatures budge beyond. At last, the wife of the operator induced them to rise to the high flight that led to the Halifax skylight, and there they were painted by the sun, as we see them now. Nothing more! Ring the bell, prompter, and draw the curtain. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Vague Rumors of Nova Scotia--A Fortnight upon Salt Water--Interesting Sketch of the Atlantic--Halifax!--Determine to stay in the Province--Province Building and Pictures--Coast Scenery--Liberty in Language, and Aspirations of the People--Evangeline and Relics of Acadia--Market-Place--The Encampment at Point Pleasant--Kissing Bridge--The "Himalaya"--A Sabbath in a Garrison Town--Grand Celebration of the Peace, and Natal Day of Halifax--And a Hint of a Visit to Chezzetcook 13 CHAPTER II. Fog clears up--The One Idea not comprehended by the American Mind--A June Morning in the Province--The Beginning of the Evangeliad--Intuitive Perception of Genius--The Forest Primeval--Acadian Peasants--A Negro Settlement--Deer's Castle--The Road to Chezzetcook--Acadian Scenery--A Glance at the Early History of Acadia--First Encroachments of the English--The Harbor and Village of Chezzetcook, etc., etc. 34 CHAPTER III. A Romp at Three Fathom Harbor--The Moral Condition of the Acadians--The Wild Flowers of Nova Scotia--Mrs. Deer's Wit--No Fish--Picton--The Balaklava Schooner--And a Voyage to Louisburgh 58 CHAPTER IV. The Voyage of the "Balaklava"--Something of a Fog--A Novel Sensation--Picton bursts out--"Nothing to do"--Breakfast under Way--A Phantom Boat--Mackerel--Gone, Hook and Line--The Colonists--Sectionalism and Prejudices--Cod-fishing and an Unexpected Banquet--Past the old French Town--A Pretty Respectable Breeze--We get past the Rocks--Louisburgh 77 CHAPTER V. Louisburgh--The Great French Fortress--Incidents of the Old French War--Relics of the Siege--Description of the Town--The two Expeditions--A Yankee _ruse de guerre_--The Rev. Samuel Moody's Grace--Wolfe's Landing--The Fisherman's Hutch--The Lost Coaster--The Fisheries--Picton tries his hand at a Fish-pugh 102 CHAPTER VI. A most acceptable Invitation--An Evening in the Hutch--Old Songs--Picton in High Feather--Wolfe and Montcalm--Reminiscences of the Siege--Anecdotes of Wolfe--A Touch of Rhetoric and its Consequences 121 CHAPTER VII. The other side of the Harbor--A Foraging Party--Disappointment--Twilight at Louisburgh--Long Days and Early Mornings--A Visit and View of an Interior--A Shark Story--Picton inquires about a Measure--Hospitality and the Two Brave Boys--Proposals for a Trip Overland to Sydney 133 CHAPTER VIII. A Blue-Nosed Pair of the most Cerulean Hue--Prospects of a Hard Bargain--Case of Necessity--Romantic Lake with an Unromantic Name--The Discussion concerning Oatmeal--Danger of the Gasterophili--McGibbet makes a Proposition--Farewell to the "Balaklava"--A Midnight Journey--Sydney--Boat Excursion to the Micmacs--Picton takes off his Mackintosh 154 CHAPTER IX. The Micmac Camp--Indian Church-warden and Broker--Interior of a Wigwam--A Madonna--A Digression--Malcolm Discharged--An Indian Bargain--The Inn Parlor, and a Comfortable Night's Rest 176 CHAPTER X. Over the Bay--A Gigantic Dumb Waiter--Erebus--Reflections--White and Black Squares of the Chess-Board--Leave-taking--An Interruption--The Aibstract Preencipels of Feenance 185 CHAPTER XI. The Bras d'Or Road--Farewell to Picton--Home, Sweet Home--The Rob Roys of Cape Breton--Note and Query--Chapel Island--St. Peter's--Enterprise--The Strait of Canseau--West River--The Last Out-post of the Scottish Chiefs 196 CHAPTER XII. The Ride from West River--A Fellow Passenger--Parallels of History--One Hundred Romances--Baron de Castine--His Character--Made Chief of the Abenaquis--Duke of York's Charter--Encroachments of the Puritans--Church's Indian Wars--False Reports--Reflections 212 CHAPTER XIII. Truro--On the Road to Halifax--Drive to the Left--A Member of the Foreign Legion--Irish Wit at Government Expense--The first Battle of the Legion--Ten Pounds Reward--Sir John Gaspard's Revenge--The Shubenacadie Lakes--Dartmouth Ferry, and the Hotel Waverley 224 CHAPTER XIV. Halifax again--Hotel Waverley--"Gone the Old Familiar Faces"--The Story of Marie de la Tour 237 CHAPTER XV. Bedford Basin--Legend of the two French Admirals--An Invitation to the Queen--Visit to the Prince's Lodge--A Touch of Old England--The Ruins 251 CHAPTER XVI. The Last Night--Farewell, Hotel Waverley--Friends Old and New--What followed the Marriage of La Tour le Borgne--Invasion of Col. Church 258 CHAPTER XVII. A few more Threads of History--Acadia again lost--The Oath of Allegiance--Settlement of Halifax--The brave Three Hundred--Massacre at Norridgewoack--Le Père Ralle 269 CHAPTER XVIII. On the road to Windsor--The great Nova Scotia Railway--A Fellow Passenger--Cape Sable Shipwrecks--Seals--Ponies--Windsor--Sam Slick--A lively Example 279 CHAPTER XIX. Windsor-upon-Avon--Ride to the Gasperau--The Basin of Minas--Blomidon--This is the Acadian Land--Basil, the Blacksmith--A Yankee Settlement--Useless Reflections 293 CHAPTER XX. The Valley of Acadia--A Morning Ride to the Dykes--An unexpected Wild-duck Chase--High Tides--The Gasperau--Sunset--The Lamp of History--Conclusion 302 APPENDIX 317 ACADIA. CHAPTER I. Vague Rumors of Nova Scotia--A Fortnight upon Salt Water--Interesting Sketch of the Atlantic--Halifax!--Determine to stay in the Province--Province Building and Pictures--Coast Scenery--Liberty in Language, and Aspirations of the People--Evangeline and Relics of Acadia--Market-Place--The Encampment at Point Pleasant--Kissing Bridge--The "Himalaya"--A Sabbath in a Garrison Town--Grand Celebration of the Peace, and Natal Day of Halifax--And a Hint of a Visit to Chezzetcook. It is pleasant to visit Nova Scotia in the month of June. Pack up your flannels and your fishing tackle, leave behind you your prejudices and your summer clothing, take your trout-pole in one hand and a copy of Haliburton in the other, and step on board a Cunarder at Boston. In thirty-six hours you are in the loyal little province, and above you floats the red flag and the cross of St. George. My word for it, you will not regret the trip. That the idea of visiting Nova Scotia ever struck any living person as something peculiarly pleasant and cheerful, is not within the bounds of probability. Very rude people are wont to speak of Halifax in connection with the name of a place never alluded to in polite society--except by clergymen. As for the rest of the Province, there are certain vague rumors of extensive and constant fogs, but nothing more. The land is a sort of terra incognita. Many take it to be a part of Canada, and others firmly believe it is somewhere in Newfoundland. In justice to Nova Scotia, it is proper to state that the Province is a province by itself; that it hath its own governor and parliament, and its own proper and copper currency. How I chanced to go there was altogether a matter of destiny. It was a severe illness--a gastric disorder of the most obstinate kind, that cast me upon its balmy shores. One day, after a protracted relapse, as I was creeping feebly along Broadway, sunning myself, like a March fly on a window-pane, whom should I meet but St. Leger, my friend. "You look pale," said St. Leger. To which I replied by giving him a full, complete, and accurate history of my ailments, after the manner of valetudinarians. "Why do you not try change of air?" he asked; and then briskly added, "You could spare a couple of weeks or so, could you not, to go to the Springs?" "I could," said I, feebly. "Then," said St. Leger, "take the two weeks' time, but do not go to the Springs. Spend your fortnight on the salt water--get out of sight of land--that is the thing for you." And so, shaking my hand warmly, St. Leger passed on, and left me to my reflections. A fortnight upon salt water? Whither? Cape Cod at once loomed up; Nantucket, and Martha's Vineyard. "And why not the Bermudas?" said a voice within me; "the enchanted Islands of Prospero, and Ariel, and Miranda; of Shakspeare, and Raleigh, and Irving?" And echo answered: "Why not?" It is but a day-and-a-half's sail to Halifax; thence, by a steamer, to those neighboring isles; for the Curlew and the Merlin, British mail-boats, leave Halifax fortnightly for the Bermudas. A thousand miles of life-invigorating atmosphere--a week upon salt water, and you are amid the magnificent scenery of the Tempest! And how often had the vague desire impressed me--how often, indeed, had I visited, in imagination, those beautiful scenes, those islands which have made Shakspeare our near kinsman; which are part and parcel of the romantic history of Sir Walter Raleigh! For, even if he do describe them, in his strong old Saxon, as "the Bermudas, a hellish sea for Thunder, and Lightning, and Storms," yet there is a charm even in this description, for doubtless these very words gave a title to the great drama of William of Stratford, and suggested the idea of "The still-vexed Bermoöthes." Ah, yes! and who that has read Irving's "Three Kings of Bermuda" has not felt the influence of those Islas Encantadas--those islands of palms and coral, of orange groves and ambergris! "A fortnight?" said I, quoting St. Leger; "I will take a month for it." And so, in less than a week from the date of his little prescription, I was bidding farewell to some dear friends, from the deck of the "Canada," at East Boston wharf, as Captain Lang, on the top of our wheel-house, shouted out, in a very briny voice: "Let go the starboard bow chain--go slow!" It would be presumptuous in me to speak of the Atlantic, from the limited acquaintance I had with it. The note-book of an invalid for two days at sea, with a heavy ground swell, and the wind in the most favorable quarter, can scarcely be attractive. As the breeze freshened, and the tars of old England ran aloft, to strip from the black sails the wrappers of white canvas that had hid them when in port; and as these leathern, bat-like pinions spread out on each side of the funnel, there was a moment's glimpse of the picturesque; but it was a glimpse only, and no more. One does not enjoy the rise and dip of the bow of a steamer, at first, however graceful it may be in the abstract. To be sure, there were some things else interesting. For instance, three brides aboard! And one of them lovely enough to awaken interest, on sea or land, in any body but a Halifax passenger. I hope those fair ladies will have a pleasant tour, one and all, and that the view they take of the great world, so early in life, will make them more contented with that minor world, henceforth to be within the limits of their dominion. Lullaby to the young wives! there will be rocking enough anon! But we coasted along pleasantly enough the next day, within sight of the bold headlands of Maine; the sky and sea clear of vapor, except the long reek from the steamer's pipe. And then came nightfall and the northern stars; and, later at night, a new luminary on the edge of the horizon--Sambro' light; and then a sudden quenching of stars, and horizon, lighthouse, ropes, spars, and smoke stack; the sounds of hoarse voices of command in the obscurity; a trampling of men; and then down went the anchor in the ooze, and the Canada was fog-bound in the old harbor of Chebucto for the night, within a few miles of the city. But with the early dawn, we awoke to hear the welcome sounds of the engines in motion, and when we reached the deck, the mist was drifted with sunlight, and rose and fell in luminous billows on water and shore, and then lifted, lingered, and vanished! "And this is Halifax?" said I, as that quaint, mouldy old town poked its wooden gables through the fog of the second morning. "This is Halifax? This the capital of Nova Scotia? This the city that harbored those loyal heroes of the Revolution, who gallantly and gayly fought, and bled, and ran for their king? Ah! you brave old Tories; you staunch upholders of the crown; cavaliers without ringlets or feathers, russet boots or steeple-crown hats, it seems as if you were still hovering over this venerable tabernacle of seven hundred gables, and wreathing each particular ridge-pole, pigeon-hole, and shingle with a halo of fog." The plank was laid, and the passengers left the steamer. There were a few vehicles on the wharf for the accommodation of strangers; square, black, funereal-like, wheeled sarcophagi, eminently suggestive of burials and crape. Of course I did not ride in one, on account of unpleasant associations; but, placing my trunk in charge of a cart-boy with a long-tailed dray, and a diminutive pony, I walked through the silent streets towards "The Waverley." It was an inspiriting morning, that which I met upon the well-docked shores of Halifax, and although the side-walks of the city were neither bricked nor paved with flags, and the middle street was in its original and aboriginal clay, yet there was novelty in making its acquaintance. Everybody was asleep in that early fog; and when everybody woke up, it was done so quietly that the change was scarcely apparent. But the "Merlin," British mailer, is to sail at noon for the Shakspeare Island, and breakfast must be discussed, and then once more I am with you, my anti-bilious ocean. It chanced, however, I heard at breakfast, that the "Curlew," the mate of the "Merlin," had been lost a short time before at sea, and as there was but one, and not two steamers on the route, so that I would be detained longer with Prospero and Miranda than might be comfortable in the approaching hot weather, it came to pass that I had reluctantly to forego the projected voyage, and anchor my trunk of tropical clothing in room Number Twenty, Hotel Waverley. It was a great disappointment, to be sure, after such brilliant anticipations--but what is life without philosophy? When we cannot get what we wish, let us take what we may. Let the "Merlin" sail! I will visit, instead of those Islas Encantadas, "The Acadian land on the shore of the Basin of Minas." Let the "Merlin" sail! I will see the ruined walls of Louisburgh, and the harbors that once sheltered the Venetian sailor, Cabot. "Let her sail!" said I, and when the morn passed I saw her slender thread of smoke far off on the glassy ocean, without a sigh of regret, and resolutely turned my face from the promised palms to welcome the sturdy pines of the province. The city hill of Halifax rises proudly from its wharves and shipping in a multitude of mouse-colored wooden houses, until it is crowned by the citadel. As it is a garrison town, as well as a naval station, you meet in the streets red-coats and blue-jackets without number; yonder, with a brilliant staff, rides the Governor, Sir John Gaspard le Marchant, and here, in a carriage, is Admiral Fanshawe, C.B., of the "Boscawen" Flag-ship. Every thing is suggestive of impending hostilities; war, in burnished trappings, encounters you at the street corners, and the air vibrates from time to time with bugles, fifes, and drums. But oh! what a slow place it is! Even two Crimean regiments with medals and decorations could not wake it up. The little old houses seem to look with wondrous apathy as these pass by, as though they had given each other a quiet nudge with their quaint old gables, and whispered: "Keep still!" I wandered up and down those old streets in search of something picturesque, but in vain; there was scarcely any thing remarkable to arrest or interest a stranger. Such, too, might have been the appearance of other places I wot of, if those staunch old loyalists had had their way in the days gone by! But the Province House, which is built of a sort of yellow sand-stone, with pillars in front, and trees around it, is a well-proportioned building, with an air of great solidity and respectability. There are in it very fine full-lengths of King George II. and Queen Caroline, and two full-lengths of King George III. and Queen Charlotte; a full-length of Chief-Justice Haliburton, and another full-length, by Benjamin West, of another chief-justice, in a red robe and a formidable wig. Of these portraits, the two first-named are the most attractive; there is something so gay and festive in the appearance of King George II. and Queen Caroline, so courtly and sprightly, so graceful and amiable, that one is tempted to exclaim: "Bless the painter! what a genius he had!" And now, after taking a look at Dalhousie College with the parade in front, and the square town-clock, built by his graceless Highness the Duke of Kent, let us climb Citadel Hill, and see the formidable protector of town and harbor. Lively enough it is, this great stone fortress, with its soldiers, swarming in and out like bees, and the glimpses of country and harbor are surpassingly beautiful; but just at the margin of this slope below us, is the street, and that dark fringe of tenements skirting the edge of this green glacis is, I fear me, filled with vicious inmates. Yonder, where the blackened ruins of three houses are visible, a sailor was killed and thrown out of a window not long since, and his shipmates burned the houses down in consequence; there is something strikingly suggestive in looking upon this picture and on that. But if you cast your eyes over yonder magnificent bay, where vessels bearing flags of all nations are at anchor, and then let your vision sweep past and over the islands to the outlets beyond, where the quiet ocean lies, bordered with fog-banks that loom ominously at the boundary-line of the horizon, you will see a picture of marvellous beauty; for the coast scenery here transcends our own sea-shores, both in color and outline. And behind us again stretch large green plains, dotted with cottages, and bounded with undulating hills, with now and then glimpses of blue water; and as we walk down Citadel Hill, we feel half-reconciled to Halifax, its queer little streets, its quaint, mouldy old gables, its soldiers and sailors, its fogs, cabs, penny and half-penny tokens, and all its little, odd, outlandish peculiarities. Peace be with it! after all, it has a quiet charm for an invalid! The inhabitants of Halifax exhibit no trifling degree of freedom in language for a loyal people; they call themselves "Halligonians." This title, however, is sometimes pronounced "'Alligonians," by the more rigid, as a mark of respect to the old country. But innovation has been at work even here, for the majority of Her Majesty's subjects aspirate the letter H. Alas for innovation! who knows to what results this trifling error may lead? When Mirabeau went to the French court without buckles in his shoes, the barriers of etiquette were broken down, and the Swiss Guards fought in vain. There is one virtue in humanity peculiarly grateful to an invalid; to him most valuable, by him most appreciated, namely, hospitality. And that the 'Alligonians are a kind and good people, abundant in hospitality, let me attest. One can scarcely visit a city occupied by those whose grandsires would have hung your rebel grandfathers (if they had caught them), without some misgivings. But I found the old Tory blood of three Halifax generations, yet warm and vital, happy to accept again a rebellious kinsman, a real live Yankee, in spite of Sam Slick and the Revolution. Let us take a stroll through these quiet streets. This is the Province House with its Ionic porch, and within it are the halls of Parliament, and offices of government. You see there is a red-coat with his sentry-box at either corner. Behind the house again are two other sentries on duty, all glittering with polished brass, and belted, gloved, and bayoneted, in splendid style. Of what use are these satellites, except to watch the building and keep it from running away? On the street behind the Province House is Fuller's American Book-store, which we will step into, and now among these books, fresh from the teeming presses of the States, we feel once more at home. Fuller preserves his equanimity in spite of the blandishments of royalty, and once a year, on the Fourth of July, hoists the "stars and stripes," and bravely takes dinner with the United States Consul, in the midst of lions and unicorns. Many pleasant hours I passed with Fuller, both in town and country. Near by, on the next corner, is the print-store of our old friends the Wetmores, and here one can see costly engravings of Landseer's fine pictures, and indeed whole portfolios of English art. But of all the pictures there was one, the most touching, the most suggestive! The presiding genius of the place, the unsceptred Queen of this little realm was before me--Faed's Evangeline! And this reminded me that I was in the Acadian land! This reminded me of Longfellow's beautiful pastoral, a poem that has spread a glory over Nova Scotia, a romantic interest, which our own land has not yet inspired! I knew that I was in Acadia; the historic scroll unrolled and stretched its long perspective to earlier days; it recalled De Monts, and the la Tours; Vice Admiral Destournelle, who ran upon his own sword, hard by, at Bedford Basin; and the brave Baron Castine. The largest settlement of the Acadians is in the neighborhood of Halifax. In the early mornings, you sometimes see a few of these people in the streets, or at the market, selling a dozen or so of fresh eggs, or a pair or two of woollen socks, almost the only articles of their simple commerce. But you must needs be early to see them; after eight o'clock, they will have all vanished. Chezzetcook, or, as it is pronounced by the 'Alligonians, "Chizzencook," is twenty-two miles from Halifax, and as the Acadian peasant has neither horse nor mule, he or she must be off betimes to reach home before mid-day nuncheon. A score of miles on foot is no trifle, in all weathers, but Gabriel and Evangeline perform it cheerfully; and when the knitting-needle and the poultry shall have replenished their slender stock, off again they will start on their midnight pilgrimage, that they may reach the great city of Halifax before day-break. We must see Chezzetcook anon, gentle reader. Let us visit the market-place. Here is Masaniello, with his fish in great profusion. Codfish, three-pence or four-pence each; lobsters, a penny; and salmon of immense size at six-pence a pound (currency), equal to a dime of our money. If you prefer trout, you must buy them of these Micmac squaws in traditional blankets, a shilling a bunch; and you may also buy baskets of rainbow tints from these copper ladies for a mere trifle; and as every race has a separate vocation here, only of the negroes can you purchase berries. "This is a busy town," one would say, drawing his conclusion from the market-place; for the shifting crowd, in all costumes and in all colors, Indians, negroes, soldiers, sailors, civilians, and Chizzincookers, make up a pageant of no little theatrical effect and bustle. Again: if you are still strong in limb, and ready for a longer walk, which I, leaning upon my staff, am not, we will visit the encampment at Point Pleasant. The Seventy-sixth Regiment has pitched its tents here among the evergreens. Yonder you see the soldiers, looking like masses of red fruit amidst the spicy verdure of the spruces. Row upon row of tents, and file upon file of men standing at ease, each one before his knapsack, his little leather household, with its shoes, socks, shirts, brushes, razors, and other furniture open for inspection. And there is Sir John Gaspard le Marchant, with a brilliant staff, engaged in the pleasant duty of picking a personal quarrel with each medal-decorated hero, and marking down every hole in his socks, and every gap in his comb, for the honor of the service. And this Point Pleasant is a lovely place, too, with a broad look-out in front, for yonder lies the blue harbor and the ocean deeps. Just back of the tents is the cookery of the camp, huge mounds of loose stones, with grooves at the top, very like the architecture of a cranberry-pie; and if the simile be an homely one, it is the best that comes to mind to convey an idea of those regimental stoves, with their seams and channels of fire, over which potatoes bubble, and roast and boiled scud forth a savory odor. And here and there, wistfully regarding this active scene, amid the green shrubbery, stands a sentinel before his sentry-box, built of spruce boughs, wrought into a mimic military temple, and fanciful enough, too, for a garden of roses. And look you now! If here be not Die Vernon, with "habit, hat, and feather," cantering gayly down the road between the tents, and behind her a stately groom in gold-lace band, top-boots, and buck-skins. A word in your ear--that pleasant half-English face is the face of the Governor's daughter. The road to Point Pleasant is a favorite promenade in the long Acadian twilights. Mid-way between the city and the Point lies "Kissing Bridge," which the Halifax maidens sometimes pass over. Who gathers toll nobody knows, but I thought there was a mischievous glance in the blue eyes of those passing damsels that said plainly they could tell, "an' they would." I love to look upon those happy, healthy English faces; those ruddy cheeks, flushed with exercise, and those well-developed forms, not less attractive because of the sober-colored dresses and brown flat hats, in which, o' summer evenings, they glide towards the mysterious precincts of "The Bridge." What a tale those old arches could tell? _¿Quien sabe?_ Who knows? But next to "Kissing Bridge," the prominent object of interest, now, to Halifax ladies, is the great steamer that lies at the Admiralty, the Oriental screw-steamer Himalaya--the transport ship of two regiments of the heroes of Balaklava, and Alma, and Inkerman, and Sebastopol. A vast specimen of naval architecture; an unusual sight in these waters; a marine vehicle to carry twenty-five hundred men! Think of this moving town; this portable village of royal belligerents covered with glory and medals, breasting the billows! Is there not something glorious in such a spectacle? And yet I was told by a brave officer, who wore the decorations of the four great battles on his breast, that of his regiment, the Sixty-third, but thirty men were now living, and of the thirty, seventeen only were able to attend drill. That regiment numbered a thousand at Alma! No gun broke the silence of the Sabbath morning, as the giant ship moved from the Admiralty, on the day following our visit to Point Pleasant, and silently furrowed her path oceanward on her return to Gibraltar. A long line of thick bituminous smoke, above the low house-tops, was the only hint of her departure, to the citizens. It was a grand sight to see her vast bulk moving among the islands in the harbor, almost as large as they. And now, being Sunday, after looking in at the Cathedral, which does not represent the usual pomp of the Romish Church, we will visit the Garrison Chapel. A bugle-call from barracks, or Citadel Hill, salutes us as we stroll towards the chapel; otherwise, Halifax is quiet, as becomes the day. Presently we see the long scarlet lines approaching, and presently the men, with orderly step, file from the street through the porch into the gallery and pews. Then the officers of field and line, of ordnance and commissary departments, take their allotted seats below. Then the chimes cease, and the service begins. Most devoutly we prayed for the Queen, and omitted the President of the United States. As the Crimeans ebbed from the church, and, floating off in the distance, wound slowly up Citadel Hill against the quiet clear summer sky, I could not but think of these lines from Thomas Miller's "Summer Morning:" "A troop of soldiers pass with stately pace, Their early music wakes the village street: Through yon turned blinds peeps many a lovely face, Smiling perchance unconsciously how sweet! One does the carpet press with blue-veined feet, Not thinking how her fair neck she exposes, But with white foot timing the drum's deep beat; And when again she on her pillow dozes, Dreams how she'll dance that tune 'mong summer's sweetest roses "So let her dream, even as beauty should! Let the while plumes athwart her slumbers away! Why should I steep their swaling snows in blood, Or bid her think of battle's grim array? Truth will too soon her blinding star display, And like a fearful comet meet her eyes. And yet how peaceful they pass on their way! How grand the sight as up the hill they rise! _I will not think of cities reddening in the skies._" It was my fate to see next day a great celebration. It was the celebration of peace between England and Russia. Peace having been proclaimed, all Halifax was in arms! Loyalty threw out her bunting to the breeze, and fired her crackers. The civic authorities presented an address to the royal representative of Her Majesty, requesting His Excellency to transmit the same to the foot of the throne. Militia-men shot off municipal cannon; bells echoed from the belfries; the shipping fluttered with signals; and Citadel Hill telegraph, in a multitude of flags, announced that ships, brigs, schooners, and steamers, in vast quantities, "were below." Nor was the peace alone the great feature of the holiday. The eighth of June, the natal day of Halifax, was to be celebrated also. For Halifax was founded, so says the Chronicle, on the eighth of June, 1749, by the Hon. Edward Cornwallis (not our Cornwallis), and the 'Alligonians in consequence made a specialty of that fact once a year. And to add to the attraction, the Board of Works had decided to lay the corner-stone of a Lunatic Asylum in the afternoon; so there was no end to the festivities. And, to crown all, an immense fog settled upon the city. Leaning upon my friend Robert's arm and my staff, I went forth to see the grand review. When we arrived upon the ground, in the rear of Citadel Hill, we saw the outline of something glimmering through the fog, which Robert said were shrubs, and which I said were soldiers. A few minutes' walking proved my position to be correct; we found ourselves in the centre of a three-sided square of three regiments, within which the civic authorities were loyally boring Sir John Gaspard le Merchant and staff, to the verge of insanity, with the Address which was to be laid at the foot of the throne. Notwithstanding the despairing air with which His Excellency essayed to reply to this formidable paper, I could not help enjoying the scene; and I also noted, when the reply was over, and the few ragamuffins near His Excellency cheered bravely, and the band struck up the national anthem, how gravely and discreetly the rest of the 'Alligonians, in the circumambient fog, echoed the sentiment by a silence, that, under other circumstances, would have been disheartening. What a quiet people it is! As I said before, to make the festivities complete, in the afternoon there was a procession to lay the corner-stone of a Lunatic Asylum. But oh! how the jolly old rain poured down upon the luckless pilgrimage! There were the "Virgins" of Masonic Lodge No.--, the Army Masons, in scarlet; the African Masons, in ivory and black; the Scotch-piper Mason, with his legs in enormous plaid trowsers, defiant of Shakspeare's theory about the sensitiveness of some men, when the bag-pipe sings i' the nose; the Clerical Mason in shovel hat; the municipal artillery; the Sons of Temperance, and the band. Away they marched, with drum and banner, key and compasses, BIBLE and sword, to Dartmouth, in great feather, for the eyes of Halifax were upon them. CHAPTER II. Fog clears Up--The One Idea not comprehended by the American Mind--A June Morning in the Province--The Beginning of the Evangeliad--Intuitive Perception of Genius--The Forest Primeval--Acadian Peasants--A Negro Settlement--Deer's Castle--The Road to Chezzetcook--Acadian Scenery--A Glance at the Early History of Acadia--First Encroachments of the English--The Harbor and Village of Chezzetcook--Etc., etc. The celebration being over, the fog cleared up. Loyalty furled her flags; the civic authorities were silent; the signal-telegraph was put upon short allowance. But the 'Alligonian papers next day were loaded to the muzzle with typographical missiles. From them we learned that there had been a great amount of enthusiasm displayed at the celebration, and "everything had passed off happily in spite of the weather." "Old Chebucto" was right side up, and then she quietly sparkled out again. There is one solitary idea, and only one, not comprehensible by the American mind. I say it feebly, but I say it fearlessly, there is an idea which does not present anything to the American mind but a blank. Every metaphysical dog has worried the life out of every abstraction but this. I strike my stick down, cross my hands, and rest my chin upon them, in support of my position. Let anybody attempt to controvert it! "I say, that in the American mind, there is no such thing as the conception even, of an idea of tranquillity!" I once for a little repose, went to a "quiet New-England village," as it was called, and the first thing that attracted my attention there was a statement in the village paper, that no less than twenty persons in that quiet place had obtained patent-rights for inventions and improvements during the past year. They had been at everything, from an apple-parer to a steam-engine. In the next column was an article "on capital punishment," and the leader was thoroughly fired up with a bran-new project for a railroad to the Pacific. That day I dined with a member of Congress, a peripatetic lecturer, and the principal citizens of the township, and took the return cars at night amid the glare of a torch-light procession. Repose, forsooth? Why, the great busy city seemed to sing lullaby, after the shock of that quiet New-England village. But in this quaint, mouldy old town, one _can_ get an idea of the calm and the tranquil--especially after a celebration. It has been said: "Halifax is the only place that is finished." One can readily believe it. The population has been twenty-five thousand for the last twenty-five years, and a new house is beyond the memory of the oldest inhabitant. The fog cleared up. And one of those inexpressibly balmy days followed. June in Halifax represents our early May. The trees are all in bud; the peas in the garden-beds are just marking the lines of drills with faint stripes of green. Here and there a solitary bird whets his bill on the bare bark of a forked bough. The chilly air has departed, and in its place is a sense of freshness, of dewiness, of fragrance and delight. A sense of these only, an instinctive feeling, that anticipates the odor of the rose before the rose is blown. On such a morning we went forth to visit Chezzetcook, and here, gentle reader, beginneth the Evangeliad. The intuitive perception of genius is its most striking element. I was told by a traveller and an artist, who had been for nearly twenty years on the northwest coast, that he had read Irving's "Astoria" as a mere romance, in early life, but when he visited the place itself, he found that _he was reading the book over again_; that Irving's descriptions were so minute and perfect, that he was at home in Astoria, and familiar, not only with the country, but with individuals residing there; "for," said he, "although many of the old explorers, trappers, and adventurers described in the book were dead and gone, yet I found the descendants of those pioneers had the peculiar characteristics of their fathers; and the daughter of Concomly, whom I met, was as interesting a historical personage at home as Queen Elizabeth would have been in Westminster Abbey. At Vancouver's Island," said the traveller, "I found an old dingy copy of the book itself, embroidered and seamed with interlineations and marginal notes of hundreds of pens, in every style of chirography, yet all attesting the faithfulness of the narrative. I would have given anything for that copy, but I do not believe I could have purchased it with the price of the whole island." What but that wonderful clement of genius, _intuitive perception_, could have produced such a book? Irving was never on the Columbia River, never saw the northwest coast. "The materials were furnished him from the log-books and journals of the explorers themselves," says Dr. Dryasdust. True, my learned friend, but suppose I furnish you with pallet and colors, with canvas and brushes, the materials of art, will you paint me as I sit here, and make a living, breathing picture, that will survive my ashes for centuries? "I have not the genius of the artist," replies Dr. Dryasdust. Then, my dear Doctor, we will put the materials aside for the present, and venture a little farther with our theory of "intuitive perception." Longfellow never saw the Acadian Land, and yet thus his pastoral begins: "This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks." This is the opening line of the poem: this is the striking feature of Nova Scotia scenery. The shores welcome us with waving masses of foliage, but not the foliage of familiar woods. As we travel on this hilly road to the Acadian settlement, we look up and say, "This is the forest primeval," but it is the forest of the poem, not that of our childhood. There is not, in all this vast greenwood, an oak, an elm, a chestnut, a beech, a cedar or maple. For miles and miles, we see nothing against the clear blue sky but the spiry tops of evergreens; or perhaps, a gigantic skeleton, "a rampike," pine or hemlock, scathed and spectral, stretches its gaunt outline above its fellows. Spruces and firs, such as adorn our gardens, cluster in never-ending profusion; and aromatic and unwonted odor pervades the air--the spicy breath of resinous balsams. Sometimes the sense is touched with a new fragrance, and presently we see a buckthorn, white with a thousand blossoms. These, however, only meet us at times. The distinct and characteristic feature of the forest is conveyed in that one line of the poet. And yet another feature of the forest primeval presents itself, not less striking and unfamiliar. From the dead branches of those skeleton pines and hemlocks, these _rampikes_, hang masses of white moss, snow-white, amid the dark verdure. An actor might wear such a beard in the play of King Lear. Acadian children wore such to imitate "_grandpère_," centuries ago; Cowley's trees are "Patricians," these are Patriarchs. ----"The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, _Bearded with moss_, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, _Stand like harpers hoar with beards that rest on their bosoms_." We are re-reading Evangeline line by line. And here, at this turn of the road, we encounter two Acadian peasants. The man wears an old tarpaulin hat, home-spun worsted shirt, and tarry canvas trowsers; innovation has certainly changed him, in costume at least, from the Acadian of our fancy; but the pretty brown-skinned girl beside him, with lustrous eyes, and soft black hair under her hood, with kirtle of antique form, and petticoat of holiday homespun, is true to tradition. There is nothing modern in the face or drapery of that figure. She might have stepped out of Normandy a century ago, "Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations." Alas! the ear-rings are worn out with age! but save them, the picture is very true to the life. As we salute the pair, we learn they have been walking on their way since dawn from distant Chezzetcook: the man speaks English with a strong French accent; the maiden only the language of her people on the banks of the Seine. "Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers, Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side: Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses." Who can help repeating the familiar words of the idyl amid such scenery, and in such a presence? "We are now approaching a Negro settlement," said my _compagnon de voyage_ after we had passed the Acadians; "and we will take a fresh horse at Deer's Castle; this is rough travelling." In a few minutes we saw a log house perched on a bare bone of granite that stood out on a ragged hill-side, and presently another cabin of the same kind came in view. Then other scare-crow edifices wheeled in sight as we drove along; all forlorn, all patched with mud, all perched on barren knolls, or gigantic bars of granite, high up, like ragged redoubts of poverty, armed at every window with a formidable artillery of old hats, rolls of rags, quilts, carpets, and indescribable bundles, or barricaded with boards to keep out the air and sunshine. "You do not mean to say those wretched hovels are occupied by living beings?" said I to my companion. "Oh yes," he replied, with a quiet smile, "these are your people, your _fugitives_." "But, surely," said I, "they do not live in those airy nests during your intensely cold winters?" "Yes," replied my companion, "and they have a pretty hard time of it. Between you and I," he continued, "they are a miserable set of devils; they won't work, and they shiver it out here as well as they can. During the most of the year they are in a state of abject want, and then they are very humble. But in the strawberry season they make a little money, and while it lasts are fat and saucy enough. We can't do anything with them, they won't work. There they are in their cabins, just as you see them, a poor, woe-begone set of vagabonds; a burden upon the community; of no use to themselves, nor to anybody else." "Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope, who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow, attend to the history of Rasselas, here in his happy valley." "Now then," said my companion, as this trite quotation was passing through my mind. The wagon had stopped in front of a little, weather-beaten house that kept watch and ward over an acre of greensward, broken ever and anon with a projecting bone of granite, and not only fenced with stone, but dotted also with various mounds of pebbles, some as large as a paving-stone, and some much larger. This was "Deer's Castle." In front of the castle was a swing-sign with an inscription: "William Deer, who lives here, Keeps the best of wine and beer, Brandy, and cider, and other good cheer; Fish, and ducks, and moose, and deer. Caught or shot in the woods just here, With cutlets, or steaks, as will appear; If you will stop you need not fear But you will be well treated by WILLIAM DEER, And by Mrs. DEER, his dearest, deary dear!" I quote from memory. The precise words have escaped me, but the above is the substance of the sense, and the metre is accurate. It was a little, weather-beaten shanty of boards, that clung like flakes to the frame-work. A show-box of a room, papered with select wood-cuts from _Punch_ and the _Illustrated London News_, was the grand banquet-hall of the castle. And indeed it was a castle compared with the wretched redoubts of poverty around it. Here we changed horses, or rather we exchanged our horse, for a diminutive, bantam pony, that, under the supervision of "Bill," was put inside the shafts and buckled up to the very roots of the harness. This Bill, the son and heir of the Castellen, was a good-natured yellow boy, about fifteen years of age, with such a development of under-lip and such a want of development elsewhere, that his head looked like a scoop. There was an infinite fund of humor in Billy, an uncontrollable sense of the comic, that would break out in spite of his grave endeavors to put himself under guard. It exhibited itself in his motions and gestures, in the flourish of his hands as he buckled up the pony, in the looseness of his gait, the swing of his head, and the roll of his eyes. His very language was pregnant with mirth; thus: "Bill!" "Cheh, cheh, sir? cheh." "Is your father at home?" "Cheh, cheh, father? cheh, cheh." "Yes, your father?" "Cheh, cheh, at home, sah? cheh." "Yes, is your father at home?" "I guess so, cheh, cheh." "What is the matter with you, Bill? what are you laughing about?" "Cheh, cheh, I don't know, sah, cheh, cheh." "Well, take out the horse, and put in the pony; we want to go to Chizzencook." "Cheh, Cheh'z'ncook? Yes, sah," and so with that facetious gait and droll twist of the elbow, Bill swings himself against the horse and unbuckles him in a perpetual jingle of merriment. "And this," said I to my companion, as we looked from the door-step of the shanty upon the spiry tops of evergreens in the valley below us, and at the wretched log-huts that were roosting up on the bare rocks around us, "this is the negro settlement?" "Yes," he replied. "Are all the negro settlements in Nova Scotia as miserable, as this?" "Yes," he answered; "you can tell a negro settlement at once by its appearance." "Then," I thought to myself, "I would, for poor Cuffee's sake, that much-vaunted British sympathy and British philanthropy had something better to show to an admiring world than the prospect around Deer's Castle." Notwithstanding the very generous banquet spread before the eyes of the traveller, on the sign-board, we were compelled to dismiss the pleasant fiction of the poet upon the announcement of Mrs. Deer, that "Nathin was in de house 'cept bacon," and she "reckoned" she "might have an egg or two by de time we got back from Chizzincook." "But you have plenty of trout here in these streams?" "Oh! yes, plenty, sah." "Then let Bill catch some trout for us." And so the pony being strapped up and buckled to the wagon, we left the negro settlement for the French settlement. They are all in "settlements," here, the people of this Province. Centuries are mutable, but prejudices never alter in the Colonies. But we are again in the Acadian forest--a truce to moralizing--let us enjoy the scenery. The road we are on is but a few miles from the sea-shore, but the ocean is hidden from view by the thick woods. As we ride along, however, we skirt the edges of coves and inlets that frequently break in upon the landscape. There is a chain of fresh-water lakes also along this road; sometimes we cross a bridge over a rushing torrent; sometimes a calm expanse of water, doubling the evergreens at its margin, comes in view; anon a gleam of sapphire strikes through the verdure, and an ocean-bay with its shingly beach curves in and out between the piny slopes. At last we reach the crest of a hill, and at the foot of the road is another bridge, a house, a wharf, and two or three coasters at anchor in a diminutive harbor. This is "Three Fathom Harbor." We are within a mile of Chezzetcook. Now if it were not for Pony we should press on to the settlement, but we must give Pony a respite. Pony is an enthusiastic little fellow, but his lungs are too much for him, they have blown him out like a bagpipe. A mile farther and then eleven miles back to Deer's Castle, is a great undertaking for so small an animal. In the meanwhile, we will ourselves rest and take some "home-brewed" with the landlord, who is harbor-master, inn-keeper, store-keeper, fisherman, shipper, skipper, mayor, and corporation of Three Fathom Harbor, beside being father of the town, for all the children in it are his own. A draught of foaming ale, a whiff or two from a clay pipe, a look out of the window to be assured that Pony had subsided, and we take leave of the corporate authority of Three Fathom Harbor, and are once more on the road. One can scarcely draw near to a settlement of these poor refugees without a feeling of pity for the sufferings they have endured; and this spark of pity quickly warms and kindles into indignation when we think of the story of hapless Acadia--the grievous wrong done those simple-minded, harmless, honest people, by the rapacious, free-booting adventurers of merry England, and those precious filibusters, our Pilgrim Fathers. The early explorations of the French in the young hemisphere which Columbus had revealed to the older half of the world, have been almost entirely obscured by the greater events which followed. Nearly a century after the first colonies were established in New France, New England was discovered. I shall not dwell upon the importance of this event, as it has been so often alluded to by historians and others; and, indeed, I believe it is generally acknowledged now, that the finding of the continent itself would have been a failure had it not been for the discovery of Massachusetts. As this, however, happened long after the establishment of Acadia, and as the Pilgrim Fathers did not interfere with their French neighbors for a surprising length of time, it will be as well not to expatiate upon it at present. In the course of a couple of centuries or so, I shall have occasion to allude to it, in connection with the story of the neutral French. In the year 1504, says the Chronicle, some fishermen from Brittany discovered the island that now forms the eastern division of Nova Scotia, and named it "Cape Breton." Two years after, Dennys of Harfleur, made a rude chart of the vast sheet of water that stretches from Cape Breton and Newfoundland to the mainland. In 1534, Cartier, sailing under the orders of the French Admiral, Chabot, visited the coast of Newfoundland, crossed the gulf Dennys had seen and described twenty-eight years before, and took possession of the country around it, in the name of the king, his master. As Cartier was recrossing the Gulf, on his return voyage, he named the waters he was sailing upon "St. Lawrence," in honor of that saint whose day chanced to turn up on the calendar at that very happy time. According to some accounts, Baron de Lery established a settlement here as early as 1518. Some authorities state that a French colony was planted on the St. Lawrence as early as 1524, and soon after others were formed in Canada and Nova Scotia. In 1535, Cartier again crossed the waters of the Gulf, and following the course of the river, penetrated into the interior until he reached an island upon which was a hill; this he named "_Mont Real_." Various adventurers followed these first discoverers and explorers, and the coast was from time to time visited by French ships, in pursuit of the fisheries. Among these expeditions, one of the most eminent was that of Champlain, who, in the year 1609, penetrated as far south as the head waters of the Hudson River; visited Lake George and the cascades of Ticonderoga; and gave his own name to the lake which lies between the proud shores of New York and New England. Thence le Sr. Champlain, "_Capitaine pour le Roy_," travelled westward, as far as the country of the Hurons, giving to the discovered territory the title of Nouvelle France; and to the lakes Ontario, Erie, and Huron, the names of St. Louis, Mer Douce, and Grand Lac; which any person can see by referring to the original chart in the State library of New York. But before these discoveries of Champlain, an important step had been taken by the parent government. In the year 1603, an expedition, under the patronage of Henry IV., sailed for the New World. The leader of this was a Protestant gentleman, by name De Monts. As the people under his command were both Protestants and Catholics, De Monts had permission given in his charter to establish, as one of the fundamental laws of the Colony, the free exercise of "religious worship," upon condition of settling in the country, and teaching the Roman Catholic faith to the savages. Heretofore, all the countries discovered by the French had been called New France, but in De Monts' Patent, that portion of the territory lying east of the Penobscot and embracing the present provinces of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and part of Maine was named "Acadia." The little colony under De Monts flourished in spite of the rigors of the climate, and its commander, with a few men, explored the coast on the St. Lawrence and the bay of Fundy, as well as the rivers of Maine, the Penobscot, the Kennebec, the Saco and Casco Bay, and even coasted as far south as the long, hook-shaped cape that is now known in all parts of the world as the famous Cape Cod. In a few years, the settlement began to assume a smiling aspect; houses were erected, and lands were tilled; the settlers planted seeds and gathered the increase thereof; gardens sprang out of the wilderness, peace and order reigned everywhere, and the savage tribes around viewed the kind, light-hearted colonists with admiration and fraternal good-will. It is pleasant to read this part of the chronicle--of their social meetings in the winter at the banqueting hall; of the order of "_Le Bon Temps_," established by Champlain; of the great pomp and insignia of office (a collar, a napkin, and staff) of the grand chamberlain, whose government only lasted for a day, when he was supplanted by another; of their dinners in the sunshine amid the corn-fields; of their boats, banners, and music on the water; of their gentleness, simplicity, and honest, hearty enjoyments. These halcyon days soon came to an end. The infamous Captain Argall, hearing that a number of white people had settled in this hyperborean region, set sail from Jamestown for the colony, in a ship of fourteen guns, in the midst of a profound peace, to burn, pillage, and slaughter the intruders upon the territory of Virginia! Finding the people unprepared for defence, his enterprise was successful. Argall took possession of the lands, in the name of the King of England, laid waste some of the settlements, burned the forts, and, under circumstances of peculiar perfidy, induced a number of the poor Acadians to go with him to Jamestown. Here they were treated as pirates, thrown into prison, and sentenced to be executed. Argall, who it seems had some touch of manhood in his nature, upon this confessed to the Governor, Sir Thomas Dale, that these people had a patent from the King of France, which he had stolen from them and concealed, and that they were not pirates, but simply colonists. Upon this, Sir Thomas Dale was induced to fit out an expedition to dislodge the rest of them from Acadia. Three ships were got ready, the brave Captain Argall was appointed Commander-in-chief, and the first colony was terminated by fire and sword before the end of the year. This was in 1613, ten years after the first planting of Acadia. "Some of the settlers," says the Chronicle, "finding resistance to be unavailing, fled to the woods." What became of them history does not inform us, but with a graceful appearance of candor, relates that the transaction itself "was not approved of by the court of England, nor resented by that of France." Five years afterward we find Captain Argall appointed Deputy-Governor of Virginia. This outrage was the initial letter only of a series that for nearly a century and a half after, made the successive colonists of Acadia the prey of their rapacious neighbors. We shall take up the story from time to time, gentle reader, as we voyage around and through the province. Meanwhile let us open our eyes again upon the present, for just below us lies the village and harbor of Chezzetcook. A conspiracy of earth and air and ocean had certainly broken out that morning, for the ominous lines of Fog and Mist were hovering afar off upon the boundaries of the horizon. Under the crystalline azure of a summer sky, the water of the harbor had an intensity of color rarely seen, except in the pictures of the most ultra-marine painters. Here and there a green island or a fishing-boat rested upon the surface of the tranquil blue. For miles and miles the eye followed indented grassy slopes, that rolled away on either side of the harbor, and the most delicate pencil could scarcely portray the exquisite line of creamy sand that skirted their edges and melted off in the clear margin of the water. Occasional little cottages nestle among these green banks, not the Acadian houses of the poem, "with thatched roofs, and dormer windows projecting," but comfortable, homely-looking buildings of modern shapes, shingled and un-weather-cocked. No cattle visible, no ploughs nor horses. Some of the men are at work in the open air; all in tarpaulin hats, all in tarry canvas trowsers. These are boat-builders and coopers. Simple, honest, and good-tempered enough; you see how courteously they salute us as we ride by them. In front of every house there is a knot of curious little faces; Young Acadia is out this bright day, and although Young Acadia has not a clean face on, yet its hair is of the darkest and softest, and its eyes are lustrous and most delicately fringed. Yonder is one of the veterans of the place, so we will tie Pony to the fence, and rest here. "Fine day you have here," said my companion. "Oh yes! oh yes!" (with great deference and politeness). "Can you give us anything in the way of refreshment? a glass of ale, or a glass of milk?" "Oh no!" (with the unmistakable shrug of the shoulders); "we no have milk, no have ale, no have brandy, no have noting here: ah! we very poor peep' here." (Poor people here.) "Can we sit down and rest in one of your houses?" "Oh yes! oh yes!" (with great politeness and alacrity); "walk in, walk in; we very poor peep', no milk, no brandy: walk in." The little house is divided by a partition. The larger half is the hall, the parlor, kitchen, and nursery in one. A huge fire-place, an antique spinning-wheel, a bench, and two settles, or high-backed seats, a table, a cradle and a baby very wide awake, complete the inventory. In the apartment adjoining is a bin that represents, no doubt, a French bedstead of the early ages. Everything is suggestive of boat-builders, of Robinson Crusoe work, of undisciplined hands, that have had to do with ineffectual tools. As you look at the walls, you see the house is built of timbers, squared and notched together, and caulked with moss or oakum. "Very poor peep' here," says the old man, with every finger on his hands stretched out to deprecate the fact. By the fire-side sits an old woman, in a face all cracked and seamed with wrinkles, like a picture by one of the old masters. "Yes," she echoes, "very poor peep' here, and very cold, too, sometime." By this time the door-way is entirely packed with little, black, shining heads, and curious faces, all shy, timid, and yet not the less good-natured. Just back of the cradle are two of the Acadian women, "knitters i' the sun," with features that might serve for Palmer's sculptures; and eyes so lustrous, and teeth so white, and cheeks so rich with brown and blush, that if one were a painter and not an invalid, he might pray for canvas and pallet as the very things most wanted in the critical moment of his life. Faed's picture does not convey the Acadian face. The mouth and chin are more delicate in the real than in the ideal Evangeline. If you look again, after the first surprise is over, you will see that these are the traditional pictures, such as we might have fancied they should be, after reading the idyl. From the forehead of each you see at a glance how the dark mass of hair has been combed forward and over the face, that the little triangular Norman cap might be tied across the crown of the head. Then the hair is thrown back again over this, so as to form a large bow in front, then re-tied at the crown with colored ribbons. Then you see it has been plaited in a shining mesh, brought forward again, and braided with ribbons, so that it forms, as it were, a pretty coronet, well-placed above those brilliant eyes and harmonious features. This, with the antique kirtle and picturesque petticoat, is an Acadian portrait. Such is it now, and such it was, no doubt, when De Monts sailed from Havre de Grace, two centuries and a half ago. In visiting this kind and simple people, one can scarcely forget the little chapel. The young French priest was in his garden, behind the little tenement, set apart for him by the piety of his flock, and readily admitted us. A small place indeed was it, but clean and orderly, the altar decorated with toy images, that were not too large for a Christmas table. Yet I have been in the grandest tabernacles of episcopacy with lesser feelings of respect than those which were awakened in that tiny Acadian chapel. Peace be with it, and with its gentle flock. "Pony is getting impatient," said my companion, as we reverently stepped from the door-way, "and it is a long ride to Halifax." So, with courteous salutation on both sides, we take leave of the good father, and once more are on the road to Deer's Castle. CHAPTER III. A Romp at Three Fathom Harbor--The Moral Condition of the Acadians--The Wild Flowers of Nova Scotia--Mrs. Deer's Wit--No Fish--Picton--The Balaklava Schooner--And a Voyage to Louisburgh. Pony is very enterprising. We are soon at the top of the first long hill, and look again, for the last time, upon the Acadian village. How cosily and quietly it is nestled down amid those graceful green slopes! What a bit of poetry it is in itself! Jog on, Pony! The corporate authority of Three Fathom Harbor has been improving his time during our absence. As we drive up we find him in high romp with a brace of buxom, red-cheeked, Nova Scotia girls, who have just alighted from a wagon. The landlady of Three Fathom Harbor, in her matronly cap, is smiling over the little garden gate at her lord, who is pursuing his Daphnes, and catching, and kissing, and hugging, first one and then the other, to his heart's content. Notwithstanding their screams, and slaps, and robust struggles, it is very plain to be seen that the skipper's attentions are not very unwelcome. Leaving his fair friends, he catches Pony by the bridle and stops us with a hospitable--"Come in--you must come in; just a glass of ale, you'll want it;" and sure enough, we found when we came to taste the ale, that we did want it, and many thanks to him, the kind-hearted landlord of the Three Fathoms. "It is surprising," said I to my companion, as we rolled again over the road, "that these people, these Acadians, should still preserve their language and customs, so near to your principal city, and yet with no more affiliation than if they were on an island in the South Seas!" "The reason of that," he replied, "is because they stick to their own settlement; never see anything of the world except Halifax early in the morning; never marry out of their own set; never read--I do not believe one of them can read or write--and are in fact _so slow_, so destitute of enterprise, so much behind the age"---- I could not avoid smiling. My companion observed it. "What are you thinking about?" said he. The truth is, I was thinking of Halifax, which was anything but a _fast_ place; but I simply observed: "Your settlements here are somewhat novel to a stranger. That a mere handful of men should be so near your city, and yet so isolated: that this village of a few hundred only, should retain its customs and language, intact, for generation after generation, within walking distance of Halifax, seems to me unaccountable. But let me ask you," I continued, "what is the moral condition of the Acadians?" "As for that," said he, "I believe it stands pretty fair. I do not think an Acadian would cheat, lie, or steal; I know that the women are virtuous, and if I had a thousand pounds in my pocket I could sleep with confidence in any of their houses, although all the doors were unlocked and everybody in the village knew it." "That," said I, "reminds one of the poem: 'Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows, But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.'" Poor exiles! You will never see the Gasperau and the shore of the Basin of Minas, but if this very feeble life I have holds out, I hope to visit Grandpré and the broad meadows that gave a name to the village. One thing Longfellow has certainly omitted in "Evangeline"--the wild flowers of Acadia. The roadside is all fringed and tasselled with white, pink, and purple. The wild strawberries are in blossom, whitening the turf all the way from Halifax to Chezzetcook. You see their starry settlements thick in every bit of turf. These are the silver mines of poor Cuffee; he has the monopoly of the berry trade. It is his only revenue. Then in the swampy grounds there are long green needles in solitary groups, surmounted with snowy tufts; and here and there, clusters of light purple blossoms, called laurel flowers, but not like our laurels, spring up from the bases of grey rocks and boulders; sometimes a rich array of blood-red berries gleams out of a mass of greenery; then again great floral white radii, tipped with snowy petals, rise up profuse and lofty; down by the ditches hundreds of pitcher plants lift their veined and mottled vases, brimming with water, to the wood-birds who drink and perch upon their thick rims; May-flowers of delightful fragrance hide beneath those shining, tropical-looking leaves, and meadow-sweet, not less fragrant, but less beautiful, pours its tender aroma into the fresh air; here again we see the buckthorn in blossom; there, scattered on the turf, the scarlet partridge berry; then wild-cherry trees, mere shrubs only, in full bud; and around all and above all, the evergreens, the murmuring pines, and the hemlocks; the rampikes--the grey-beards of the primeval forest; the spicy breath of resinous balsams; the spiry tops, and the serene heaven. Is this fairy land? No, it is only poor, old, barren Nova Scotia, and yet I think Felix, Prince of Salerno, if he were here, might say, and say truly too, "In all my life I never beheld a more enchanting place;" but Felix, Prince of Salerno, must remember this is the month of June, and summer is not perpetual in the latitude of forty-five. We reach at last Deer's Castle. Pony, under the hands of Bill, seems remarkably cheerful and fresh after his long travel up hill and down. When he pops out of his harness, with his knock-knees and sturdy, stocky little frame, he looks very like an animated saw-buck, clothed in seal-skin; and with a jump, and snort, and flourish of tail, he escorts Bill to the stable, as if twenty miles over a rough road was a trifle not worth consideration. A savory odor of frying bacon and eggs stole forth from the door as we sat, in the calm summer air, upon the stone fence. William Deer, Jr., was wandering about in front of the castle, endeavoring to get control of his under lip and keep his exuberant mirth within the limits of decorum; but every instant, to use a military figure, it would flash in the pan. Up on the bare rocks were the wretched, woe-begone, patched, and ragged log huts of poor Cuffee. The hour and the season were suggestive of philosophizing, of theories, and questions. "Mrs. Deer," said I, "is that your husband's portrait on the back of the sign?" (there was a picture of a stag with antlers on the reverse of the poetical swing-board, either intended as a pictographic pun upon the name of "Deer," or as a hint to sportsmen of good game hereabouts). "Why," replied Mrs. Deer, an old tidy wench, of fifty, pretty well bent by rheumatism, and so square in the lower half of her figure, and so spare in the upper, that she appeared to have been carved out of her own hips: "why, as to dat, he ain't good-looking to brag on, but I don't think he looks quite like a beast neither." At this unexpected retort, Bill flashed off so many pans at once that he seemed to be a platoon of militia. My companion also enjoyed it immensely. Being an invalid, I could not participate in the general mirth. "Mrs. Deer," said I, "how long have you lived here?" "Oh, sah! a good many years; I cum here afore I had Bill dar." (Here William flashed in the pan twice.) "Where did you reside before you came to Nova Scotia?" "Sah?" "Where did you live?" "Oh, sah! I is from Maryland." (William at it again.) "Did you run away?" "Yes, sah; I left when I was young. Bill, what you laughing at? _I_ was young once." "Were you married then--when you run away?" "Oh yes, sah!" (a glance at Bill, who was off again). "And left your husband behind in Maryland?" "Yes, sah; but he didn't stay long dar after I left. He was after me putty sharp, soon as I travelled;" (here Mrs. Deer and William interchanged glances, and indulged freely in mirth). "And which place do you like the best--this or Maryland?" "Why, I never had no such work to do at home as I have to do here, grubbin' up old stumps and stones; dem isn't women's work. When I was home, I had only to wait on misses, and work was light and easy." (William quiet.) "But which place do you like the best--Nova Scotia or Maryland?" "Oh! de work here is awful, grubbin' up old stones and stumps; 'tain't fit for women." (William much impressed with the cogency of this repetition.) "But which place do you like the best?" "And de winter here, oh! it's wonderful tryin." (William utters an affirmative flash.) "But which place do you like the best?" "And den dere's de rheumatiz." "But which place do you like the best, Mrs. Deer?" "Well," said Mrs. Deer, glancing at Bill, "I like Nova Scotia best." (Whatever visions of Maryland were gleaming in William's mind, seemed to be entirely quenched by this remark.) "But why," said I, "do you prefer Nova Scotia to Maryland? Here you have to work so much harder, to suffer so much from the cold and the rheumatism, and get so little for it;" for I could not help looking over the green patch of stony grass that has been rescued by the labor of a quarter century. "Oh!" replied Mrs. Deer, "de difference is, dat when I work here, I work for myself, and when I was working at home, I was working for other people." (At this, William broke forth again in such a series of platoon flashes, that we all joined in with infinite merriment.) "Mrs. Deer," said I, recovering my gravity, "I want to ask you one more question." "Well, sah," said the lady Deer, cocking her head on one side, expressive of being able to answer any number of questions in a twinkling. "You have, no doubt, still many relatives left in Maryland?" "Oh! yes," replied Mrs. Deer, "_all_ of dem are dar." "And suppose you had a chance to advise them in regard to this matter, would you tell them to run away, and take their part with you in Nova Scotia, or would you advise them to stay where they are?" Mrs. Deer, at this, looked a long time at William, and William looked earnestly at his parent. Then she cocked her head on the other side, to take a new view of the question. Then she gathered up mouth and eyebrows, in a puzzle, and again broadened out upon Bill in an odd kind of smile; at last she doubled up one fist, put it against her cheek, glanced at Bill, and out came the answer: "Well, sah, I'd let 'em take dere _own_ heads for dat!" I must confess the philosophy of this remark awakened in me a train of very grave reflections; but my companion burst into a most obstreperous laugh. As for Mrs. Deer, she shook her old hips as long as she could stand, and then sat down and continued, until she wiped the tears out of her eyes with the corner of her apron. William cast himself down upon a strawberry bank, and gave way to the most flagrant mirth, kicking up his old shoes in the air, and fairly wallowing in laughter and blossoms. I endeavored to change the subject. "Bill, did you catch any trout?" It was some time before William could control himself enough to say, "Not a single one, sah;" and then he rolled over on his back, put his black paws up to his eyes, and twitched and jingled to his heart's content. I did not ask Mrs. Deer any more questions; but there is a moral in the story, enough for a day. As we rattled over the road, after our brief dinner at Deer's Castle, I could not avoid a pervading feeling of gloom and disappointment, in spite of the balmy air and pretty landscape. The old ragged abodes of wretchedness seemed to be too clearly defined--to stand out too intrusively against the bright blue sky. But why should I feel so much for Cuffee? Has he not enlisted in his behalf every philanthropist in England? Is he not within ten miles of either the British flag or Acadia? Does not the Duchess of Sutherland entertain the authoress of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and the Black Swan? Why should I sorrow for Cuffee, when he is in the midst of his best friends? Why should I pretend to say that this appears to be the raggedest, the meanest, the worst condition of humanity, when the papers are constantly lauding British philanthropy, and holding it up as a great example, which we must "bow down and worship?" For my own part, although the pleasant fiction of seeing Cuffee clothed, educated, and Christianized, seemed to be somewhat obscured in this glimpse of his real condition, yet I hope he will do well under his new owners; at the very least, I trust his berry crop will be good, and that a benevolent British blanket or two may enable him to shiver out the winter safely, if not comfortably. Poor William Deer, Sen'r, of Deer's Castle, was suffering with rheumatism in the next apartment, while we were at his eggs and bacon in the banquet hall; but Deer of Deer's Castle is a prince to his neighbors. I shall not easily forget the brightening eye, the swift glance of intelligence in the face of another old negro, an hostler, in Nova Scotia. He was from Virginia, and adopting the sweet, mellifluous language of his own home, I asked him whether he liked best to stay where he was, or go back to "Old Virginny?" "O massa!" said he, with _such_ a look, "you _must know_ dat I has de warmest side for my own country!" We rattled soberly into Dartmouth, and took the ferry-boat across the bay to the city. At the hotel there was no little questioning about Chezzetcook, for some of the Halifax merchants are at the Waverley. "GOED bless ye, what took ye to Chizzencook?" said one, "I never was there een in my life; ther's no bizz'ness ther, noathing to be seen: ai doant think there is a maen in Halifax scairsly, 'as ever seen the place." At the supper-table, while we were discussing, over the cheese and ale, the Chezzetcook and negro settlements, and exhibiting with no little vainglory a gorgeous bunch of wild flowers (half of which vanity my _compagnon de voyage_ is accountable for), there was a young English-Irish gentleman, well built, well featured, well educated: by name--I shall call him Picton. Picton took much interest in Deer's Castle and Chezzetcook, but slily and satirically. I do not think this the best way for a young man to begin with; but nevertheless, Picton managed so well to keep his sarcasms within the bounds of good humor, that before eleven o'clock we had become pretty well acquainted. At eleven o'clock the gas is turned off at Hotel Waverley. We went to bed, and renewed the acquaintance at breakfast. Picton had travelled overland from Montreal to take the "Canada" for Liverpool, and had arrived too late. Picton had nearly a fortnight before him in which to anticipate the next steamer. Picton was terribly bored with Halifax. Picton wanted to go somewhere--where?--"he did not care where." The consequence was a consultation upon the best disposal of a fortnight of waste time, a general survey of the maritime craft of Halifax, the selection of the schooner "Balaklava," bound for Sydney in ballast, and an understanding with the captain, that the old French town of Louisburgh was the point we wished to arrive at, into which harbor we expected to be put safely--three hundred and odd miles from Halifax, and this side of Sydney about sixty-two miles by sea. To all this did captain Capstan "seriously incline," and the result was, two berths in the "Balaklava," several cans of preserved meats and soups, a hamper of ale, two bottles of Scotch whisky, a ramshackle, Halifax van for the luggage, a general shaking of hands at departure, and another set of white sails among the many white sails in the blue harbor of Chebucto. The "Balaklava" glimmered out of the harbor. Slowly and gently we swept past the islands and great ships; there on the shore is Point Pleasant in full uniform, its red soldiers and yellow tents in the thick of the pines and spruces; yonder is the admiralty, and the "Boscawen" seventy-four, the receiving-ship, a French war-steamer, and merchantmen of all flags. Slowly and gently we swept out past the round fort and long barracks, past the lighthouse and beaches, out upon the tranquil ocean, with its ominous fog-banks on the skirts of the horizon; out upon the evening sea, with the summer air fanning our faces, and a large white Acadian moon, faintly defined overhead. Picton was a traveller; anybody could see that he was a traveller, and if he had then been in any part of the habitable globe, in Scotland or Tartary, Peru or Pennsylvania, there would not have been the least doubt about the fact that he was a traveller travelling on his travels. He looked like a traveller, and was dressed like a traveller. He had a travelling-cap, a travelling-coat, a portable-desk, a life-preserver, a water-proof blanket, a travelling-shirt, a travelling green leather satchel strapped across his shoulder, a Minié-rifle, several trunks adorned with geographical railway labels of all colors and languages, cork-soled boots, a pocket-compass, and a hand-organ. As for the hand-organ, that was an accident in his outfit. The hand-organ was a present for a little boy on the other side of the ocean; but nevertheless, it played its part very pleasantly in the cabin of the "Balaklava." And now let me observe here, that when we left Halifax in the schooner, I was scarcely less feeble than when I left New York. I mention it to show how speedily "roughing it" on the salt water will bring one's stomach to its senses. The "Balaklava" was a fore-and-aft schooner in ballast, and very little ballast at that; easily handled; painted black outside, and pink inside; as staunch a craft as ever shook sail; very obedient to the rudder; of some seventy or eighty tons burden; clean and neat everywhere, except in the cabin. As for her commander, he was a fine gentleman; true, honest, brave, modest, prudent and courteous. Sincerely polite, for if politeness be only kindness mixed with refinement, then Captain Capstan was polite, as we understand it. The mate of the schooner was a cannie Scot; by name, Robert, Fitzjames, Buchanan, Wallace, Burns, Bruce; and Bruce was as jolly a first-mate as ever sailed under the cross-bones of the British flag. The crew was composed of four Newfoundland sailor men; and the cook, whose h'eighth letter of the h'alphabet smacked somewhat strongly of H'albion. As for the rest, there was Mrs. Captain Capstan, Captain and Mrs. Captain Capstan's baby; Picton and myself. It is cruel to speak of a baby, except in terms of endearment and affection, and therefore I could not but condemn Picton, who would sometimes, in his position as a traveller, allude to baby in language of most emphatic character. The fact is, Picton _swore_ at that baby! Baby was in feeble health and would sometimes bewail its fate as if the cabin of the "Balaklava" were four times the size of baby's misfortunes. So Picton got to be very nervous and uncharitable, and slept on deck after the first night. "How do you like this?" said Picton, as we leaned over the side of the "Balaklava," looking down at the millions of gelatinous quarls in the clear waters. "Oh! very much; this lazy life will soon bring me up; how exhilarating the air is--how fresh and free! "'A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep.'" Just then the schooner gave a lurch and shook her feathers alow and aloft by way of chorus. "I like this kind of life very much; how gracefully this vessel moves; what a beautiful union of strength, proportion, lightness, in the taper masts, the slender ropes and stays, the full spread and sweep of her sails! Then how expansive the view, the calm ocean in its solitude, the receding land, the twinkling lighthouse, the"---- "Ever been sea-sick?" said Picton, drily. "Not often. By the way, my appetite is improving; I think Cookey is getting tea ready, by the smoke and the smell." "Likely," replied Picton; "let us take a squint at the galley." To the galley we went, where we saw Cookey in great distress; for the wind would blow in at the wrong end of his stove-pipe, so as to reverse the draft, and his stove was smoking at every seam. Poor Cookey's eyes were full of tears. "Why don't you turn the elbow of the pipe the other way?" said Picton. "Hi av tried that," said Cookey, "but the helbow is so 'eavy the 'ole thing comes h'off." "Then, take off the elbow," said Picton. So Cookey did, and very soon tea was ready. Imagine a cabin, not much larger than a good-sized omnibus, and far less steady in its motion, choked up with trunks, and a table about the size of a wash-stand; imagine two stools and a locker to sit on: a canvas table-cloth in full blotch; three chipped yellow mugs by way of cups; as many plates, but of great variety of gap, crack, and pattern; pewter spoons; a blacking-bottle of milk; an earthen piggin of brown sugar, embroidered with a lively gang of great, fat, black pismires; hard bread, old as Nineveh; and butter of a most forbidding aspect. Imagine this array set before an invalid, with an appetite of the most Miss Nancyish kind! "One misses the comforts here at sea," said the captain's lady, a pretty young woman, with a sweet Milesian accent. "Yes, ma'am," said I, glancing again at the banquet. "I don't rightly know," she continued, "how I forgot the rocking-chair;" and she gave baby an affectionate squeeze. "And that," said the captain, "is as bad as me forgetting the potatoes." Pic and I sat down, but we could neither eat nor drink; we were very soon on deck again, sucking away dolefully at two precious cigars. At last he broke out: "By gad, to think of it!" "What is the matter?" said I. "Not a potato on board the 'Balaklava!'" So we pulled away dolefully at our segars, in solemn silence. "Picton," said I, "did you ever hear 'Annie Laurie?'" "Yes," replied Picton, "about as many times as I want to hear it." "Don't be impolite, Picton," said I; "it is not my intention to sing it this evening. Indeed, I never heard it before I heard it in Halifax. I had the good fortune to make one of a very pleasant company, at the house of an old friend in the city, and I must say that song touched me, both the song and the _singing_ of it. You know it was _the_ song in the Crimea?" "Yes," said Picton, smoking vigorously. "I asked Major ----," said I, "if 'Annie Laurie' was sung by the soldiers in the Crimea; and he replied 'they did not sing anything else; they sang it,' said he, 'by thousands at a time.' How does it go, Picton? Come now!" So Picton held forth under the moon, and sang "Annie Laurie" on the "Balaklava." And long after we turned in, the music kept singing on-- "Her voice is low and sweet, And she's all the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and dee." CHAPTER IV. The Voyage of the "Balaklava"--Something of a Fog--A Novel Sensation--Picton bursts out--"Nothing to do"--Breakfast under Way--A Phantom Boat--Mackerel--Gone, Hook and Line--The Colonists--Sectionalism and Prejudices--Cod-fishing and an Unexpected Banquet--Past the Old French Town--A Pretty Respectable Breeze--We get past the Rocks--Louisburgh. "Picton!" "Hallo!" replied the traveller, sitting up on his locker; "what is the matter now?" "Nothing, only it is morning; let us get up, I want to see the sun rise out of the ocean." "Pooh!" replied Picton, "what do you want to be bothering with the sun for?" And again Picton rolled himself up in his sheet-rubber travelling-blanket, and stretched his long body out on the locker. I got up, or rather got down, from my berth, and casting a bucket over the schooner's side soon made a sea-water toilet. I forgot to mention the sleeping arrangements of the "Balaklava." There were two lower berths on one side the cabin, either of which was large enough for two persons; and two single upper berths on the other side, neither of which was large enough for one person. At the proper hour for retiring, the captain's lady shut the cabin-door to keep out intruders, deliberately arrayed herself in dimity, turned in with baby in one of the large berths, and reöpened the door. There she lay, wide awake, with her bright eyes twinkling within the folds of her night cap, unaffected, chatty, and agreeable; then the captain divested himself of boots and pea-jacket and turned in beside his lady (the mate slept, when off his watch, in the other double berth). Picton rolled himself up in his blanket and stretched out on his locker; I climbed into the narrow coop, over the salt beef and hard biscuit department; and so we dozed and talked until sleep reigned over all. In the morning the ceremonies were reversed, with the exception of the Captain, who was up first. "I never see a man sleep so little as the captain," said Bruce; "about two hoors, an' that's aw." The sun was already risen when I came out on the deck of the "Balaklava;" but where _was_ the sun? Indeed, where was the ocean, or anything? The schooner was barely making steerage-way, with a light head-wind, over a small patch of water, not much larger apparently than the schooner herself. The air was filled with a luminous haze that appeared to be penetrable by the eye, and yet was not; that seemed at once open and dense; near yet afar off; close yet diffuse; contracted yet boundless. There was no light nor shade, no outline, distance, aërial perspective. There was no east and west, nor blushing Aurora, rising from old Tithonus' bed; nor blue sky, nor green sea, nor ship, nor shore, nor color, tint, hue, ray, or reflection. There was nothing visible except the sides of the vessel, a maze of dripping rigging, two sailors bristling with drops, and the captain in a shiny sou-wester. The feeling of seclusion and security was complete, although we might have been run down by another vessel at any moment; the air was deliciously bland, invigorating, and pregnant with life; to breathe it was a transport; you felt it in every globule of blood, in every pore of the lungs. I could have hugged that fog, I was so happy! Up and down the rolling deck I marched, and with every inspiration of the moist air, felt the old, tiresome, lingering sickness floating away. Then I was startled with a new sensation, I began to get hungry! It was between four and five o'clock in the morning, and the "Balaklava" did not breakfast until eight. Reader, were you ever hungry _at sea_? Were you ever on deck, upon the measureless ocean, four hours earlier than the ring of the breakfast-bell? Were you ever awake on the briny deep, in advance, when the cook had yet two hours to sleep; when the stove in the galley was cold, and the kindling-wood unsplit; the coffee still in its tender, green, unroasted innocence? Were you ever upon "the blue, the fresh, the ever free," under these circumstances? If so, I need not say to _you_ that the sentiment, then and there awakened, is stronger than avarice, pride, ambition or, love. Presently Picton burst out like a flower on deck, in a mass of over-coats, with an India-rubber mackintosh by way of calyx. These were his night-clothes. Picton could do nothing except in full costume; he could not fish, in ever so small a stream, without being booted to the hips; nor shoot, in ever so good a cover, without being jacketed above the hips. He shaved himself in front of a silver-mounted dressing-case, wrote his letters on a portable secretary, drew off his boots with a patent boot-jack, brewed his punch with a peripatetic kettle, and in fact carried a little London with him in every quarter of the globe. "Well," said Picton, looking around at the fog with a low and expressive whistle, "this _is_ serene!" Although Picton used the word "serene" ironically, just as a man riding in an omnibus and suddenly discovering that he was destitute of the needful sixpence might exclaim, "This is pleasant," yet the phrase was not out of place. The "Balaklava" was gliding lazily over the water, at the rate of three knots an hour, sometimes giving a little lurch by way of shaking the wet out of her invisible sails, for the fog obscured all her upper canvas, and the mind and body easily yielded to the lullaby movement of the vessel. Talk of lotus-eating; of Castles of Indolence; of the dreamy ether inhaled from amber-tubed narghilé; of poppy and mandragora, and all the drowsy syrups of the world; of rain upon the midnight roof; the cooing of doves, the hush of falling snow, the murmur of brooks, the long summer song of grasshoppers in the field, the tinkling of fountains, and everything else that can soothe, lull, or tranquillize; and what are these to the serenity of this sail-swinging, ripple-stirring, gently-creaking craft, in her veil of luminous vapor? "How delightful this is!" said I. The traveller eyed me with surprise, but at last comprehending the idea, admitted, that with the exception of the fog and the calm, the scarcity of news, the damp state of the decks, and the want of the morning papers, it was very charming indeed. Then the traveller got a little restive, and began to peer closely into the fog, and look aloft to see if he could make out the stay-sails, and then he entered into a long confidential talk with the captain, in relation to the chances of "getting on," of a fresh breeze springing up, and the fog lifting; whether we should make Louisburgh by to-morrow night, and if not, when; with various other salt-water speculations and problems. Then Picton climbed up on the patent-windlass to get a full view of the fog at the end of the bow-sprit, and took another survey of the buried stay-sails, and the flying-jib. Then he and the Newfoundland sailor on the look-out, had a long consultation of great gravity and importance; and finally he turned around and came up to the place where I was standing, and broke out: "I say, what the devil are we to do with ourselves this morning?" "What are we to do?" That eternal question. It instantly seemed to double the thickness of the fog, to arrest the slow movement of the vessel. Picton had nothing to do for a fortnight, and I had left home with the sole object of going somewhere where soul and body could rest. "Nothing to do," was precisely the one thing needful. "Nothing to do," is exquisite happiness, for real happiness is but a negation. "Nothing to do," is repose for the body, respite for the mind. It is an ideal hammock swinging in drowsy tropical groves, apart from the roar of the busy, relentless world; away from the strife of faction, the toils of business, the restless stretch of ambition, wealth's tinsel pride, poverty's galling harness. "Nothing to do," is the phantom of young Imagination, the evanescent hope that promises to crown "A youth of labor with an age of ease." "Nothing to do," was the charm that lured us on board the "Balaklava," and now "nothing to do," was with us like the Bottle-Imp, an incubus, still crying out: "You may yet exchange me for a smaller coin, if such there be!" "Nothing to do," is an imposture. Something to do is the very life of life, the beginning and end of being. "Picton," said I, "one thing we must do, at least, this morning." "What is that?" replied the traveller, eagerly opening his mackintosh, and drawing it off so as to be ready to do it. "Taking into consideration the slow and sleepy nature of this climate, the thickness of the fog, the faint, thin air that impels the vessel, the early time of day, and the regulations of the 'Balaklava,' it seems to me we shall have to be steadily occupied, for at least three hours, in waiting for breakfast." Then Picton got hungry! He was a large, stout man, wrapped up by a multitude of garments to the thickness of a polar bear, and when he got hungry, it was on a scale of corresponding dimensions. First he alluded to the fact that we had gone supperless to bed the night before; then he buttoned up his mackintosh, had a brief interview with the captain, shouted down the gang-way for the cook, and finally disappeared in the forecastle. Then he came up again with that officer, rummaged in the galley for the ship's hatchet, and split up all the kindling-wood on deck; then he shed his petals (mackintosh and over-coats) and instructed Cookey in the mystery of building a fire. Then he emerged from the intolerable smoke he had raised in the galley, and devoted himself to the stove-pipe outside, Cookey, meanwhile, within the caboose, getting the benefit of all the experiments. At last a faint smell of coffee issued forth from the caboose, a little Arabia breathed through the humid atmosphere, and a sound, as if Cookey were stirring the berries in a pan, was heard in the midst of the smoke. Meanwhile Picton descends in the hold with a bucket of salt-water to enjoy the luxury of a bath, and reappears in full toilet just as Cookey is grinding the berries, burnt and green, with a hand-mill between his knees. The pan by this time is put to a new use; it is now lined with bacon in full frizzle; presently it will be turned to account as a bake-pan, for pearl-ash cakes of chrome-yellow complexion: everything must take its turn; the pan is the actor of all work; it accepts coffee, cakes, pork, fish, pudding, besides being general dish-washer and soup-warmer, as we found out before long. During the preparation of these successive courses, Picton and I sat on deck in hungry silence. Now and then an anxious glance at the galley, or a tormenting whiff of the savory viands, would give new life to the demon that raged within us. I believe if Cookey had accidentally upset the coffee tea-kettle, and put out the fire, his sanctuary would have been sacked instantly. Eight o'clock came, and yet we had not broken bread. We walked up and down the deck to relieve our appetites. At last we saw the three cracked mugs, our tea-cups, which had been our ale-glasses of the night before, brought up for a rinse, and then we knew that breakfast was not far off. The cloth was spread, the saffron cakes, ship's butter, yellow mugs, coffee, pork, and pismires temptingly arrayed. We did not wait to hear the cook ring the bell. We watched him as he came up with it in his hand, and squeezed past him before he shook out a single vibration. Then we made a MEAL! Breakfast being over, the fog lightened a little. Our tiny horizon widened its boundaries a few hundred feet, or so; we could see once more the top-mast of the schooner. So we lazily swung along, with nothing to do again. Sometimes a distant fog-bell; sometimes a distant sound across the face of the deep, like the falling of cataract waters. "What is that sound, Bruce?" "It's the surf breakin' on the rocks," responds Bruce; "I hae been listenen to it for hoors." "Are we then so near shore?" "About three miles aff," replies the mate. Presently we heard the sound of human voices; a laugh; the stroke of oars in the row-locks, plainly distinguishable in the mysterious vapor. The captain hailed: "Hallo!" "Halloo!" echoes in answer. The strokes of the oars are louder and quicker; they are approaching us, but where? "Halloo!" comes again out of the mist. And again the captain shouts in reply. Then a white phantom boat, thin, vapory, unsubstantial, now seen, now lost again, appears on the skirts of our horizon. "Where are we?" asks the captain. "Off St. Esprit," answer the boatmen. "What are you after?" asks the captain. "Looking for our nets," is the reply; and once more boat and boatmen disappear in the luminous vapor. These are _mackerel fishermen_; their nets are adrift from their stone-anchors: the fish are used for bait in the cod-fisheries, as well as for salting down. If we could but come across the nets, what a rare treat we might have at dinner! Lazily on we glide--nothing to do. Picton is reading a stunning book; the captain, his lady, the baby, and I making a small family circle around the wheel; the mate is on the look-out over the bows; all at once, he shouts out: "_There they are! the nets!_" Down goes Picton's book on the deck; Bruce catches up a rope and fastens it to a large iron hook; the sailors run to the side of the vessel; captain releases his forefinger from baby's hand, and catches the wheel; all is excitement in a moment. "_Starboard!_" shouts the mate, as the nets come sweeping on, directly in front of the cut-water. The schooner obeys the wheel, sheers off, and now, as the floats come along sidewise, Bruce has dropped his hook in the mesh--_it takes hold!_ and the heavy mass is partially raised up in the water. "Thousands of them," says Picton; sure enough, the whole net is alive with mackerel, splashing, quivering, glistening. "Catch hold here, I canna hold them; O the beauties!" says the mate. Some grasp at the rope, others look around for another hook. "Hauld 'em! hauld 'em!" shouts Bruce; but the weighty piscatorial mass is too much for us, it will drag us desperately along the deck to the stern of the vessel. The schooner is going slowly, but still she is going. Another hook is rigged and thrown at the struggling mesh; but it breaks loose, the mackerel are dragging behind the rudder; we are at our rope's end. At last, rope, hook, and nets are abandoned, and again we have nothing to do. High noon, and a red spot visible overhead; the captain brings out his sextant to take an observation. This proceeding we viewed with no little interest, and, for the humor of the thing, I borrowed the sextant of the captain and took a satirical view of a great luminary in obscurity. As I had the instrument upside down, the sailors were in convulsions of laughter; but why should we not make everybody happy when we have it in our power? High noon, and again hunger overtook us. Picton, by this time, had brought out the cans of preserved meats, the curried tin chicken, the portable soup, the ale and pickles. The cook was put upon duty; pot and pan were scoured for more delicate viands; Picton was _chef de cuisine_; we had a magnificent banquet that day on the "Balaklava." To give a zest to the entertainment, the captain's lady dined with us; the mate kindly undertaking the charge of the baby. When we came on deck, after a repast that would have been perfect but for the absence of potatoes, Bruce was marching up and down, dangling the baby in a way that made it appear all legs; "I doan't see," said he, "hoo a wummun can lug a baby all day aboot in her airms! I hae only carried this one half an 'our, and boath airms is sore. But I suppose it's naturely, it's naturely--everything to its nature." The dinner having been a success, Picton was in great spirits for the rest of the day. The fog spread its munificent halo around us, and before nightfall broke into myriads of white rainbows--sea-dogs the sailors call them--and finally lifted so high that we could see the spectral moon shining through the thin rack. Once more we sang "Annie Laurie;" the traveller brought out his travelling blanket for a dewy slumber on deck; the lady of the "Balaklava" put on her night-cap and retired with baby to the double berth: Bruce took the helm. As I was passing the light in the binnacle, I looked in at the compass for a moment. "She's nailed there," said the old mate. Nailed there, true to her course, as steadfast to the guiding rudder as truth is to religion. We were but a few miles from a dangerous coast, in a vessel of the frailest kind, but she was "nailed there," obedient to man's intelligence, and that was security and safety. What a text to say one's prayers upon! "Picton," said I, the next morning, after the schooner-breakfast, "it seems to me the strangest thing that Mrs. Capstan should have the pure Irish pronunciation and the mate the thorough Scotch brogue, although both were born in Newfoundland, and of Newfoundland parents. I must confess to no small amount of surprise at the complete isolation of the people of these colonies; the divisions among them; the separate pursuits, prejudices, languages; they seem to have nothing in common; no aggregation of interests; it is existence without nationality; sectionalism without emulation; a mere exotic life with not a fibre rooted firmly in the soil. The colonists are English, Irish, Scotch, French, for generation after generation. Why is this, O Picton? Why is it that the captain's lady has high cheek-bones, and speaks the pure Hibernise? why is the only railroad in the colony but nine and three-quarter miles long, and the great Shubenacadie Canal yet unfinished, although it was begun in the year 1826; a canal fifty-three mortal miles in length, already engineered and laid out by nature in a chain of lakes, most conveniently arranged with the foot of each little lake at the head of the next one--like 'orient pearls at random strung'--requiring but a few locks to be complete: the head of the first lake lying only twelve hundred and ten yards from Halifax harbor, and the Shubenacadie River itself at the other end, emptying in the place of destination, namely, the Basin of Minas; a work that, if completed, would cut off more than three hundred miles of outside voyaging around a stormy, foggy, dangerous coast; a work that was estimated to cost but seventy-five thousand pounds, and for which fifteen thousand pounds had already been subscribed by the government; a work that would be the saving of so many vessels, crews, and cargoes of so much value; a work that would traverse one of the most fertile countries in America; a work that would bring the inland produce within a few hours of the seaboard; a work so necessary, so obvious, so easily completed, that no Yankee could see it undone, if it were within the limits of his county, and have one single night's rest until the waters were leaping from lock to lock, from lake to lake in one continuous flood of prosperity from Minas to Chebucto? Why is this, O traveller of the 'Balaklava?'" "The reason of it all," replied Picton, with great equanimity of manner, "is entirely owing to the stupidity of the people here; the British government is the best government, sir, in the world; it fosters, protects, and supports the colonies, with a sort of parental care, sir; the colonies, sir, afford no recompense to the British government for its care and protection, sir; each colony is only a bill of expense, sir, to the mother country, and if, with all these advantages, the people of these colonies will persist, sir, in being behind the age, sir, what can we do to prevent it, I would like to know, sir?" "It does seem to me, Picton, this fostering, protecting, and paying the governmental expenses of the colonies, is very like pampering and amusing a child with sweetmeats and nick-nacks, and at the same time keeping it in leading-strings. It is very certain that these colonists would not be the same people if their ancestors had been transplanted, a century or so ago, to our side of the Bay of Fundy; no, not even if they had pitched their tents at the 'jumping-off place,' as it is called--Eastport, for even there they would have produced a crop of pure Yankees, although grown from divers nations, religions, and tongues." Here Picton turned up his lip, and smiled out of a little battery of sarcasm: "And you think," said he, after a pause, "that these colonists would no longer revel in those little prejudices and sectionalisms so dear to every American heart, if they were transplanted to your own favored coasts? Why, sir, there is more sectionalism in the country you would transport these people to, than in any one nation I ever heard of; every one of your States is a petty principality; it has its own separate interests; its own bigoted boundaries; its conventionalisms; its pet laws; and as for its prejudices, I will just ask you, as a candid man, not as a Yankee, but as a traveller like myself, a cosmopolite, if you please, what you think of the two great eternal States of Massachusetts and South Carolina, and whether prejudices and sectionalisms are to be fairly charged upon these colonies, and upon them only?" "Picton, I will be frank with you. The States you name are looked upon as the great game-cocks of the Union, and we give them a tolerably large arena to fight their battles in. Either champion has flapped its wings and crowed its loudest, and drawn in its local backers, but the great States of my country are not these two. I feel at this moment an almost irrepressible desire to instance a single one as an example; but insomuch as nobody has ever flapped wing or crowed because of it, I will not be the first to break the silence. This much I will say, there are some States, and those the very greatest in the Union, that neither claim to be, nor make a merit of being _provincial_." "But, even in your State, you have your stately prejudices," said Picton, with a marked emphasis upon the "stately." "No, sir, we have no stately prejudices, at least among those entitled to have them, the native-born citizens; nor do I believe such prejudices exist in many of the States with us at home, sir." "But as you admit there is a sectional barrier between your people," said Picton, "I do not see why our form of government is not as wise as your form of government." "The difference, Picton, is simply this: your government is foreign, and almost unchangeable; ours is local, and mutable as the flux and reflux of the tide. As a consequence, sectionalism is active with us, and apathetic with you. Your colonists have nothing to care for, and we have everything to care for." "Then," said Picton, "we can sleep while you struggle?" "Yes, Picton, that is the question---- 'Whether 'tis best to roam or rest. The land's lap, or the water's breast?' We think it is best to choose the active instead of the stagnant; if a man cannot take part in the great mechanism of humanity, better to die than to sleep. And Picton, so far as this is concerned, so far as the general interests of humanity are concerned, your colonists are only _dead men_, while our "stately" men are individually responsible, not only to their own kind, but to all human kind, and herein each form of government tells its own story." "I think you are rather severe upon poor Nova Scotia this morning," said Picton, drily. "You mistake me, Picton; I do not intend to cast any reflections upon the people; I am only contrasting the effects produced by two different forms of government upon neighboring bodies of men that would have been alike had either a republican or monarchical rule obtained over both." "Likely," said Picton, sententiously. Meantime the schooner was lazily holding her course through the fog, which was now dense as ever. What an odd little bit of ocean this is to be on! "The sea, the sea, the open sea," all your own, with a diameter of perhaps forty yards. Picton, who is full of activity, begins to unroll the log line; the captain turns the glass, away goes the log. "Stop," "not three knots!" and then comes the question again: "What shall we do?--we are getting becalmed!" "By Jove!" said Picton, slapping his thigh, "I have it--_cod-fish_!" There are plenty of hooks on board the "Balaklava," and unfortunately only one cod-line; but what with the deep-sea lead-and-line, and a roll of blue cord, with a spike for a sinker, and the hooks, we are soon in the midst of excitement. Now we almost pray for a calm; the schooner _will_ heave ahead, and leave the lines astern; but nevertheless, up come the fine fish, and plenty of them, too; the deck is all flop and glister with cod, haddock, pollock; and Cookey, with a short knife, is at work with the largest, preparing them for the banquet, according to the code Newfoundland. Certainly the art of "cooking a cod-fish" is not quite understood, except in this part of the world. The white flakes do not exhibit the true conchoidal fracture in such perfection elsewhere; nor break off in such delicious morsels, edged with delicate brown. "Another bottle of ale, please, and a granitic biscuit, and a pickle, by way of dessert." Lazily along swings the "Balaklava." Picton brings up his travelling blanket, and we stretch out upon it on deck, basking in the warm, humid light, and leisurely puffing away at our segars, for we have nothing else to do. Towards evening it grows colder, very much colder; over-coats are in requisition; the captain says we are nearing some icebergs; the fog folds itself up and hangs above us in strips of cloud, or rolls away in voluminous masses to the edges of the horizon. The stars peep out between the strips overhead, the moon sends forth her silver vapors and finally emerges from the "crudded clouds;" the wake of the schooner is one long phosphoric trail of flame; the masts are creaking, sails stretching, the waters pouring against the bows; out on the deep, white crests lift and break, the winds are loosened, and now good speed to the "Balaklava." Meanwhile, the hitherto listless Newfoundland men are now wide awake, and busy; the man at the wheel is on the alert; the captain is looking at his charts; Picton and I walking the deck briskly, but unsteadily, to keep off the cold; Mrs. Capstan has turned in with the baby. Blacker and larger waves are rising, with whiter crests; on and on goes the schooner with dip and rise--tossing her yards as a stag tosses his antlers. On and on goes the brave "Balaklava," the captain at the bows on the look-out; the sky is mottled with clouds, but fortunately there is no fog; nine, ten o'clock, and at last a light begins to lift in the distance. "Is it Louisburgh light, captain?" "I don't make it out yet," replies Captain Capstan, "but I think it is not." After a pause, he adds: "Now I see what it is; it is Scattarie light--we have passed Louisburgh." This was not pleasant; we had undertaken the voyage for the sake of visiting the old French town. To be sure, it was a great disappointment. But then we were rapidly nearing Scattarie light; and after we doubled the island, the wind would be right astern of us, and by breakfast time we would be in the harbor of Sydney. "Captain," said we, after a brief consultation, "we will leave the matter entirely to you; although we had hoped to see Louisburgh this night, yet we can visit it overland to-morrow; and as the wind is so favorable for you, why, crack on to Sydney, if you like." With that we resumed our walk to keep up the circulation. "It is strange," said Picton, "the captain should have passed the light without seeing it." "Ever since we left Richmond," said the man at the wheel, "his eyes has been weak, so as he couldn't see as good as common." "Did you see the light?" we asked. "Oh, yes; I can see it now, right astern of us." We looked, and at last made it out: a faint, nebulous star, upon the very edge of the gloomy waters. "There is the light, captain." "Where?" "Right astern." The captain walked aft to the steersman and peered anxiously in the distance. Then he came forward again, and shouted down the forecastle: "Hallo, hallo, turn out there! all hands on deck! turn out, men! turn out!" "What now, captain?" "Nothing," said he, "only I am going to _about-ship_." And sure enough, the little schooner came up to the wind; the men hauled away at the sheets, the sails fluttered--filled upon the new tack, and in a few minutes our bows were pointed for Louisburgh. The "Balaklava" had barely broadened out her sails to the fair wind, after she had been put about, when we were conscious of an increased straining and chirping of the masts and sails, an uneasy, laborious motion of the vessel; of blacker and larger waves, of whiter and higher crests, that sometimes broke over the bows, even, and made the deck wet and slippery. The moon was now rising high, but the clouds were rapidly thickening, and her majesty seemed to be reeling from side to side, as we bore on, with plunge and shudder, for the light ahead of us. Bruce had taken the wheel; all hands were on deck, and all busy, hauling upon this rope or that, taking in the stay-sails and flying-jib, as the captain shouted out from time to time; and looking ahead, with no little appearance of anxiety. "Ah! she's a pretty creature," said the mate; "look there," nodding with his head at the compass, "did'na I tell you? She's nailed there." Then he broke out again: "Ay, she's a flyin' noo; see hoo she's _raisin' the light_!" It was, indeed, surprising to see the great beacon rising higher and higher out of the water. "Is it a good harbor, Bruce?" "_When ye get in_," answered the mate; "but it's narrar, it's narrar; ye can pitch a biscuit ashore as ye go through; and inside o't is the 'Nag's Head,' a sunken bit o' rock, with about five feet water; if ye _miss_ that, ye're aw right!" We were now rapidly approaching the beacon, and could fairly see the rocks and beach in the track of its light. On the other side there were great masses of savage surf, whirling high up in the night, the indications of the three islands on the west of the harbor. The captain had climbed up in the rigging to keep a good look-out ahead; the light of the beacon broadened on the deck; we were within the very jaws of the crags and surf; the wild ocean beating against the doors of the harbor; the churning, whirling, whistling danger on either side, lighted up by the glare of the beacon! past we go, and, with a sweep, the "Balaklava" evades the "Nag's Head," and rounding too, drops sail and anchor beside the walls of Louisburgh. Then the thick fog, which had been pursuing us, came, and enveloped all in obscurity. "It is lucky," said Captain Capstan, "that it didn't come ten minutes sooner." CHAPTER V. Louisburgh--The Great French Fortress--Incidents of the Old French War--Relics of the Siege--Description of the Town--The two Expeditions--A Yankee _ruse de guerre_--The Rev. Samuel Moody's Grace--Wolfe's Landing--The Fisherman's Hutch--The Lost Coaster--The Fisheries--Picton tries his hand at a fish-pugh. Nearly a century has elapsed since the fall of Louisburgh. The great American fortress of Louis XV. surrendered to Amherst, Wolfe, and Boscawen in 1758. A broken sea-wall of cut stone; a vast amphitheatre, inclosed within a succession of green mounds; a glacis; and some miles of surrounding ditch, yet remain--the relics of a structure for which the treasury of France paid Thirty Millions of Livres! We enter where had been the great gate, and walk up what had been the great avenue. The vision follows undulating billows of green turf that indicate the buried walls of a once powerful military town. Fifteen thousand people were gathered in and about these walls; six thousand troops were locked within this fortress, when the key turned in the stupendous gate. A hundred years since, the very air of the spot where we now stand, vibrated with the chime of the church-bells and the roll of the stately organ, or wafted to devout multitudes the savor of holy incense. Here were congregated the soldiers, merchants, artisans of old France; on these high walls paced the solemn sentry; in these streets the nun stole past in her modest hood; or the romantic damsel pressed her cheek to the latticed window, as the young officer rode by and, martial music filled the avenues with its inspiring strains; in yonder bay floated the great war-ships of Louis; and around the shores of this harbor could be counted battery after battery, with scores of guns bristling from the embrasures. The building of this stronghold was a labor of twenty-five years. The stone walls rose to the height of thirty-six feet. In those broken arches, studded with stalactites, those casemates, or vaults of the citadel, you still see some evidence of its former strength. You will know the citadel by them, and by the greater height of the mounds which mark the walls that once encompassed it. Within these stood the smaller military chapel. Think of looking down from this point upon those broad avenues, busy with life, a hundred years ago! Neither roof nor spire remain now; nor square nor street; nor convent, church, or barrack. The green turf covers all: even the foundations of the houses are buried. It is a city without an inhabitant. Dismantled cannon, with the rust clinging in great flakes; scattered implements of war; broken weapons, bayonets, gun-locks, shot, shell or grenade, unclaimed, untouched, corroded and corroding, in silence and desolation, with no signs of life visible within these once warlike parapets except the peaceful sheep, grazing upon the very brow of the citadel, are the only relics of once powerful Louisburgh. Let us recall the outlines of its history. In the early part of the last century, just after the death of Louis XIV., these foundations were laid, and the town named in honor of the ruling monarch. Nova Scotia proper had been ceded, by recent treaty, to the filibusters of Old and New-England, but the ancient Island of Cape Breton still owned allegiance to the lilies of France. Among the beautiful and commodious harbors that indent the southern coast of the island, this one was selected as being most easy of access. Although naturally well adapted for defence, yet its fortification cost the government immense sums of money, insomuch as all the materials for building had to be brought from a distance. Belknap thus describes it: "It was environed, two miles and a half in circumference, with a rampart of stone from thirty to thirty-six feet high, and a ditch eighty feet wide, with the exception of a space of two hundred yards near the sea, which was inclosed by a dyke and a line of pickets. The water in this place was shallow, and numerous reefs rendered it inaccessible to shipping, while it received an additional protection from the side-fire of the bastions. There were six-bastions and eight batteries, containing embrasures for one hundred and forty-eight cannon, of which forty-five only were mounted, and eight mortars. On an island at the entrance of the harbor was planted a battery of thirty cannon, carrying twenty-eight pound shot; and at the bottom of the harbor was a grand, or royal battery, of twenty-eight cannon, forty-two pounders, and two eighteen-pounders. On a high cliff, opposite to the island-battery, stood a light house, and within this point, at the north-east part of the harbor, was a careening wharf, secure from all winds, and a magazine of naval stores. The town was regularly laid out in squares; the streets were broad and commodious, and the houses, which were built partly of wood upon stone foundations, and partly of more durable materials, corresponded with the general appearance of the place. In the centre of one of the chief bastions was a stone building, with a moat on the side near the town, which was called the citadel, though it had neither artillery nor a structure suitable to receive any. Within this building were the apartments of the governor, the barracks for the soldiers, and the arsenal; and, under the platform of the redoubt, a magazine well furnished with military stores. The parish church, also, stood within the citadel, and without was another, belonging to the hospital of St. Jean de Dieu, which was an elegant and spacious structure. The entrance to the town was over a drawbridge, near which was a circular battery, mounting sixteen guns of fourteen-pound shot." This cannon-studded harbor was the naval dépôt of France in America, the nucleus of its military power, the protector of its fisheries, the key of the gulf of St. Lawrence, the Sebastopol of the New World. For a quarter of a century it had been gathering strength by slow degrees: Acadia, poor inoffensive Acadia, from time to time, had been the prey of its rapacious neighbors; but Louisburgh had grown amid its protecting batteries, until Massachusetts felt that it was time for the armies of Gad to go forth and purge the threshing-floor with such ecclesiastical iron fans as they were wont to waft peace and good will with, wherever there was a fine opening for profit and edification. The first expedition against Louisburgh was only justifiable upon the ground that the wants of New England for additional territory were pressing, and immediate action, under the circumstances, indispensable. Levies of colonial troops were made, both in and out of the territories of the saints. The forces, however, actually employed, came from Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New Hampshire; the first supplying three thousand two hundred, the second five hundred, the third three hundred men. The coöperation of Commodore Warren, of the English West-Indian fleet, was solicited; but the Commodore declined, on the ground "that the expedition was wholly a provincial affair, undertaken without the assent, and probably without the knowledge, of the ministry." But Governor Shirley was not a man to stop at trifles. He had a heart of lignum vitæ, a rigid anti-papistical conscience, beetle brows, and an eye to the cod-fisheries. Higher authority than international law was pressed into the service. George Whitefield, then an itinerant preacher in New-England, furnished the necessary warrant for the expedition, by giving a motto for its banner: "_Nil desperandum Christo duce_"--Nothing is to be despaired of with CHRIST for leader. The command was, however, given to William Pepperel, a fish and shingle merchant of Maine. One of the chaplains of the filibusters carried a hatchet specially sharpened, to hew down the wooden images in the churches of Louisburgh. Everything that was needed to encourage and cheer the saints, was provided by Governor Shirley, especially a goodly store of New England rum, and the Rev. Samuel Moody, the lengthiest preacher in the colonies. Louisburgh, at that time feebly garrisoned, held out bravely in spite of the formidable array concentrated against it. In vain the Rev. Samuel Moody preached to its high stone walls; in vain the iconoclast chaplain brandished his ecclesiastical hatchet; in vain Whitefield's banner flaunted to the wind. The fortress held out against shot and shell, saint, flag and sermon. New England ingenuity finally circumvented Louisburgh. Humiliating as the confession is, it must be admitted that our pious forefathers did actually abandon "CHRISTO duce," and used instead a little worldly artifice. Commodore Warren, who had declined taking a part in the siege of Louisburgh, on account of the regulations of the service, had received, after the departure of the expedition, instructions to keep a look-out for the interests of his majesty in North America, which of course could be readily interpreted, by an experienced officer in his majesty's service, to mean precisely what was meant to be meant. As a consequence, Commodore Warren was speedily on the look-out, off the coast of Cape Breton, and in the course of events fell in with, and captured, the "Vigilant," seventy-four, commanded by Captain Stronghouse, or, as his title runs, "the Marquis de la Maison Forte." The "Vigilant" was a store-ship, filled with munitions of war for the French town. Here was a glorious opportunity. If the saints could only intimate to Duchambon, the Governor of Louisburgh, that his supplies had been cut off, Duchambon might think of capitulation. But unfortunately the French were prejudiced against the saints, and would not believe them under oath. But when probity fails, a little ingenuity and artifice will do quite as well. The chief of the expedition was equal to the emergency. He took the Marquis of Stronghouse to the different ships on the station, where the French prisoners were confined, and showed him that they were treated with great civility; then he represented to the Marquis that the New England prisoners were cruelly dealt with in the fortress of Louisburgh; and requested him to write a letter, in the name of humanity, to Duchambon, Governor, in behalf of those suffering saints; "expressing his approbation of the conduct of the English, and entreating similar usuage for those whom the fortune of war had thrown in his hands." The Marquis wrote the letter; thus it begins: "On board the 'Vigilant,' _where I am a prisoner_, before Louisburgh, June thirteen, 1745." The rest of the letter is unimportant. The confession of Captain Stronghouse, that he was a prisoner, was the point; and the consequences thereof, which had been foreseen by the filibustering besiegers, speedily followed. In three days Louisburgh capitulated. Then the Rev. Samuel Moody greatly distinguished himself. He was a painful preacher; the most untiring, persevering, long-winded, clamorous, pertinacious vessel at craving a blessing, in the provinces. There was a great feast in honor of the occasion. But more formidable than the siege itself, was the anticipated "grace" of Brother Moody. New England held its breath when he began, and thus the Reverend Samuel: "Good Lord, we have so many things to thank Thee for, that time will be infinitely too short to do it; we must therefore leave it for the work of eternity." Upon this there was great rejoicing, yea, more than there had been upon the capture of the French stronghold. Who shall say whether Brother Moody's brevity may not stretch farther across the intervals of time than the longest preaching ever preached by mortal preacher? In three years after its capture, Louisburgh was restored to the French by the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. Ten years after its restoration, a heavier armament, a greater fleet, a more numerous army, besieged its almost impregnable walls. Under Amherst, Boscawen, and Wolfe, no less than twenty-three ships of war, eighteen frigates, sixteen thousand land forces, with a proportionable train of cannon and mortars, were arrayed against this great fortress in the year 1758. Here, too, many of our own ancestral warriors were gathered in that memorable conflict; here Gridley, who afterwards planned the redoubt at Bunker Hill, won his first laurels as an engineer; here Pomeroy distinguished himself, and others whose names are not recorded, but whose deeds survive in the history of a republic. The very drum that beat to arms before Louisburgh was braced again when the greater drama of the Revolution opened at Concord and Lexington. The siege continued for nearly two months. From June 8th until July 26th, the storm of iron and fire--of rocket, shot, and shell--swept from yonder batteries, upon the castellated city. Then when the King's, the Queen's, the Dauphin's bastions were lying in ruins, the commander, Le Chevalier de Drucour, capitulated, and the lilies of the Bourbon waved over Louisburgh no more. And here we stand nearly a century after, looking out from these war-works upon the desolate harbor. At the entrance, the wrecks of three French frigates, sunk to prevent the ingress of the British fleet, yet remain; sometimes visited by our still enterprising countrymen, who come down in coasters with diving-bell and windlass, to raise again from the deep, imbedded in sea-shells, the great guns that have slept in the ooze so long. Between those two points lay the ships of the line, and frigates of Louis; opposite, where the parapets of stone are yet visible, was the grand battery of forty guns: at Lighthouse Point yonder, two thousand grenadiers, under General Wolfe, drove back the French artillerymen, and tamed their cannon upon these mighty walls. Here the great seventy-four blew up; there the English boats were sunk by the guns of the fortress; day and night for many weeks this ground has shuddered with the thunders of the cannonade. And what of all this? we may ask. What of the ships that were sunk, and those that floated away with the booty? What of the soldiers that fell by hundreds here, and those that lived? What of the prisoners that mourned, and the captors that triumphed? What of the flash of artillery, and the shattered wall that answered it? Has any benefit resulted to mankind from this brilliant achievement? Can any man, of any nation, stand here and say: "This work was wrought to my profit?" Can any man draw such a breath here amid these buried walls, as he can upon the humblest sod that ever was wet with the blood of patriotism? I trow not. A second time in possession of this stronghold, England had not the means to maintain her conquest; the fortification was too large for any but a powerful garrison. A hundred war-ships had congregated in that harbor: frigates, seventy-fours, transports, sloops, under the _Fleur-de-lis_. Although Louisburgh was the pivot-point of the French possessions, yet it was but an outside harbor for the colonies. So the order went forth to destroy the town that had been reared with so much cost, and captured with so much sacrifice. And it took two solid years of gunpowder to blow up these immense walls, upon which we now sadly stand, O gentle reader! Turf, turf, turf covers all! The gloomiest spectacle the sight of man can dwell upon is the desolate, but once populous, abode of humanity. Egypt itself is cheerful compared with Louisburgh! "It rains," said Picton. It had rained all the morning; but what did that matter when a hundred years since was in one's mind? Picton, in his mackintosh, was an impervious representative of the nineteenth century; but I was as fully saturated with water as if I were living in the place under the old French _régime_. "Let us go down," said Picton, "and see the jolly old fishermen outside the walls. What is the use of staying here in the rain after you have seen all that can be seen? Come along. Just think how serene it will be if we can get some milk and potatoes down there." There are about a dozen fishermen's huts on the beach outside the walls of the old town of Louisburgh. When you enter one it reminds you of the descriptive play-bill of the melo-drama--"Scene II.: Interior of a Fisherman's Cottage on the Sea-shore: Ocean in the Distance." The walls are built of heavy timbers, laid one upon another, and caulked with moss or oakum. Overhead are square beams, with pegs for nets, poles, guns, boots, the heterogeneous and picturesque tackle with which such ceilings are usually ornamented. But oh! how clean everything is! The knots are fairly scrubbed out of the floor-planks, the hearth-bricks red as cherries, the dresser-shelves worn thin with soap and sand, and white as the sand with which they have been scoured. I never saw drawing-room that could compare with the purity of that interior. It was cleanliness itself; but I saw many such before I left Louisburgh, in both the old town and the new. We sat down in the "hutch," as they call it, before a cheery wood-fire, and soon forgot all about the outside rain. But if we had shut out the rain, we had not shut out the neighboring Atlantic. That was near enough; the thunderous surf, whirling, pouring, breaking against the rocky shore and islands, was sounding in our ears, and we could see the great white masses of foam lifted against the sky from the window of the hutch, as we sat before the warm fire. "You was lucky to get in last night," said the master of the hutch, an old, weather-beaten fisherman. "Yes," replied Picton, surveying the grey head before him with as much complacency as he would a turnip; "and a serene old place it is when we get in." To this the weather-beaten replied by winking twice with both eyes. "Rather a dangerous coast," continued Picton, stretching out one thigh before the fire. "I say, don't you fishermen often lose your lives out there?" and he pointed to the mouth of the harbor. "There was only two lives lost _in seventy years_," replied the old man (this remarkable fact was confirmed by many persons of whom we asked the same question during our visit), "and one of them was a young man, a stranger here, who was capsized in a boat as he was going out to a vessel in the harbor." "You are speaking now of lives lost in the fisheries," said Picton, "not in the coasting trade." "Oh!" replied the old man, shaking his head, "the coasting trade is different; there is a many lives lost in that. Last year I had a brother as sailed out of this in a shallop, on the same day as yon vessel," pointing to the Balaklava; "he went out in company with your captain; he was going to his wedding, he thought, poor fellow, for he was to bring a young wife home with him from Halifax, but he got caught in a storm off Canseau, and we never heard of the shallop again. He was my youngest brother, gentlemen." It was strange to be seated in that old cottage, listening to so dreary a story, and watching the storm outside. There was a wonderful fascination in it, nevertheless, and I was not a little loth to leave the bright hearth when the sailors from the schooner came for us and carried us on board again to dinner. The storm continued; but Picton and I found plenty to do that day. Equipped with oil-skin pea-jackets and sou'-westers, with a couple of _fish-pughs_, or poles, pointed with iron, we started on a cruise after lobsters, in a sort of flat-bottomed skiff, peculiar to the place, called a _dingledekooch_. And although we did not catch one lobster, yet we did not lose sight of many interesting particulars that were scattered around the harbor. And first of the fisheries. All the people here are directly or indirectly engaged in this business, and to this they devote themselves entirely; farming being scarcely thought of. I doubt whether there is a plough in the place; certainly there was not a horse, in either the old or new town, or a vehicle of any kind, as we found out betimes. The fishing here, as in all other places along the coast, is carried on in small, clinker-built boats, sharp at both ends, and carrying two sails. It is marvellous with what dexterity these boats are handled; they are out in all weathers, and at all times, night or day, as it happens, and although sometimes loaded to the gunwale with fish, yet they encounter the roughest gales, and ride out storms in safety, that would be perilous to the largest vessels. "I can carry all sail," said one old fellow, "when the captain there would have to take in every rag on the schooner." And such, too, was the fact. These boats usually sail a few miles from the shore, rarely beyond twelve; the fish are taken with hand-lines generally, but sometimes a set line with buoys and anchors is used. The fish, are cured on _flakes_, or high platforms, raised upon poles from the beach, so that one end of the staging is over the water. The cod are thrown up from the boat to the flake by means of the fish-pugh--a sort of one-pronged, piscatory pitchfork--and cleaned, salted, and cured there; then spread out to dry on the flake, or on the beach, and packed for market. _Nothing can be neater and cleaner than the whole system of curing the fish!_ popular opinion to the contrary notwithstanding. The fishermen of Louisburgh are a happy, contented, kind, and simple people. Living, as they do, far from the jarring interests of the busy world, having a common revenue, for the ocean supplies each and all alike; pursuing an occupation which is constant discipline for body and soul; brave, sincere, and hospitable by nature, for all of these virtues are inseparable from their relations to each other; one can scarcely be with them, no matter how brief the visit, without feeling a kindred sympathy; without having a vague thought of "sometime I may be only too glad to escape from the world and accept this humble happiness instead;" without a dreamy idea of "Perhaps _this_, after all, is the real Arcadia!" While I was indulging in these reflections, it was amusing to see Picton at work! The heads and entrails of the cod-fish, thrown from the "flakes" into the water, attract thousands of the baser tribes, such as sculpins, flounders, and toad-fish, who feed themselves fat upon the offals, and enjoy a peaceful life under the clear waters of the harbor. As the dingledekooch floated silently over them, they lay perfectly quiet and unsuspicious of danger, although within a few feet of the fatal fish-pugh, and in an element almost as transparent as air. Lobster, during the storm, had gone off to other grounds; but here were great flat flounders and sculpin, within reach of the indefatigable Picton. Down went the fish-pugh and up came the game! The bottom of the skiff was soon covered with the spearings of the traveller. Great flounders, those sub-marine buckwheat cakes; sculpins, bloated with rage and wind, like patriots out of office; toad-fish, savage and vindictive as Irishmen in a riot. Down went the fish-pugh! It was rare sport, and no person could have enjoyed it more than Picton--except perhaps some of the veteran fishermen of Louisburgh, who were gathered on the beach watching the doings in the dingledekooch. CHAPTER VI. A most acceptable Invitation--- An Evening in the Hutch--Old Songs--Picton in High Feather--Wolfe and Montcalm--Reminiscences of the Siege--Anecdotes of Wolfe--A Touch of Rhetoric and its Consequences. Quite a little crowd of fishermen gathered around us, as the dingledekooch ran bows on the beach, and Picton, warm with exercise and excitement, leaped ashore, flourishing his piscatorial javelin with an air of triumph, which oddly contrasted with the faces of the Louisburghers, who looked at him and at his game, with countenances of great gravity--either real or assumed. Presently, another boat ran bows on the beach beside our own, and from this jumped Bruce, our jolly first mate, who had come ashore to spend a few hours with an old friend, at one of the hutches. To this we were hospitably invited also, and were right glad to uncase our limbs of stiff oil-skin and doff our sou'-westers, and sit down before the cheery fire, piled up with spruce logs and hackmatack; comfortable, indeed, was it to be thus snugly housed, while the weather outside was so lowering, and the schooner wet and cold with rain. To be sure, our gay and festive hall was not so brilliant as some, but it was none the less acceptable on that account; and, before long, a fragrant rasher of bacon, fresh eggs, white bread, and a strong cup of bitter tea made us feel entirely happy. Then these viands being removed, there came pipes and tobacco; and as something else was needed to crown the symposium, Picton whispered a word in the ear of Bruce, who presently disappeared, to return again after a brief absence, with some of our stores from the schooner. Then the table was decked again, with china mugs of dazzling whiteness, lemons, hot water, and a bottle of old Glenlivet; and from the centre of this gallant show, the one great lamp of the hutch cast its mellow radiance around, and nursed in the midst of its flame a great ball of red coal that burned like a bonfire. Then, when our host, the old fisherman, brought out a bundle of warm furs, of moose and cariboo skins, and distributed them around on the settles and broad, high-backed benches, so that we could loll at our ease, we began to realize a sense of being quite snug and cozy, and, indeed, got used to it in a surprisingly short space of time. "Now, then," said Picton, "this is what I call serene," and the traveller relapsed into his usual activity; after a brief respite--"I say, give us a song, will you, now, some of you; something about this jolly old place, now--'Brave Wolfe,' or 'Boscawen,'" and he broke out-- "'My name d'ye see's Tom Tough, I've seen a little sarvice, Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I've sailed with noble Howe, and I've sailed with noble Jarvis, And in Admiral Duncan's fleet I've sung yeo, heave, yeo! And more ye must be knowin', I was cox'son to Boscawen When our fleet attacked Louisburgh, And laid her bulwarks low. But push about the grog, boys! Hang care, it killed a cat, Push about the grog, and sing-- Yeo, heave, yeo!'" "Good Lord!" said the old fisherman, "I harn't heard that song for more'n thirty years. Sing us another bit of it, please." But Picton had not another bit of it; so he called lustily for some one else to sing. "Hang it, sing something," said the traveller. "'How stands the glass around;' that, you know, was written by Wolfe; at least, it was sung by him the night before the battle of Quebec, and they call it Wolfe's death song-- 'How stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys! How stands the glass around?'" Here Picton forgot the next line, and substituted a drink for it, in correct time with the music: "'The trumpets sound; The colors flying are, my boys, To fight, kill, or wound'"---- Another slip of the memory [drink]: "'May we still be found,'" He has found it, and repeats emphatically: "'May we still be found! Content with our hard fare, my boys, [all drink] On the cold ground!' "Then there is another song," said Picton, lighting his pipe with coal and tongs; "'Wolfe and Montcalm'--you must know that," he continued, addressing the old fisherman. But the ancient trilobite did not know it; indeed, he was not a singer, so Picton trolled lustily forth-- "'He lifted up his head, While the cannons did rattle, To his aid de camp he said, 'How goes the battail?' The aid de camp, he cried, ''Tis in our favor;' 'Oh! then,' brave Wolfe replied, 'I die with pleasure!'" "There," said Picton, throwing himself back upon the warm and cosy furs, "I am at the end of my rope, gentlemen. Sing away, some of you," and the traveller drew a long spiral of smoke through his tube, and ejected it in a succession of beautiful rings at the beams overhead. "Picton," said I, "what a strange, romantic interest attaches itself to the memory of Wolfe. The very song you have sung, 'How stands the glass around,' although not written by him, for it was composed before he was born, yet has a currency from the popular belief that he sang it on the evening preceding his last battle. And, indeed, it is by no means certain that Gray's Elegy does not derive additional interest from a kindred tradition." "What is that?" said the traveller. "Of course you will remember it. When Gray had completed the Elegy, he sent a copy of it to his friend, General Wolfe, in America; and the story goes, that as the great hero was sitting, wrapped in his military cloak, on board the barge which the sailors were rowing up the St. Lawrence, towards Quebec, he produced the poem, and read it in silence by the waning light of approaching evening, until he came to these lines, which he repeated aloud to his officers: 'The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour'----" Then pausing for a moment, he finished the stanza: "'The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'" "Gentlemen," he added, "I would rather be the writer of this poem, than the greatest conqueror the world ever produced." "That's true," said the old fisherman, sententiously. "We are all bound to that place, sometime or other." "What place?" said Picton, rousing up. "The berrying-ground," answered the ancient; "that is if we don't get overboard instead." "But," he continued, "since you are speaking of General Wolfe, you must know my grandfather served under him at Minden, and at the battle here, too, where he was wounded, and left behind, when the general went back to England." "I thought he went from this place to Quebec," said Picton. "No, sir," replied the old man, "he went first to London, and came back again, and then went to Canada. Well," he continued, "my grandfather served under him, and was left here to get over his wownds, and so he married my grandmother, and lived in Louisburgh after the French were all sent away." Here the veteran placed his paws on the table, and looked out into the infinite. We could see we were in for a long story. "All the French soldiers and sailors, you see, were sent to England prisoners of war--and the rest of the people were sent to France; the governor of this here place was named Drucour; he was taken to Southampton, and put in prison. Well now, as I was saying, this hutch of mine was built by my father, just here by Wolfe's landing, for grandfather took a fancy to have it built on this spot; you see, Wolfe rowed over one night in a boat all alone from Lighthouse point yonder, and stood on the beach right under this here old wall, looking straight up at the French sentry over his head, and taking a general look at the town on both sides. There wasn't a man in all his soldiers who would have stood there at that time for a thousand pounds." "What do you suppose the old file was doing over here?" inquired Picton, who was getting sleepy. "I don't know," answered our host, "except it was his daring. He was the bravest man of his time, I've heard say--and so young"---- "Two and thretty only," said Bruce. "And a tall, elegant officer, too," continued the ancient fisherman. "I've heard tell how the French governor's lady used to send him sweetmeats with a flag of truce, and he used to return his compliments and a pine apple, or something of that kind. Ah, he was a great favorite with the ladies! I've heard say, he was much admired for his elegant style of dancing, and always ambitious to have a tall and graceful lady for his partner, and then he was as much pleased as if he was in the thick of the fight. He was a great favorite with the soldiers, too; very careful of them, to see they were well nursed when they were sick, and sharing the worst and the best with them; but my grandfather used to say, very strict, too." "Who was in command here, Wolfe or Amherst?" "General Amherst was in command, and got the credit of it, too; but Wolfe did the fighting--so grandfather used to say." "What was the name of his leddy in the old country?" said Bruce. "I do not remember," replied the ancient, "but I've heard it. You know he was to be married, when he got back to England. And when the first shot struck him in the wrist, at Quebec, he took out _her_ handkerchief from his breast-pocket, smiled, wrapped it about the place, and went on with the battle as if nothing had happened. But, soon after he got another wound, and yet he wasn't disheartened, but waved his ratan over his head, for none of the officers carried swords there, and kept on, until the third bullet went through and through his breast, when he fell back, and just breathed like, till word was brought that the French were retreating, when he said, then 'I am content,' and so closed his eyes and died." Here there was a pause. Our entertainer, waving his hand towards our mugs of Glenlivet, by way of invitation, lifted his own to his mouth by the handle, and with a dexterous tilt that showed practice, turned its bottom towards the beams of the hutch. "Do you remember any farther particulars of the siege of Louisburgh?" I asked. "Oh, yes," replied the old man, "I remember grandfather telling us how he saw the bodies of fifteen or sixteen deserters hanging over the walls; they were Germans that had been sold to the French, four years before the war, by a Prussian colonel. Some of them got away, and came over to our side. He used to say, the old town looked like a big ship when they came up to it; it had two tiers of guns, one above the other, on the south--that is towards Gabarus bay, where our troops landed. And now I mind me of his telling that when they landed at Gabarus, they had a hard fight with the French and Indians, until Col. Fraser's regiment of Highlanders jumped overboard, and swam to a point on the rocks, and drove the enemy away with their broad-swords." "That was the 63d Highlanders," said Bruce, with immense gravity. "Among the Indians killed at Gabarus," continued our host, "they say there was one Micmac chief, who was six feet nine inches high. The French soldiers were very much frightened when the Highland men climbed up on the rocks; they called them English savages." "That showed," said Bruce, "what a dommed ignorant set they were!" "And, while I think of it," added our host, rising from his seat, "I have a bit of the old time to show you," and so saying, he retreated from the table, and presently brought forth a curious oak box from a mysterious corner of the hutch, and after some difficulty in drawing out the sliding cover, produced a roll of tawny newspapers, tied up with rope yarn, a colored wood engraving in a black frame--a portrait, with the inscription, "James Wolfe, Esq'r, Commander in Chief of His Majesty's Forces in the Expedition to Quebec," and on the reverse the following scrap from the London Chronicle of October 7, 1759: "Amidst her conquests let Britannia groan For Wolfe! her gallant, her undaunted son; For Wolfe, whose breast bright Honor did inspire With patriot ardor and heroic fire; For Wolfe, who headed that intrepid band, Who, greatly daring, forced Cape Breton's strand. For Wolfe, who following still where glory call'd, No dangers daunted, no distress appall'd; Whose eager zeal disasters could not check, Intent to strike the blow which gained Quebec. For Wolfe, who, like the gallant Theban, dy'd In th' arms of victory--his country's pride." This inscription I read aloud, and then, under the influence of the loquacious potable, leaned back in my furry throne, crossed my hands over my forehead, looked steadily into the blazing fire-place, and continued the theme I had commenced an hour before. "What a strange interest attaches itself to the memory of Wolfe! A youthful hero, who, under less happy auspices, might have been known only as the competent drill-master of regiments, elevated by the sagacity of England's wisest statesman to a prominent position of command; there to exhibit his generalship; there to retrieve the long list of disasters which followed Braddock's defeat; there to annihilate forever every vestige of French dominion in the Americas; to fulfill gloriously each point of his mission; to achieve, not by long delays, but by rapid movements, the conquest of two of the greatest fortresses in the possession of the rival crown; to pass from the world amid the shouts of victory--content in the fullness of his fame, without outliving it! His was a noble, generous nature; brave without cruelty; ardent and warlike, yet not insensible to the tenderest impulses of humanity. To die betrothed and beloved, yet wedded only to immortal honor; to leave a mother, with a nation weeping at her feet; to serve his country, without having his patriotism contaminated by titles, crosses, and ribbons; this was the most fortunate fate of England's greatest commander in the colonies! No wonder, then, that with a grateful sympathy the laurels of his mother country were woven with the cypress of her chivalric son; that hundreds of pens were inspired to pay some tribute to his memory; that every branch of representative art, from stone to ink, essayed to portray his living likeness; that parliament and pulpit, with words of eloquence and gratitude, uttered the universal sentiment! "Brave Wolfe," I continued, "whose memory is linked with his no less youthful rival, Montcalm"----here I was interrupted by the voice of the mate of the Balaklava-- "I'll be dommed," said he, "if some person isn't afire!" Then I unclasped my hands, opened my eyes, and looked around me. The scene was a striking one. Right before me, with his grey head on the table, buried in his piscatorial paws, lay the master of the hutch, fast asleep. On a settle, one of the fishermen, who had been a devout listener to all the legends of the grandson of the veteran of Louisburgh, was in a similar condition; Bruce, our jolly first mate, with the pertinacity of his race, was wide awake, to be sure, but there were unmistakable signs of drowsiness in the droop of his eyelids; and Picton? That gentleman, buried in moose and cariboo skins, prostrate on a broad bench, drawn up close by the fire-place, was dreaming, probably, of sculpins, flounders, fish-pugh, and dingledekooch! "I say! wake up here!" said the jolly mate of the Balaklava; bringing his fist down upon the table with an emphatic blow, that roused all the sleepers except the traveller. "I say, wake up!" reiterated Brace, shaking Picton by the shoulder. Then Picton raised himself from his couch, and yawned twice; walked to the table, seated himself on a bench, thrust his fingers through his black hair, and instantly fell asleep again, after shaking out into the close atmosphere of the hutch a stifling odor of animal charcoal. "A little straw makes a great reek," said Bruce, laughing, "and when a mon gives out before his pipe, he is like to be burnet," and he pointed to a long black and brown singe on the worsted comforter of the traveller, by which we understood that Picton had fallen asleep, pipe in mouth, and then dropped his lighted _dudeen_ just on the safest part of his neck. Once again we roused the sleeper; and so, shaking hands with our hospitable host, we left the comfortable hutch at Wolfe's Landing, and were soon on our way to the jolly little schooner. CHAPTER VII. The other side of the Harbor--A Foraging Party--Disappointment--Twilight at Louisburgh--Long Days and Early Mornings--A Visit and View of an Interior--A Shark Story--Picton inquires about a Measure--Hospitality and the Two Brave Boys--Proposals for a Trip overland to Sydney. To make use of a quaint but expressive phrase, "it is patent enough," that travellers are likely to consume more time in reaching a place than they are apt to bestow upon it when found. And, I am ashamed to say, that even Louisburgh was not an exception to this general truth; although perhaps certain reasons might be offered in extenuation for our somewhat speedy departure from the precincts of the old town. First, then, the uncertainty of a sailing vessel, for the "Balaklava" was coquettishly courting any and every wind that could carry her out of our harbor of refuge. Next, the desire of seeing more of the surroundings of the ancient fortress--the batteries on the opposite side, the new town, the lighthouse, and the wild picturesque coast. Add to these the wish of our captain to shift his anchorage, to get on the side where he would have a better opening towards the ocean, "when the wind came on to blow,"--to say nothing of being in the neighborhood of his old friends, whose cottages dotted the green hill-sides across the bay, as you looked over the bows of the jolly little schooner. And there might have been other inducements--such as the hope of getting a few pounds of white sugar, a pitcher of milk (delicious, lacteous fluid, for which we had yearned so often amid the briny waves); and last, but not least, a hamper of blue-nosed potatoes. So, when the shades of the second evening were gathering grandly and gloomily around the dismantled parapets, and Louisburgh lay in all the lovely and romantic light of a red and stormy sunset, it seemed but fitting that the cable-chain of the anchor should clank to the windlass, and the die-away song of the mariner should resound above the calm waters, and the canvas stretch towards the land opposite, that seemed so tempting and delectable. And presently the "Balaklava" bore away across the red and purple harbor for the new town, leaving in her wake the ruined walls of Louisburgh that rose up higher the further we sailed from them. The schooner dropped anchor inside the little cove on the opposite side of the old town, which the reader will see by referring to the map; and the old battles of the years '45 and '58 were presently forgotten in the new aspects that were presented. The anchor was scarcely dropped fairly, before the yawl-boat was under the stroke of the oars, and Picton and I _en route_ for the store-house; the general, particular, and only exchange in the whole district of Louisburgh. It was a small wooden building with a fair array of tarpaulin hats, oil-skin garments, shelves of dry-goods and crockery, and boxes and barrels, such as are usually kept by country traders: on the beach before it were the customary flake for drying fish, the brown winged boats, and other implements of the fisheries. But alas! the new town, that looked so pastoral and pleasant, with its tender slopes of verdure, was not, after all, a Canaan, flowing with milk and blue-nosed potatoes. Neither was there white sugar, nor coffee, nor good black tea there; the cabin of the schooner being as well furnished with these articles of comfort as the store-house of McAlpin, towards which we had looked with such longing eyes. Indeed, I would not have cared so much about the disappointment myself, but I secretly felt sorry for Picton, who went rummaging about the barrels in search of something to eat or to drink. "No white sugar?" said the traveller. "_We don't have white sugar in this town_," was the answer. "Nor coffee?" "No, Sir." And the tea had the same flavor of musty hay, with which we were so well acquainted. At last Picton stumbled over a prize--a bushel-basket half-filled with potatoes, whereat he raised a bugle-note of triumph. It may seem strange that a gentleman of fine education, a traveller, who had visited the famous European capitals, London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Vienna; who had passed between the Pillars of Hercules, and voyaged upon the blue Mediterranean, far as the Greek Archipelago; who had wandered through the galleries of the Vatican, and mused within the courts of the Alhambra; who had seen the fire-works on the carnival dome of St. Peter's, and the water-works of Versailles; the temples of Athens, and the Boboli gardens of Florence; the sculptures of Praxiteles, and the frescoes of Raphael; should exhibit such emotion as Picton exhibited, over a bushel-basket only half-filled with small-sized blue-nosed tubers. But Picton was only a man, and "_Homo sum_----" the rest of the sentence it is needless to quote. I saw at a glance that the potatoes were cut in halves for planting; but Picton was filled with the divine idea of a feast. "I say, we want a peck of potatoes." "A peck?" was the answer. "Why, man, I wouldn't sell ye my seed-potatoes at a guinea apiece." Here was a sudden let-down; a string of the human violin snapped, just as it was keyed up to tuning point. Slowly and sorrowfully we regained the yawl after that brief and bitter experience, and a few strokes of the oars carried us to the side of the "Balaklava." It may seem absurd and trifling to dwell upon such slight particulars in this itinerary of a month among the Blue Noses (as our brothers of Nova Scotia are called); but to give a correct idea of this rarely-visited part of the world, one must notice the salient points that present themselves in the course of the survey. Louisburgh would speedly become rich from its fisheries, if there were sufficient capital invested there and properly used. Halifax is now the only point of contact between it and the outside world; Halifax supplies it with all the necessary articles of life, and Halifax buys all the produce of its fisheries. Therefore, Halifax reaps all the profits on either side, both of buying and selling, in all not amounting to much--as the matter now stands. But insomuch as the sluggish blood of the colonies will never move without some quickening impulse from exterior sources, and as Louisburgh is only ten days' sail, under canvas, from New York, and as the fisheries there would rapidly grow by kindly nurture into importance, it does seem as if a moderate amount of capital diverted in that direction, would be a fortunate investment, both for the investor and hardy fishermen of the old French town. I have alluded before to the long Acadian twilights, the tender and loving leave-takings between the day and his earth; just as two fond and foolish young people separate sometimes, or as the quaint old poet in Britannia's Pastorals describes it: "Look as a lover, with a lingering kiss, About to part with the best half that's his: Fain would he stay, but that he fears to do it, And curseth time for so fast hastening to it: Now takes his leave, and yet begins anew To make less vows than are esteemed true: Then says, he must be gone, and then doth find Something he should have spoke that's out of mind: _And while he stands to look for't in her eyes, Their sad, sweet glance so ties his faculties To think from what he parts that he is now As far from leaving her, or knowing how, As when he came_; begins his former strain, To kiss, to vow, and take his leave again; Then turns, comes back, sighs, pants, and yet doth go, Fain to retire, and loth to leave her so." Even so these fond and foolish old institutions part company in northern regions, and, at the early hour of two o'clock in the morning, the amorous twilight reappears in his foggy mantle, to look at the fair face of his ancient sweetheart in the month of June. Tea being over, the "cluck" of the row-locks woke the echoes of the twilight bay, as our little yawl put off again for the new town, with a gay evening party, consisting of the captain, his lady, the baby, Picton and myself, with a brace of Newfoundland oarsmen. If our galley was not a stately one, it was at least a cheerful vessel, and as the keel grated on the snow-white pebbles of the beach, Picton and I sprang ashore, with all the gallantry of a couple of Sir Walter Raleighs, to assist the queen of the "Balaklava" upon _terra firma_. Her majesty being landed, we made a royal procession to the largest hutch on the green slope before us, the captain carrying the insignia of his marital office (the baby) with great pomp and awkward ceremony, in front, while his lady, Picton and I, loitered in the rear. We had barely crossed the sill of the hutch-door, before we felt quite at home and welcome. The same cheery fire in the chimney-place, the spotless floor, the tidy rush-bottomed chairs, and a whole nest of little white-heads and twinkling eyes, just on the border of a bright patchwork quilt, was invitation enough, even if we had not been met at the threshold by the master himself, who stretched out his great arms with a kind, "Come-in-and-how-are-ye-all." And what a wonderful evening we passed in that other hutch, before the blazing hearth-fire! What stories of wrecks and rescues, of icebergs and whales, of fogs and fisheries, of domestic lobsters that brought up their little families, in the mouths of the sunken cannon of the French frigates; of the great sharks that were sometimes caught in the meshes of the set-nets! "There was one shark," said our host, another old fisherman, who, by the way, wore a red skull-cap like a cardinal, and had a habit of bobbing his head as he spoke, so as to put one continually in mind of a gigantic woodpecker--"there was one shark I mind particular. My two boys and me was hauling in the net, and soon as I felt it, says I, 'Boys, here's something more than common.' So we all hauled away, and O my! didn't the water boil when he come up? Such a time! Fortnatly, he come up tail first. LORD, if he'd a come up head first he'd a bit the boat in two at one bite! He was all hooked in, and twisted up with the net. I s'pose he had forty hooks in him; and when he got his head above water, he was took sick, and such a time as he had! He must a' vomited up about two barrels of bait--true as I set here. Well, as soon as he got over that, then he tried to get his head around to bite! LORD, if he'd got his head round, he'd a bit the boat in two, and we had it right full of fish, for we'd been out all day with hand-lines. He had a nose in front of his gills just like a duck, only it was nigh upon six feet long." "It must have been a shovel-nose shark," said Picton. "That's what a captain of a coaster told me," replied Red-Cap; "he said it must a been a shovel-nose. If he'd only got that shovel-nose turned around, he'd a shovelled us into eternity, fish and all." "What prevented him getting his head around?" said Picton. "Why, sir, I took two half-hitches round his tail, soon as I see him come up. And I tell ye when I make two half-hitches, they hold; ask captain there, if I can't make hitches as will hold. What say, captain?" Captain assented with a confirmatory nod. "What did you do then?" said Picton. "Did you get him ashore?" "Get him ashore?" muttered Red-Cap, covering his mouth with one broad brown hand to muffle a contemptuous laugh; "get him ashore! why, we was pretty well off shore for such a sail." "You might have rowed him ashore," said Picton. "Rowed him ashore?" echoed Red-Cap, with another contemptuous smile under the brown hand; "rowed him ashore?" The traveller, finding he was in deep water, answered: "Yes; that is, if you were not too far out." "A little too far out," replied Red-Cap; "why if I had been a hundred yards only from shore, it would ha' been too far to row, or sail in, with that shovel-nose, without counting the set-nets." "And what did you do?" said Picton, a little nettled. "Why," said Red-Cap, "I had to let him go, but first I cut out his liver, and that I did bring ashore, although it filled my boat pretty well full. You can judge how big it was: after I brought it ashore I lay it out on the beach and we measured it, Mr. McAlpin and me, and he'll tell you so too; we laid it out on the beach, that ere liver, and it measured seventeen feet, and then we didn't measure all of it." "Why the devil," said Picton, "didn't you measure all of it?" "Well," replied Red-Cap, "because we hadn't a measure long enough." Meantime the good lady of the hutch was busy arranging some tumblers on the table, and to our great surprise and delight a huge yellow pitcher of milk soon made its appearance, and immediately after an old-fashioned iron bake-pan, with an upper crust of live embers and ashes, was lifted off the chimney trammel, and when it was opened, the fragrance of hot ginger-bread filled the apartment. Then Red-Cap bobbed away at a corner cupboard, until he extracted therefrom a small keg or runlet of St. Croix rum of most ripe age and choice flavor, some of which, by an adroit and experienced crook of the elbow, he managed to insinuate into the milk, which, with a little brown sugar, he stirred up carefully and deliberately with a large spoon, Picton and I watching the proceedings with intense interest. Then the punch was poured out and handed around; while the good wife made little trips from guest to guest with a huge platter filled with the brown and fragrant pieces of the cake, fresh from the bake-pan. And so the baby having subsided (our baby of the "Balaklava"), and the twilight having given place to a grand moonlight on the bay, and the fire sending out its beams of warmth and happiness, glittering on the utensils of the dresser, and tenderly touching with rosy light the cheeks of the small, white-headed fishermen on the margin of the patchwork quilt; while there was no lack of punch and hospitality in the yellow pitcher, who shall say that we were not as well off in the fisherman's hutch as in a grand saloon, surrounded with frescoes and flunkeys, and served with thin lemonade upon trays of silver? I do not know why it is, but there always has been something very attractive to me in the faces of children; I love to read the physiognomy of posterity, and so get a history of the future world in miniature, before the book itself is fairly printed. And insomuch as Nova Scotia and Newfoundland are said to be the nurseries of England's seamen, it was with no little interest that I caught a glimpse of two boys, one thirteen, the other eleven years old, the eldest children of our friend Red-Cap. They came in just as we entered the hutch, and quietly seated themselves together by the corner of the fire-place, after modestly shaking hands with all the guests. They were dressed in plain home-spun clothes, with something of a sailor rig, especially the neat check shirts, and old-fashioned, little, low-quartered, round-toed shoes, such as are always a feature in the melo-drama where Jack plays a part. It is not usual, too, to see such stocky, robust frames as these fisher-boys presented; and in all three, in the father and his two sons, was one general, pervading idea of cleanliness and housewifery. And then, to notice the physiognomy again, each small face, though modest as that of no girl which I could recall at the moment, had its own tale of hardihood to tell; there was a something that recalled the open sea, written in either countenance; courage and endurance; faith and self-reliance; the compass and the rudder; speaking plainly out under each little thatch of white hair. And indeed, as we found out afterwards, those young countenances told the truth; those fisher-boys were Red-Cap's only boat-crew. In all weathers, in all seasons, by night and by day, the three were together, the parent and his two children, upon the perilous deep. "If I were the father of those boys," I whispered to Red-Cap, "I would be proud of them." "Would ye?" said he, with a proud, fatherly glance towards them; "well, I thought so once mysel'; it was when a schooner got ashore out there on the rocks; and we could see her, just under the lights of the lighthouse, pounding away; and by reason of the ice, nobody would venture; so my boys said, says they, 'Father, we can go, any way.' So I wouldn't stop when they said that, and so we laid beside the schooner and took off all her crew pretty soon, and they mostly dead with the cold; but it was an awful bad night, what with the darkness and the ice. Yes," he added, after a pause, "they are good boys now; but they won't be with me many years." "And why not?" I inquired, for I could not see that the young Red-Caps exhibited any migratory signs of their species to justify the remark. "Because all our boys go to the States just as soon as they get old enough." "To the States!" I echoed with no little surprise; "why, I thought they all entered the British Navy, or something of that kind." "Lord bless ye," said Red-Cap, "not one of them. Enter the British Navy! Why, man, you get the whole of our young people. What would they want to enter the British Navy for, when they can enter the United States of America?" "The air of Cape Breton is certainly favorable to health," said I, in a whisper, to Picton; "look, for example, at the mistress of the hutch!" and so surely as I have a love of womanity, so surely I intended to convey a sentiment of admiration in the brief words spoken to Picton. The wife of _Bonnet Rouge_ was at least not young, but her cheek was smooth, and flushed with the glow of health; her eyes liquid and bright; her hair brown, and abundant; her step light and elastic. Although neither Picton, captain, or anybody else in the hutch would remind one of the Angel Raphael, yet Mrs. Red-Cap, as ----"With dispatchful looks, in haste She turned, on hospitable thoughts intent," was somewhat suggestive of Eve; her movements were grand and simple; there was a welcome in her face that dimpled in and out with every current topic; a Miltonic grandeur in her air, whether she walked or waited. I could not help but admire her, as I do everything else noble and easily understood. Mrs. Red-Cap was a splendid woman; the wife of a fisherman, with an unaffected grace beyond the reach of art, and poor old Louisburgh was something to speak of. Picton expressed his admiration in stronger and profaner language. We were not the only guests at Red-Cap's. The lighthouse keeper, Mr. Kavanagh, a bachelor and scholar, with his sister, had come down to take a moonlight walk over the heather; for in new Scotland as in old Scotland, the bonny heather blooms, although not so much familiarized there by song and story. But we shall visit lighthouse Point anon, and spend some hours with the two Kavanaghs. Forthright, into the teeth of the harbor, the wind is blowing: "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou nearest the sound therof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth." How long the "Balaklava" may stay here is yet uncertain. So, with a good-night to the Red-Caps and their guests, we once more bear away for the cabin of the schooner and another night's discomfort. As I have said before in other words, this province is nothing more than a piece of patchwork, intersected with petty boundary lines, so that every nation is stitched in and quilted in spots, without any harmony, or coherence, or general design. The people of Louisburgh are a kind, hospitable, pleasant people, tolerably well informed for the inhabitants of so isolated a corner of the world; but a few miles further off we come upon a totally different race: a canting, covenanting, oat-eating, money-griping, tribe of second-hand Scotch Presbyterians: a transplanted, degenerate, barren patch of high cheek-bones and red hair, with nothing cleaving to them of the original stock, except covetousness and that peculiar cutaneous eruption for which the mother country is celebrated. But we shall soon have enough of these Scotsmen, good reader. Our present visit is to Lighthouse Point, to look out upon the broad Atlantic, the rocky coast, and the island battery, which a century since gave so much trouble to our filibustering fathers of New England. As we walked towards the lighthouse over the pebbly beach that borders the green turf, Picton suddenly starts off and begins a series of great jumps on the turf, giving with every grasshopper-leap a sort of interjectional "Whuh! whuh!" as though the feat was not confined to the leg-muscles only, but included also a necessary exercise of the lungs. And although we shouted at the traveller, he kept on towards the lighthouse, uttering with every jump, "Heather, heather." At last he came to, beside a group of evergreens, and grew rational. The springy, elastic sod, the heather of old Scotland, reproduced in new Scotland, had reminded him of reels and strathspeys, "for," said he, "nobody can walk upon this sort of thing without feeling a desire to dance upon it. Thunder and turf! if we only had the pipes now!" And sure enough here was the heather; the soft, springy turf, which has made even Scotchmen affectionate. I do not wonder at it; it answers to the foot-step like an echo, as the string of an instrument answers its concord; as love answers love in unison. I do not wonder that Scotchmen love the heather; I am only surprised that so much heather should be wasted on Scotchmen. We had anticipated a fine marine view from the lighthouse, but in place of it we could only see a sort of semi-luminous vapor, usually called a fog, which enveloped ocean, island, and picturesque coast. We could not discover the Island Battery opposite, which had bothered Sir William in the siege of '45; but nevertheless, we could judge of the difficulty of reaching it with a hostile force, screened as it was by its waves and vapors. The lighthouse is striped with black and white bars, like a zebra, and we entered it. One cannot help but admire such order and neatness, for the lighthouse is a marvel of purity. We were everywhere--in the bed-rooms, in the great lantern with its glittering lamps, in the hall, the parlor, the kitchen; and found in all the same pervading virtue; as fresh and sweet as a bride was that old zebra-striped lighthouse. The Kavanaghs, brother and sister, live here entirely alone; what with books and music, the ocean, the ships, and the sky, they have company enough. One could not help liking them, they have such cheerful faces, and are so kind and hospitable. Good bye, good friends, and peace be with you always! On our route schooner-ward we danced back over the heather, Picton with great joy carrying a small basket filled with his national fruit--a present from the Kavanaghs. What a feast we shall have, fresh fish, lobster, and above all--potatoes! It is a novel sight to see the firs and spruces on this stormy sea-coast. They grow out, and not up; an old tree spreading over an area of perhaps twenty feet in diameter, with the inevitable spike of green in its centre, and that not above a foot and a half from the ground. The trees in this region are possessed of extraordinary sagacity; they know how hard the wind blows at times, and therefore put forth their branches in full squat, just like country girls at a pic-nic. On Sunday the wind is still ahead, and Picton and I determine to abandon the "Balaklava." How long she may yet remain in harbor is a matter of fate; so, with brave, resolute hearts, we start off for a five-mile walk, to McGibbet's, the only owner of a horse and wagon in the vicinity of Louisburgh. Squirrels, robins, and rabbits appear and disappear in the road as we march forwards. The country is wild, and in its pristine state; nature everywhere. Now a brook, now a tiny lake, and "the murmuring pines and the hemlocks." At last we arrive at the house of McGibbet, and encounter new Scotland in all its original brimstone and oatmeal. CHAPTER VIII. A Blue-Nosed Pair of the most Cerulean Hue--Prospects of a Hard Bargain--Case of Necessity--Romantic Lake with an Unromantic Name--The Discussion concerning Oatmeal--Danger of the Gasterophili--McGibbet makes a Proposition--Farewell to the "Balaklava"--A Midnight Journey--Sydney--Boat Excursion to the Mic Macs--Picton takes off his Mackintosh. Some learned philosopher has asserted that when a person has become accustomed to one peculiar kind of diet, it will be expressed in the lineaments of his face. How much the constant use of oatmeal could produce such an effect, was plainly visible in the countenances of McGibbet and his lady-love. Both had an unmistakable equine cast; McGibbet, wild, scraggy, and scrubby, with a tuft on his poll that would not have been out of place between the ears of a plough-horse, stared at us, just as such an animal would naturally over the top of a fence; while his gentle mate, who had more of the amiable draught-horse in her aspect, winked at us with both eyes from under a close-crimped frill, that bore a marvellous resemblance to a head-stall. The pair had evidently just returned from kirk. To say nothing of McGibbet's hat, and his wife's shawl, on a chair, and his best boots on the hearth (for he was walking about in his stockings), there was a dry _preceese_ air about them, which plainly betokened they were newly stiffened up with the moral starch of the conventicle, and were therefore well prepared to drive a hard bargain for a horse and wagon to Sydney. But what surprised me most of all was the imperturbable coolness of Picton. Without taking a look scarcely at the persons he was addressing, the traveller stalked in with an--"I say, we want a horse and wagon to Sydney; so look sharp, will you, and turn out the best thing you have here?" The moral starch of the conventicle stiffened up instantly. Like the blacksmith of Cairnvreckan, who, as a _professor_, would drive a nail for no man on the Sabbath or kirk-fast, unless in a case of absolute necessity, and then always charged an extra saxpence for each shoe; so it was plain to be seen that McGibbet had a conscience which required to be pricked both with that which knows no law, and the saxpence extra. He turned to his wife and addressed her in _Gaelic_! Then we knew what was coming. Mrs. McGibbet opened the subject by saying that they were both accustomed to the observance of the Sabbath, and that "she didn't think it was right for man to transgress, when the law was so plain"---- Here McGibbet broke in and said that--"He was free to confess he had commeeted a grreat menny theengs kwhich were a grreat deal worse than Sabbath-breaking." Upon which Mrs. McG. interrupted him in turn with a few words, which, although in Gaelic, a language we did not understand, conveyed the impression that she was not addressing her liege lord in the language of endearment, and again continued in English: "That it was held sinful in the community to wark or do anything o' the sort, or to fetch or carry even a sma bundle"---- "For kwich," said McGibbet, "is a fine to be paid to the meenister, of five shillins currency"---- Here Picton stopped whistling a bar of "Bonny Doon," and observed to me: "About a dollar of your money. We'll pay the fine." "Yes," chimed in McGibbet, "a dollar"----and was again stopped by his wife, who raised her eyebrows to the borders of her kirk-frill and brought them down vehemently over her blue eyes at him. "Or to travel the road," she said, "even on foot, to say nothing of a wagon and horse." "But," interrupted Picton, "my dear madam, we must get on, I tell you; I must be in Sydney to-morrow, to catch the steamer for St. John's." At this observation of the traveller the pair fell back upon their Gaelic for a while, and in the meantime Picton whispered me: "I see; they want to raise the price on us: but we won't give in; they'll be sharp enough after the job by and by." The pair turned towards us and both shook their heads. It was plain to be seen the conference had not ended in our favor. "Ye see," said the gude-wife, "we are accustomed to the observance of the Sabbath, and would na like to break it, except"-- "In a case of necessity; you are perfectly right," chimed in Picton; "I agree with you myself. Now this is a case of necessity; here we are; we must get on, you see; if we don't get on we miss the steamer to-morrow for St. John's--she only runs once a fortnight there--it's plain enough a clear case of necessity; it's like," continued Picton, evidently trying to corner some authority in his mind, "it's like--let me see--it's like--a--pulling--a sheep out of a ditch--a--which they always do on the Sabbath, you know, to a--get us on to Sydney." Both McGibbet and his wife smiled at Picton's ingenuity, but straightway put on the equine look again. "It might be so; but it was clean contrary to their preenciples." "I'll be hanged," whispered Picton, "if I offer more than the usual price, which I heard at Louisburgh was one pound ten, to Sydney, and the fine extra. I see what they are after." There was an awkward pause in the negotiations. McGibbet scratched his poll, and looked wistfully at his wife, but the kirk-frill was stiffened up with the moral starch, as aforesaid. Suddenly, Picton looked out of the window. "By Jove!" said he, "I think the wind is changed! After all, we may get around in the 'Balaklava.'" McGibbet looked somewhat anxiously out of the window also, and grunted out a little more Gaelic to his love. The kirk-frill relented a trifle. "Perhaps the gentlemen wad like a glass of milk after thae long walk? and Robert" (which she pronounced Robbut), "a bit o' the corn-cake." Upon which Robbut, with great alacrity, turned towards the bed-room, from whence he brought forth a great white disk, that resembled the head of a flour-barrel, but which proved to be a full-grown griddle cake of corn-meal. This, with the pure milk, from the cleanest of scoured pans, was acceptable enough after the long walk. We had observed some beautiful streams, and blue glimpses of lakes on the road to McGibbet's, and just beyond his house was a larger lake, several miles in extent, with picturesque hills on either side, indented-with coves, and studded with islands, sometimes stretching away to distant slopes of green turf, and sometimes reflecting masses of precipitous rock, crowned with the spiry tops of spruces and firs. Indeed, all the country around, both meadow and upland, was very pleasing to the sight. A low range of hills skirted the northern part of what seemed to be a spacious, natural amphitheatre, while on the south side a diversity of highlands and water added to the whole the charm of variety. "You have a fine country about you, Mr. McGibbet," said I. "Ay," he replied. "And what is it called here?" "We ca' it Get-Along!" said Robbut, with an intensely Scotch accent on the "Get." "And yonder beautiful lake--what is the name of that?" said I, in hopes of taking refuge behind something more euphonious. "Oh! ay," replied he, "that's just Get-Along, too. We doan't usually speak of it, but whan we do, we just ca' it Get-Along Lake, and it's not good for much." I thought it best to change the subject. "Do you like this as well as the oat-cake?" said I, with my mouth full of the dry, husky provender. "Nae," said McGibbet, with an equine shake of the head, "it's not sae fellin." Not so filling! Think of that, ye pampered minions of luxury, who live only upon delicate viands; who prize food, not as it useful, but as it is tasteful; who can even encourage a depraved, sensual appetite so far as to appreciate flavor; who enjoy meats, fish, and poultry, only as they minister to your palates; who flirt with spring-chickens and trifle with sweet-breads in wanton indolence, without a thought of your cubic capacity; without a reflection that you can live just as well upon so many square inches of oatmeal a day as you can upon the most elaborate French kickshaws; nay, that you can be elevated to the level of a scientific problem, and work out your fillings, with nothing to guide you but a slate and pencil! "Then you like oatmeal better than this?" said Picton, soothing down a husky lump, with a cup of milk. "Ay," responded McGibbet. "And you always eat it, whenever you can get it, I suppose?" continued Picton, with a most innocent air. "Ay," responded McGibbet. "I should think some of you Scotchmen would be afraid of contracting a disease that is engendered in the system by the use of this sort of grain. I hope, Mr. McGibbet," said Picton, with imperturbable coolness, "you keep clear of the bots, and that sort of thing, you know?" "Kwat?" said Robbut, with the most startled, horse-like look he had yet put on. "The gasterophili," replied Picton, "which I would advise you to steer clear of, if you want to live long." As this was a word with too many gable-ends for Robbut's comprehension, he only responded by giving such a smile as a man might be expected to give who had his mouth full of aloes, and as the conversation was wandering off from the main point, addressed himself to Mrs. McG. in the vernacular again. "We would like to obleege ye," said the lady, "if it was not for the transgression; and we do na like to break the Sabbath for ony man." "Although," interposed Robbut, "I am free to confess that I have done a great many things worse than breakin' the Sabbath." "But if to-morrow would do as well," resumed his wife, "Robbut would take ye to Sydney." To this Picton shook his head. "Too late for the steamer." "Or to-night; I wad na mind that," said the pious Robbut, "_if it was after dark_, and that will bring ye to Sydney before the morn." "That will do," said Picton, slapping his thigh. "Lend us your horse and wagon to go down to the schooner and get our luggage; we will be back this evening, and then go on to Sydney, eh? That will do; a ride by moonlight;" and the traveller jumped up from his seat, walked with great strides towards the fire-place, turned his back to the blaze, hung a coat-tail over each arm, and whistled "Annie Laurie" at Mrs. McGibbet. The suggestion of Picton meeting the views of all concerned, the diplomacy ended. Robbut put himself in his Sunday boots, and hitched up a spare rib of a horse before a box-wagon without springs, which he brought before the door with great complacency. The traveller and I were soon on the ground-floor of the vehicle, seated upon a log of wood by way of cushion; and with a chirrup from McGibbet, off we went. At the foot of the first hill, our horse stopped; in vain Picton jerked at the rein, and shouted at him: not a step further would he go, until Robbut himself came down to the rescue. "Get along, Boab!" said his master; and Bob, with a mute, pitiful appeal in his countenance, turned his face towards salt-water. At the foot of the next hill he stopped again, when the irascible Picton jumped out, and with one powerful twitch of the bridle, gave Boab such a hint to "get on," that it nearly jerked his head off. And Boab did get on, only to stop at the ascent of the next hill. Then we began to understand the tactics of the animal. Boab had been the only conveyance between Louisburgh and Sydney for many years, and, as he was usually over-burdened, made a point to stop at the up side of every hill on the road, to let part of his freight get out and walk to the top of the acclivity with him. So, by way of compromise, we made a feint of getting out at every rise of ground, and Boab, who always turned his head around at each stopping-place, seemed to be satisfied with the observance of the ceremony, and trotted gaily forward. At last we came to a place we had named Sebastopol in the morning--a great sharp edge of rock as high as a man's waist, that cut the road in half, over which we lifted the wagon, and were soon in view of the bright little harbor and the "Balaklava" at anchor. Mr. McAlpin kindly gave quarters to our steed in his out-house, and offered to raise a signal for the schooner to send a boat ashore. As he was Deputy United States Consul, and as I was tired of the red-cross of St. George, I asked him to hoist his consular flag. Up to the flag-staff truck rose the roll of white and red worsted, then uncoiled, blew out, and the blessed stars and stripes were waving over me. It is surprising to think how transported one can be sometimes with a little bit of bunting! And now the labor of packing commenced, of which Picton had the greatest share by far; the little cabin of the schooner was pretty well spread out with his traps on every side; and this being ended, Picton got out his travelling-organ and blazed away in a _finale_ of great tunes and small, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, as the humor took him. After all, we parted from the jolly little craft with regret: our trunks were lowered over the side; we shook hands with all on board; and were rowed in silence to the land. I have had some experience in travelling, and have learned to bear with ordinary firmness and philosophy the incidental discomforts one is certain to meet with on the road; but I must say, the discipline already acquired had not prepared me for the unexpected appearance of our wagon after Picton's luggage was placed in it. First, two solid English trunks of sole-leather filled the bottom of the vehicle; then the traveller's Minié-rifle, life-preserver, strapped-up blankets, and hand-bag were stuffed in the sides: over these again were piled my trunk and the traveller's valise (itself a monster of straps and sole-leather); then again his portable-secretary and the hand-organ in a box. These made such a pyramid of luggage, that riding ourselves was out of the question. What with the trunks and the cordage to keep them staid, our wagon looked like a ship of the desert. To crown all, it began to rain steadily. "Now, then," said Picton, climbing up on his confounded travelling equipage, "let's get on." With some difficulty I made a half-seat on the corner of my own trunk; Picton shouted out at Boab; the Newfoundland sailors who had brought us ashore, put their shoulders to the wheels, and away we went, waving our hats in answer to the hearty cheers of the sailors. It was down hill from McAlpin's to the first bridge, and so far we had nothing to care for, except to keep a look-out we were not shaken off our high perch. But at the foot of the first hill Boab stopped! In vain Picton shouted at him to get on; in vain he shook rein and made a feint of getting down from the wagon. Boab was not intractable, but he was sagacious; he had been fed on that sort of chaff too long. Picton and I were obliged to humor his prejudices, and dismount in the mud, and after one or two feeble attempts at a ride, gave it up, walked down hill and up, lifted the wagon by inches over Sebastopol, and finally arrived at McGibbet's, wet, tired, and hungry. That Sabbath-broker received us with a grim smile of satisfaction, put on the half-extinguished fire the smallest bit of wood he could find in the pile beside the hearth, and then went away with Boab to the stable. "Gloomy prospects ahead, Picton!" The traveller said never a word. Now I wish to record here this, that there is no place, no habitation of man, however humble, that cannot be lighted up with a smile of welcome, and the good right-hand of hospitality, and made cheerful as a palace hung with the lamps of Aladdin! McGibbet, after leading his beast to the stable, returned, and warming his wet hands at the fire, grunted out; "It rains the nigcht." "Yes," answered Picton, hastily, "rains like blue blazes: I say, get us a drop of whisky, will you?" To this the equine replied by folding his hands one over the other with a saintly look. "I never keep thae thing in the hoose." "Picton," said I, "if we could only unlash our luggage, I have a bottle of capital old brandy in my trunk, but it's too much trouble." "Oh! na," quoth Robbut with a most accommodating look, "it will be nae trooble to get to it." "Well, then," said Picton, "look sharp, will you?" and our host, with great swiftness, moved off to the wagon, and very soon returned with the trunk on his shoulder, according to directions. "But," said I, taking out the bottle of precious fluid, "here it is, corked up tight, and what is to be done for a cork-screw?" "I've got one," said the saint. "I thought it was likely," quoth Picton, drily; "look sharp, will you?" And Robbut did look sharp, and produced the identical instrument before Picton and I had exchanged smiles. Then Robbut spread out three green tumblers on the table, and following Picton's lead, poured out a stout half-glass, at which I shouted out, "Hold up!" for I thought he was filling the tumbler for my benefit. It proved to be a mistake; Robbut stopped for a moment, but instantly recovering himself, covered the tumbler with his four fingers, and, to use a Western phrase, "got outside of the contents quicker than lightning." Then he brought from his bed-room a coarse sort of worsted horse-blanket, and with a "Ye'll may-be like to sleep an hour or twa?" threw down his family-quilt and retired to the arms of Mrs. McG. Picton gave a great crunching blow with his boot-heel at the back-stick, and laid on a good supply of fuel. We were wet through and through, but we wrapped ourselves in our travelling-blankets like a brace of clansmen in their plaids, put our feet towards the niggardly blaze, and were soon bound and clasped with sleep. At two o'clock our host roused us from our hard bed, and after a stretch, to get the stiffness out of joints and muscles, we took leave of the Presbyterian quarters. The day was just dawning: at this early hour, lake and hill-side, tree and thicket, were barely visible in the grey twilight. The wagon, with its pyramid of luggage, moved off in the rain, McGibbet walking beside Boab, and Picton and I following after, with all the gravity of chief mourners at a funeral. To give some idea of the road we were upon, let it be understood, it had once been an old _French_ military road, which, after the destruction of the fortress of Louisburgh, had been abandoned to the British Government and the elements. As a consequence, it was embroidered with the ruts and gullies of a century, the washing of rains, and the tracks of wagons; howbeit, the only traverse upon it in later years were the wagon of McGibbet and the saddle-horse of the post-rider. "Get-Along" had a population of seven hundred Scotch Presbyters, and therefore it will be easy to understand the condition of its turnpike. Up hill and down hill, through slough and over rock, we trudged, for mile after mile. Sometimes beside Get-Along Lake, with its grey, spectral islands and woodlands; sometimes by rushing brooks and dreary farm-fields; now in paths close set with evergreens; now in more open grounds, skirted with hills and dotted with silent, two-penny cottages. Sometimes Picton mounted his pyramid of trunk-leather for a mile or so of nods; sometimes I essayed the high perch, and holding on by a cord, dropped off in a moment's forgetfulness, with the constant fear of waking up in a mud-hole, or under the wagon-wheels. But even these respites were brief. It is not easy to ride up hill and down by rock and rut, under such conditions. We were very soon convinced it was best to leave the wagon to its load of sole-leather, and walk through the mud to Sydney. After mouldy Halifax, and war-worn Louisburgh, the little town of Sydney is a pleasant rural picture. Everybody has heard of the Sydney coal-mines: we expected to find the miner's finger-marks everywhere; but instead of the smoky, sulphurous atmosphere, and the black road, and the sulky, grimy, brick tenements, we were surprised with clean, white, picket-fences; and green lawns, and clever, little cottages, nestled in shrubbery and clover. The mines are over the bay, five miles from South Sydney. Slowly we dragged on, until we came to a sleepy little one-story inn, with supernatural dormer windows rising out of the roof, before which Boab stopped. We _paid_ McGibbet's kirk-fine, wagon-fare, and his unconscionable charge for his conscience, without parleying with him; we were too sleepy to indulge in the luxury of a monetary skirmish. A pretty, red-cheeked chambermaid, with lovely drooping eyes, showed us to our rooms; it was yet very early in the morning; we were almost ashamed to get into bed with such dazzling white sheets after the dark-brown accommodations of the "Balaklava;" but we did get in, and slept; oh! how sweetly! until breakfast at one! "Twenty-four miles of such foot-travel will do pretty well for an invalid, eh, Picton?" "All serene?" quoth the traveller, interrogatively. "Feel as well as ever I did in my life," said I, with great satisfaction. "Then let's have a bath," and, at Picton's summons, the chambermaid brought up in our rooms two little tubs of fair water, and a small pile of fat, white napkins. The bathing over, and the outer men new clad, "from top to toe," down we went to the cosy parlor to breakfast; and such a breakfast! I tell you, my kind and gentle friend; _you_, who are now reading this paragraph, that here, as in all other parts of the world, there are a great many kinds of people; only that here, in Nova Scotia, the difference is in spots, not in individuals. And I will venture to say to those philanthropists who are eternally preaching "of the masses," and "to the masses," that here "masses" can be found--concrete "masses," not yet individualized: as ready to jump after a leader as a flock of sheep after a bell-wether; only that at every interval of five or ten miles between place and place in Nova Scotia, they are apt to jump in contrary directions. There are Scotch Nova Scotiaites even in Sydney. Otherwise the place is marvellously pleasant. I must confess that I had a romantic sort of idea in visiting Sydney; a desire to return by way of the _Bras d'Or_ lake, the "arm of gold," the inland sea of Cape Breton, that makes the island itself only a border for the water in its interior. And as the navigation is frequently performed by the Micmac Indians, in their birch-bark canoes, I determined to be a _voyageur_ for the nonce, and engage a couple of Micmacs to paddle me homewards, at least one day's journey. The wigwams of the tribe were pitched about a mile from the town, and I proposed a visit to their camp as an afternoon's amusement. Picton readily assented, and down we went to the wharf, where the landlady assured us we would find some of the tribe. These Indians, often expert coopers, are employed to barrel up fish; the busy wharf was covered with laborers, hard at work, heading and hooping ship loads of salt mackerel; and among the workmen were some with the unmistakable lozenge eyes, high cheek-bones, and rhubarb complexion of the native American. Upon inquiry, we were introduced to one of the Rhubarbarians. He was a little fellow, not in leggings and quill-embroidered hunting-shirt, with belt of wampum and buckskin moccasins; armed with bow and arrow, tomahawk and scalping-knife; such as one would expect to navigate a wild, romantic lake with, in birch-bark canoe; but a pinched-up specimen of a man, in a seedy black suit, out of which rose a broad, flat face, like the orb of a sun-flower, bearing one side the aboriginal black eye, and on the other the civilized, surrounded with the blue and purple halo of battle. We had barely opened our business with the Indian, when a bonny Scotchman, a fellow-cooper of salt mackerel, introduced himself: "Oh, ye visit the Micmacs the day?" No answer. "De'il a canoe has he to tak ye there" (the Indian slunk away), "but I'll tak ye tull 'em for one and saxpence, in a gude boat." The fellow had such an honest face, and the offer was so fair and earnest, that Picton's and my own trifling prejudices were soon overcome, and we directed Malcolm, for that was his name, to bring his boat under the inn-windows after the dinner-hour. I regret to say that we found Malcolm tolerably drunk after dinner, with a leaky boat, under the inn-windows. And farther, I am pained to state the national characteristic was developed in Malcolm drunk, from which there was no appeal to Malcolm sober, for he insisted upon double fare, and time was pressing. To this we assented, after a brief review of former prejudices. We got in the boat and put off. We had barely floated away into the beautiful landscape when a fog swept over us, and Malcolm's nationality again woke up. He would have four times as much as he had charged in the first instance, or "he'd tak us over, and land us on the ither side of the bay." Then Picton's nationality woke up, and he unbuttoned his mackintosh. "Now, sir," said he to Malcolm, as he rose from his seat in the boat, his head gracefully inclined towards his starboard shirt-collar, and his two tolerably large fists arrayed in order of battle within a few brief inches of the delinquent's features, "did I understand you to say that you had some idea of taking this gentleman and myself _to the other side of the bay_?" There was a boy in our boat--a fair-haired, blue-eyed representative of Nova Scotia; a sea-boy, with a dash of salt-water in his ruddy cheeks, who had modestly refrained from taking part in the dispute. "Come, now," said he to Malcolm, "pull away, and let us get the gentlemen up to the camp," and he knit his boy brow with determination, as if he meant to have it settled according to contract. "Yes," said Picton, nodding at the boy, "and if he don't"---- "I'm pullin' an't I?" quoth the descendant of King Duncan, a little frightened, and suiting the action to the word; "I'm a-pewlin," and here his oar missed the water, and over he tumbled with a great splash in the bottom of the boat. "I'm a-pewlin," he whined, as he regained his seat and the oar, "and all I want is to hae my honest airnins." "Then pull away," said Picton, as he resumed his seat in the stern-sheets. "Ay," quoth the Scotchman, "I know the Micmacs weel, and thae squaws too; deil a one o' 'em but knows Malcolm"---- "Pull away," said the boy. "They are guid-lookin', thae squaws, and I'm a bachelter; and I tell ye when I tak ye tull em--for I know the hail o' em--if ye are gentlemen, ye'll pay me my honest airnins." "And I tell you," answered Picton, his fist clenched, his eye flashing again, and his indignant nostrils expressing a degree of anger language could not express; "I tell you, if you do not carry us to the Micmac camp without further words, I'll pay you your honest earnings before you get there: I'll punch that Scotch head of yours till it looks like a photograph!" CHAPTER IX. The Micmac Camp--Indian Church-warden and Broker--Interior of a Wigwam--A Madonna--A Digression--Malcolm discharged--An Indian Bargain--The Inn Parlor, and a Comfortable Night's Rest. The threat had its effect: in a few minutes our boat ran bows-on up the clear pebbled beach before the Micmac camp. It was a little cluster of birch-bark wigwams, pitched upon a carpet of greensward, just at the edge of one of the loveliest harbors in the world. The fog rolled away like the whiff of vapor from a pipe, and melted out of sight. Before us were the blue and violet waters, tinged with the hues of sunset, the rounded, swelling, curving shores opposite, dotted with cottages; the long, sweeping, creamy beaches, the distant shipping, and, beyond, the great waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Nearer at hand were "the murmuring pines and the hemlocks," the tender green light seen in vistas of firs and spruces, the thin smoke curling up from the wigwams, the birch-bark canoes, the black, bright eyes of the children, the sallow faces of the men, and the pretty squaws, arrayed in blue broad-cloth frocks and leggings, and modesty, and moccasins. "Now, here we are," said Malcolm, triumphantly, "and wha d'ye thenk o' the Micmacs? Deil a wan o' the yellow deevils but knows Malcolm, an I'll introjewce ye to the hail o' em." "Stop, sir," said Picton, sternly, "we want none of your company. You can take your boat back," (here I nodded affirmatively), "and we'll walk home." It was quite a picture, that of our oarsman, upon this summons to depart. He had just laid his hand upon the shoulder of a fat, good-natured looking squaw, to commence the introjewcing; one foot rested on the bottom of an overturned canoe, in an attitude of command; his old battered tarpaulin hat, his Guernsey shirt, and salt-mackerel trowsers, finely relieved against the violet-tinted water; but oh! how chop-fallen were those rugged features under that old tarpaulin! The scene had its effect; I am sure Picton and myself would gladly have paid the quadruple sum on the spot--after all, it was but a trifle--for we both drew forth a sovereign at the same moment. Unfortunately Malcolm had no change; not a "bawbee." "Then," said we, "go back to the inn, and we'll pay you on our return." "And," said Malcolm, in an unearthly whine that might have been heard all over the camp, "d' ye get me here to take advantage o' me, and no pay me my honest airnins?" "What the devil to do with this fellow, short, of giving him a drubbing, I do not know," said Picton. "Here, you, give us change for a sovereign, or take yourself off and wait at the hotel till we get back again." "I canna change a sovereign, I tell ye"---- "Then be off with you, and wait." "Wad ye send me away without my honest airnins?" he uttered, with a whine like the bleat of a bagpipe. Picton drew a little closer to Malcolm, with one fist carefully doubled up and put in ambush behind his back. But the boy interposed--"Perhaps the Micmac chief could change the sovereign." "Oh! ay," quoth Malcolm, who had given an uneasy look at Picton as he stepped towards him; "Oh! ay; I'se tak ye tull 'im;" and without further ado he stepped off briskly towards the centre of the camp, and we followed in his wake. When our file-leader reached the wigwam of the chief, he went down on hands and knees, lifted up a little curtain or blanket in front of the low door of the tent, crawled in head first, and we followed close upon his heels. As soon as the eye became accustomed to the dim and uncertain light of the interior, we began to examine the curious and simple architecture of this human bee-hive. A circle of poles, say about ten feet in diameter at the base, and tied together to an apex at the top, covered with the thin bark of the birch-tree, except a space above to let out the smoke, was all the protection these people had against the elements in summer or winter. The floor, of course, was the primitive soil of Cape Breton; in the centre of the tent a few sticks were smouldering away over a little pile of ashes: the thin smoke lifted itself up in folds of blue vapor until it stole forth into the evening air from the opening in the roof. Through this aperture the light--the only light of the tent--fell down upon the group below: the old chief with his great silver cross, and medal, and snow-white hair; the young and beautiful squaw with her pappoose at the breast, like a Madonna by Murillo; Malcolm's battered tarpaulin and Guernsey shirt; and the two unpicturesque objects of the party--Picton and myself. Around the central fire a broad, green border of fragrant hemlock twigs, extending to the skirts of the tent, was raised a few inches from the ground. Upon this couch we sat, and opened our business with the aged sagamore. Old Indian was very courteous; he drew forth a bag of clinking dollars, for strange as it may seem, he was a churchwarden: the Micmacs being all Catholics, the chief holds the silver keys of St. Peter. But venerable and pious as he appeared, with his silver cross and silver hair, the old fellow was something too of a broker! He demanded a fair rate of commission--eight per cent. premium on every dollar! Even this would not answer our purpose; it was as difficult to make change with the old churchwarden as with Malcolm: there was no money in the camp except hard silver dollars. No change for a sovereign! So we went forth from the wigwam again on all fours, and it was only by another promise of a sound drubbing that Malcolm was finally persuaded to drop off and leave us. Aboriginal certainly is the camp of the Micmacs. The birch-bark wigwams; the canoes that lined the beach; the paddles, the utensils; the bows and arrows; the parti-colored baskets, are independent of, are earlier than our arts and manufactures. So far as these people are concerned, the colonial government has been mild and considerate. Although there are game-laws in the Province, yet Micmac has a privilege no white man can possess. At all seasons he may hunt or fish; he may stick his _aishkun_ in the salmon as it runneth up the rivers to spawn, and shoot the partridge on its nest, if he please, without fine and imprisonment. Some may think it better to preserve the game than to preserve the Indian; but some think otherwise. For my part, when the question is between the man and the salmon, I am content to forego fish. As we walked through the Micmac camp we met our semi-civilized friend with the lozenge eyes, and I made a contract with him for a brief voyage on le Bras d'Or. But alas! Indian will sometimes take a lesson from his white comrades! Micmac's charge at first was one pound for a trip of twenty-four miles on the "Arm of Gold;" cheap enough. But before we left the camp it was two pounds. That I agreed to pay. Then there was a portage of three miles, over which the canoe had to be carried. "Well?" "And it would take two men to paddle." "Well?" "And then the canoe had to be paddled back." "Well?" "And then carried over the portage again." "Well?" "And so it would be four pounds!" Here the negotiations were broken off; how much more it would cost I did not ascertain. The rate of progression was too rapid for further inquiry. So we walked home again amid the fragrant resinous trees, until we gained the high road, and so by pretty cottages, and lawns, and picket fences; sometimes meeting groups of wandering damsels with their young and happy lovers; sometimes twos and threes of horse-women, in habits, hats, and feathers; now catching a glimpse of the broad, blue harbor; now looking down a green lane, bordered with turf and copse; until we reached our comfortable quarters at Mrs. Hearn's, where the pretty chambermaid, with drooping eyes, welcomed us in a voice whose music was sweeter than the tea-bell she held in her hand. And here, too, we found Malcolm, waiting for his pay, partially sober and quiet as a lamb. I trust the reader will not find fault with the writer for dwelling upon these minute particulars. In this itinerary of the trip to the Acadian land, I have endeavored to portray, as faithfully as may be, the salient features of the country, and particularly those contrasts visible in the settlements; the jealous preservation of those dear, old, splendid prejudices, that separate tribe from tribe, clan from clan, sect from sect, race from race. I wish the reader to see and know the country as it is, not for the purpose of arousing his prejudices against a neighboring people, but rather with the intent of showing to what result these prejudices tend, in order that he may correct his own. A mere aggregation of tribes is not a great people. Take the human species in a state of sectionalism, and it does not make much difference whether it is in the shape of the Indian, proud of the blue and red stripes on his face, or the Scotchman, proud of the blue and red stripes on his plaid, the inferiority of the human animal, with his tribal sheep-mark on him, is evident enough to any person of enlarged understanding. Therefore I have been minute and faithful in describing the species McGibbet and Malcolm, and in contrasting them with the hardy fisherman of Louisburgh, the Micmacs of Sydney, the negroes of Deer's Castle, the Acadians of Chizzetcook, and as we shall see anon with other sectional specimens, just as they present their kaleidoscopic hues in the local settlements of this colony. It is just a year since I was seated in that cosy inn-parlor at Sydney, and how strangely it all comes back again: the little window overlooking the harbor, the lights on the twinkling waters; the old-fashioned house-clock in the corner of the room; the bright brass andirons; the cut paper chimney-apron; the old sofa; the cheerful lamp, and the well-polished table. And I remember, too, the happy, tranquil feeling of lying in the snow-white sheets at night, and talking with Picton of our overland journey from Louisburgh; of McGibbet and Malcolm; and then we branched out on the great subject of Indian rights, and Indian wrongs; of squaws and pappooses; of wigwams and canoes, until at last I dropped off in a doze, and heard only a repetition of Micmac--Micmac--Micmac--Mic--Mac----Mic------Mac! To this day I am unable to say whether the sound I heard came from Picton, or the great house-clock in the corner. CHAPTER X. Over the Bay--A Gigantic Dumb Waiter--Erebus--Reflections--White and Black Squares of the Chess-board--Leave-taking--An Interruption--The Aibstract Preencipels of Feenance. Bright and early next morning we arose for an expedition across the bay to North Sydney and the coal-mines. A fresh breakfast in a sunny room, a brisk walk to the breezy, grass-grown parapet, that defends the harbor; a thought of the first expedition to lay down the telegraph line between the old and new hemispheres, for here lie the coils of the sub-marine cable, as they were left after the stormy essay of the steamer "James Adger," a year before--what a theme for a poet! "Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some spark, now dormant, of electric fire: News, that the board of brokers might have swayed, Or broke the banks that trembled with the wire." --and we take an airy seat on the poop-deck of the little English steamer, and are wafted across the harbor, five miles, to a small sea-port, where coal-schutes and railways run out over the wharfs, and coasters, both fore-and-aft, and square-rigged, are gathered in profusion. A glass of English ale at a right salt-sea tavern, a bay horse, and two-wheeled "jumper" for the road, and away we roll towards the mines. Now up hill and down; now passing another Micmac camp on the green margin of the beach; now by trim gardens without flowers; now getting nearer to the mines, which we know by the increasing blackness of the road; until at last we bowl past rows of one story dingy tenements of brick, with miners' wives and children clustered about them like funereal flowers; until we see the forges and jets of steam, and davits uplifted in the air; and hear the rattle of the iron trucks and the rush of the coal as it runs through the schutes into the rail-cars on the road beneath. We tie our pony beside a cinder-heap, and mount a ladder to the level of the huge platform above the shaft. A constant supply of small hand-cars come up with demoniac groans and shrieks from the bowels of the earth through the shaft. These are instantly seized by the laborers and run over an iron floor to the schute, where they are caught in titantic trammels, and overturned into harsh thunder. Meanwhile the demon car-bringer has sunk again on its errand; the suspending rope wheeling down with dizzy swiftness. As one car-bearer descends, another rises to the surface with its twin wheel-vessels of coal. "Would you like to go down?" "How far down?" "Sixty fathoms." Three hundred and sixty feet! Think of being suspended by a thread, from a height twice that of Trinity's spire, and whirled into such a depth by steam! We crawled into the little iron box, just large enough to allow us to sit up with our heads against the top, both ends of our parachute being open; the operator presses down a bar, and instantly the earth and sky disappear, and we are wrapt in utter darkness. Oh? how sickening is this sinking feeling! Down--down--down! What a gigantic dumb-waiter! Down, down, a hot gust of vapor--a stifling sensation--a concussion upon the iron floor at the foot of the shaft; a multitude of twinkling lamps, of fiends, of grimy faces, and no bodies--and we are in a coal-mine. There was a black, bituminous seat for visitors, sculptured out of the coal, just beyond the shaft, and to this we were led by the carboniferous fiends. My heart beat violently. I do not know how it went with Picton, but we were both silent. Oh! for a glimpse of the blue sky and waving trees above us, and a long breath of fresh air! As soon as the stifling sensation passed away, we breathed more freely, and the lungs became accustomed to the subterranean atmosphere. In the gloom, we could see the smutted features only, of miners moving about, and to heighten the Dantesque reality, new and strange sounds, from different parts of the enormous cavern, came pouring towards the common centre--the shaft of the coal-pit. These were the laden cars on the tram-ways, drawn by invisible horses, from the distant works in the mine, rolling and reverberating through the infernal aisles of this devil's cathedral. One could scarcely help recalling the old grandfather of Maud's Lord-lover: ----"lately died, Gone to a _blacker pit_, for whom Grimy nakedness, dragging his trucks And laying his trams, _in a poisoned gloom_ Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine Master of half a servile shire, And left his coal all turned into gold To a grandson, first of his noble line." Intermingled with these sounds were others, the jar and clash of gateways, the dripping and splashing of water, the rolling thunder of the ascending and descending iron parachutes in the shaft, the trampling of horses, the distant report of powder-blasts, and the shrill jargon of human speakers, near, yet only partially visible. "Is it a clear day overhead?" said the black bust of one of the miners, with a lamp in its _hat_! Just think of it! We had only been divorced from the aërial blue of a June sky a minute before. Our very horse was so high above us that we could have distinguished him only by the aid of a telescope--that is, if the solid ribs of the globe were not between us and him. As soon as we became accustomed to the place, we moved off after the foreman of the mine. We walked through the miry tram-ways under the low, black arches, now stepping aside to let an invisible horse and car, "grating harsh thunder," pass us in the murky darkness; now through a door-way, momently closed to keep the foul and clear airs separate, until we came to the great furnace of the mine that draws off all the noxious vapors from this nest of Beelzebub. Then we went to the stables where countless horses are stalled--horses that never see the light of day again, or if they do, are struck blind by the apparition; now in wider galleries, and new explorations, where we behold the busy miners, twinkling like the distant lights of a city, and hear the thunder-burst, as the blast explodes in the murky chasms. At last, tired, oppressed, and sickened with the vast and horrible prison, for such it seems, we retrace our steps, and once more enter the iron parachute. A touch of the magic lever, and again we fly away; but now upwards, upwards to the glorious blue sky and air of mother earth. A miner with his lamp accompanies us. By its dim light we see how rapidly we spin through the shaft. Our car clashes again at the top, and as we step forth into the clear sunshine, we thank GOD for such a bright and beautiful world up stairs! "Do you know," said I, "Picton, what we would do if we had such a devil's pit as that in the States?" "Well?" answered the traveller, interrogatively. "We would make niggers work it." "I dare say," replied Picton, drily and satirically; "but, sir, I am proud to say that our government does not tolerate barbarity; to consign an inoffensive fellow-creature to such horrible labor, merely because he is black, is at variance with the well-known humanity of the whole British nation, sir." "But those miners, Picton, were black as the devil himself." "The miners," replied Picton, with impressive gravity, "are black, but not negroes." "Nothing but mere white people, Picton?" "Eh?" said the traveller. "Only white people, and therefore we need not waste one grain of sympathy over a whole pit full of them." "Why not?" "Because they are not niggers, what is the use of wasting sympathy upon a rat-hole full of white British subjects?" "I tell you what it is," said Picton, "you are getting personal." We were now rolling past the dingy tenements again. Squalid-looking, care-worn women, grimy children: "To me there's something touching, I confess, In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, Seen often in some little childish face, Among the poor;"-- But these children's faces are not such. A child's face--God bless it! should always have a little sunshine in its glance; but these are mere staring faces, without expression, that make you shudder and feel sad. Miners by birth; human moles fitted to burrow in darkness for a life-time. Is it worth living for? No wonder those swart laborers underground are so grim and taciturn: no wonder there was not a face lighted up by those smoky lamps in the pit, that had one line of human sympathy left in its rigidly engraved features! But we must have coal, and we must have cotton. The whole plantations of the South barely supply the press with paper; and the messenger of intelligence, the steam-ship, but for coal could not perform its glorious mission. What is to be done, Picton? If every man is willing to give up his morning paper, wear a linen shirt, cross the ocean in a clipper-ship, and burn wood in an open fire-place, something might be done. As Picton's steamer (probably fog-bound) had not yet arrived in Sydney, nor yet indeed the "Balaklava," the traveller determined to take a Newfoundland brigantine for St. John's, from which port there are vessels to all parts of the world. After leaving horse and jumper with the inn-keeper, we took a small boat to one of the many queer looking, high-pooped crafts in the harbor, and very soon found ourselves in a tiny cabin, panelled with maple, in which the captain and some of the men were busy over a pan of savory _lobscouse_, a salt-sea dish of great reputation and flavor. Picton soon made his agreement with the captain for a four days' sail (or more) across to the neighboring province, and his luggage was to be on board the next morning. Once more we sailed over the bay of Sydney, and regained the pleasant shelter of our inn. "Picton," said I, after a comfortable supper and a pensive segar, "we shall soon separate for our respective homes; but before we part, I wish to say to you how much I have enjoyed this brief acquaintance; perhaps we may never meet again, but I trust our short voyage together, will now and then be recalled by you, in whatever part of the world you may chance to be, as it certainly will by me." The traveller replied by a hearty, earnest grasp of the hand; and then, after this formal leave-taking, we became suddenly estranged, as it were, sad, and silent, and shy; the familiar tone of conversation lost its key-note; Picton looked out of the inn window at the luminous moon-fog on the bay, and I buried my reflections in an antiquated pamphlet of "Household Words." We were soon interrupted by a stranger coming into the parlor, a chance visitor, another dry, preceese specimen of the land of oat-cakes. After the usual salutations, the conversation floated easily on, upon indifferent topics, until Picton happened to allude, casually, to the general banking system of England. This was enough for a text. Our visitor immediately launched forth upon the subject, and gaed us a twa-hours discourse on the system of banking in Scotland; wherein the superiority of the method adopted by his countrymen, to wring the last drop of interest out a shilling, was pertinaciously and dogmatically argued, upon the great groundwork of "the general and aibstract preencepels of feenance!" It was in vain that the traveller endeavored to silence him by a few flashes of sarcasm. He might as well have tried to silence a park of artillery with a handful of torpedoes! On and on, with the doggedness of a slow-hound, the Scot pursued the theme, until all other considerations were lost in the one sole idea. But thus it is always, when you come in contact with people of "aibstract preencepels." All sweet and tender impulses, all generous and noble suggestions, all light and shade, all warmth and color, must give place to these dry husks of reason. "Confound the Scotch interloper," said Picton, after our visitor had retired, "what business had he to impose upon our good nature, with his threadbare 'aibstract preencepels?' Confound him and his beggarly high cheek-bones, and his Caledonian pock-pits. I am sorry that I ever came to this part of the world; it has ruined a taste which I had acquired, with much labor, for Scottish poetry; and I shall never see 'Burns's Works' again without a sickening shudder." CHAPTER XI. The Bras d'Or Road--Farewell to Picton--Home sweet Home--The Rob Roys of Cape Breton--Note and Query--Chapel Island--St. Peter's--Enterprise--The Strait of Canseau--West River--The last Out-post of the Scottish Chiefs. The road that skirts the Arm of Gold is about one hundred miles in length. After leaving Sydney, you ride beside the Spanish River a short distance, until you come to the portage, which separates it from the lake, and then you follow the delicious curve of the great beach until you arrive at St. Peter's. From St. Peter's you travel across a narrow strip of land until you reach the shore upon the extreme westerly end of the island of Cape Breton, where you cross the Strait of Canseau, and then you are upon the mainland of Nova Scotia. I had fondly hoped to voyage upon the Bras d'Or, instead of beside it; but was obliged to forego that pleasure. Romance, at one dollar per mile, is a dear piece of extravagance, even in so ethereal a vehicle as a birch-bark canoe. Therefore I engaged a seat in the Cape Breton stage, instead of the aboriginal conveyance, in which you have to sit or lie in the bottom, at the risk of an upset, and trust to fair weather and the dip of the paddle. At day-break (two o'clock in the morning in these high latitudes) the stage drove up to the door of our pleasant inn. I was speedily dressed, and ready--and now--"Good bye, Picton!" The traveller stretched out a hand from the warm nest in which he was buried. "Good bye," he said, with a hearty hand-shake, and so we parted. It was painful to leave such an agreeable companion, but then what a relief it was to escape from the cannie Scots! The first inhalation of the foggy air went tingling through every vein; the first movement of the stage, as we rolled westward, was indescribable happiness; I was at last homeward bound; in full health, in full strength; swift upon my sight came the vision of the one familiar river; the cottage and the chestnuts; the rolling greensward, and the Palisades; and there, too, was my _best_ friend; and there-- "My young barbarians all at play." Drive on, John Ormond! Our Cape Breton stage is an easy, two-seated vehicle; a quiet, little rockaway-wagon, with a top; and although H. B. M. Royal Mail Coach, entirely different from the huge musk-melon upon wheels with which we are familiar in the States. In it I am the only passenger. Thank Heaven for that! I might be riding beside an aibstract preencepel. But never mind! Drive on, John Ormond; we shall soon be among another race of Scotsmen, the bold Highlandmen of romance; the McGregors, and McPhersons, the Camerons, Grahams, and McDonalds; and as a century or so does not alter the old-country prejudices of the people in these settlements, we will no doubt find them in their pristine habiliments; in plaids and spleuchens; brogues and buckles; hose and bonnets; with claymore, dirk, and target; the white cockade and eagle feather, so beautiful in the Waverley Novels. We left the pretty village of Sydney behind us, and were not long in gaining the margin of the Bras d'Or. This great lake, or rather arm of the sea, is, as I have said, about one hundred miles in length by its shore road; but so wide is it, and so indented by broad bays and deep coves, that a coasting journey around it is equal in extent to a voyage across the Atlantic. Besides the distant mountains that rise proudly from the remote shores, there are many noble islands in its expanse, and forest-covered peninsulas, bordered with beaches of glittering white pebbles. But over all this wide landscape there broods a spirit of primeval solitude; not a sail broke the loneliness of the lake until we had advanced far upon our day's journey. For strange as it may seem, the Golden Arm is a very useless piece of water in this part of the world; highly favored as it is by nature, land-locked, deep enough for vessels of all burden, easy of access on the gulf side, free from fogs, and only separated from the ocean at its western end by a narrow strip of land, about three quarters of a mile wide; abounding in timber, coal, and gypsum, and valuable for its fisheries, especially in winter, yet the Bras d'Or is undeveloped for want of that element which scorns to be alien to the Colonies, namely, _enterprise_. If I had formed some romantic ideas concerning the new and strange people we found on the road we were now travelling, the Highlandmen, the Rob Roys and Vich Ian Vohrs of Nova Scotia, those ideas were soon dissipated. It is true here were the Celts in their wild settlements, but without bagpipes or pistols, sporrans or philabegs; there was not even a solitary thistle to charm the eye; and as for oats, there were at least two Scotchmen to one oat in this garden of exotics. I have a reasonable amount of respect for a Highlandman in full costume; but for a carrot-headed, freckled, high-cheeked animal, in a round hat and breeches, that cannot utter a word of English, I have no sympathy. One fellow of this complexion, without a hat, trotted beside our coach for several miles, grunting forth his infernal Gaelic to John Ormond, with a hah! to every answer of the driver, that was really painful. When he disappeared in the woods his red head went out like a torch. But we had scarcely gone by the first Highlandman, when another darted out upon us from a by-path, and again broke the sabbath of the woods and waters; and then another followed, so that the morning ride by the Bras d'Or was fringed with Gaelic. Now I have heard many languages in my time, and know how to appreciate the luxurious Greek, the stately Latin, the mellifluous Chinese, the epithetical Sclavic, the soft Italian, the rich Castilian, the sprightly French, sonorous German, and good old English, but candor compels me to say, that I do not think much of the Gaelic. It is not pleasing to the ear. Yet it was a stately ride, that by the Bras d'Or; in one's own coach, as it were, traversing such old historic ground. For the very name, and its associations, carry one back to the earliest discoveries in America, carry one back behind Plymouth Rock to the earlier French adventurers in this hemisphere; yea, almost to the times of Richard Crookback; for on the neighboring shores, as the English claim, Cabot first landed, and named the place _Prima Vista_, in the days of Henry the Seventh, the "Richmond" of history and tragedy. "Le Bras d'Or! John Ormond, do you not think le Bras d'Or sounds much like Labrador?" "'Deed does it," answered John. "And why not? That mysterious, geological coast is only four days' sail from Sydney, I take it? Labrador! with its auks and puffins, its seals and sea-tigers, its whales and walruses? Why not an offshoot of le Bras d'Or, its earlier brother in the family of discovery. But drive on, John Ormond, we will leave etymology to the pedants." Well, well, ancient or modern, there is not a lovelier ride by white-pebbled beach and wide stretch of wave. Now we roll along amidst primeval trees, not the evergreens of the sea-coast, but familiar growths of maple, beech, birch; and larches, juniper or hackmatack--imperishable for ship craft. Now we cross bridges, over sparkling brooks, alive with trout and salmon, and most surprising of all, pregnant with _water-power_. "Surprising," because no motive-power can be presented to the eye of a citizen of the young republic without the corresponding thought of "Why not use it?" And why not, when Bras d'Or is so near, or the sea-coast either, and land at forty cents an acre, and trees as closely set, and as lofty, as ever nature planted them? Of a certainty, there would be a thousand saw-mills screaming between this and Canseau if a drop of Yankee blood had ever fertilized this soil. Well, well, perhaps it is well. But yet to ride through a hundred miles of denationalized, high-cheeked, red, or black-headed Highlandmen, with illustrious names, in breeches and round hats, without pistols or feathers, is a sorry sight. Not one of these McGregors can earn more than five shillings a day, currency, as a laborer. Not a digger upon our canals but can do better than that; and with the chance of _rising_. But here there seems be no such opportunity. The colonial system provides that every settler shall have a grant of about one hundred and twenty acres, in fee, and free. What then? the Government fosters and protects him. It sends out annually choice stocks of cattle, at a nominal price; it establishes a tariff of duties on foreign goods, so low that the revenue derived therefrom is not sufficient to pay the salaries of its officers. What then? The colonist is only a parasite with all these advantages. He is not an integral part of a nation; a citizen, responsible for his franchise. He is but a colonial Micmac, or Scotch-Mac; a mere sub-thoughted, irresponsible exotic, in a governmental cold grapery. By the great forefinger of Tom Jefferson, I would rather be a citizen of the United States than _own_ all the five-shilling Blue Noses between Sydney and Canseau! As we roll along up hill and down, a startling flash of sunlight bursts forth from the dewy morning clouds, and touches lake, island, and promontory, with inexpressible beauty. Stop, John Ormond, or drive slowly; let us enjoy _dolce far niente_. To hang now in our curricle upon this wooded hill-top, overlooking the clear surface of the lake, with leafy island, and peninsula dotted in its depths, in all its native grace, without a touch or trace of hand-work, far or near, save and except a single spot of sail in the far-off, is holy and sublime. And there we rested, reverentially impressed with the week-day sabbath. We lingered long and lovingly upon our woody promontory, our eyrie among the spruces of Cape Breton. "Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring." Down hill go horses and mail-coach, and we are lost in a vast avenue of twinkling birches. For miles we ride within breast-high hedges of sunny shrubs, until we reach another promontory, where Bras d'Or again breaks forth, with bay, island, white beach, peninsula, and sparkling cove. And before us, bowered in trees, lies Chapel Island, the Micmac Mecca, with its Catholic Church and consecrated ground. Here at certain seasons the red men come to worship the white CHRIST. Here the western descendants of Ishmael pitch their bark tents, and swing their barbaric censers before the Asiatic-born REDEEMER. "They that dwell in the wilderness shall bow before HIM." That gathering must be a touching sermon to the heart of faith! But we roll onwards, and now are again on the clearings, among the log-cabins of the Highlandmen. Although every settler has his governmental farm, yet nearly the whole of it is still in forest-land. A log hut and cleared-acre lot, with Flora McIvor's grubbing, hoeing, or chopping, while their idle lords and masters trot beside the mail-coach to hear the news, are the only results of the home patronage. At last we come to a gentle declivity, a bridge lies below us, a wider brook; we cross over to find a cosy inn and a rosy landlord on the other side; and John Ormond lays down the ribbons, after a sixty-mile drive, to say: "This is St. Peter's." Now so far us the old-fashioned inns of New Scotland are concerned, I must say they make me ashamed of our own. Soap, sand, and water, do not cost so much as carpets, curtains, and fly-blown mirrors; but still, to the jaded traveller, they have a more attractive aspect. We sit before a snow-white table without a cloth, in the inn-parlor, kitchen, laundry, and dining-room, all in one, just over against the end of the lake; and enjoy a rasher of bacon and eggs with as much gusto as if we were in the midst of a palace of fresco. Ornamental eating has become with us a species of gaudy, ostentatious vulgarity; and a dining-room a sort of fool's paradise. I never think of the little simple meal at St. Peter's now, without tenderness and respect. Here we change--driver, stage, and horses. Still no other passenger. The new whip is a Yankee from the State of Maine; a tall, black-eyed, taciturn fellow, with gold rings in his ears. Now we pass the narrow strip of land that divides Bras d'Or from the ocean. It is only three-quarters of a mile wide between water and water, and look at Enterprise digging out a canal! By the bronze statue of De Witt Clinton, if there are not three of the five-shilling Rob Roys at work, with two shovels, a horse, and one cart! As we approach Canseau the landscape becomes flat and uninteresting; but distant ranges of mountains rise up against the evening sky, and as we travel on towards their bases they attract the eye more and more. Ear-rings is not very communicative. He does not know the names of any of them. Does not know how high they are, but has heard say they are the highest mountains in Nova Scotia. "Are those the mountains of Canseau?" Yes, them's them. So with renewed anticipations we ride on towards the strait "of unrivalled beauty," that travellers say "surpasses anything in America." And, indeed, Canseau can have my feeble testimony in confirmation. It is a grand marine highway, having steep hills on the Cape Breton Island side, and lofty mountains on the other shore; a full, broad, mile-wide space between them; and reaching from end to end, fifteen miles, from the Atlantic to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. As I took leave of Ear-rings, at Plaister Cove, and wrapped myself up in my cloak in the stern-sheets of the row-boat to cross the strait, the full Acadian moon, larger than any United States moon, rose out of her sea-fog, and touched mountain, height, and billow, with effulgence. It was a scene of Miltonic grandeur. After the ruined walls of Louisburgh, and the dark caverns of Sydney, comes Canseau, with its startling splendors! Truly this is a wonderful country. Another night in a clean Nova-Scotian inn on the mountain-side, a deep sleep, and balmy awakening in the clear air. Yet some exceptions must be taken to the early sun in this latitude. To get up at two o'clock or four; to ride thirty or forty miles to breakfast, with a convalescent appetite, is painful. But yet, "to him, who in the love of Nature holds communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language." Admiration and convalescent hunger make a very good team in this beautiful country. You look out upon the unfathomable Gulf of St. Lawrence, and feel as if you were an unfathomable gulf yourself. You ride through lofty woods, with a tantalizing profusion of living edibles in your path; at every moment a cock-rabbit is saying his prayers before the horses; at every bosk and bole a squirrel stares at you with unwinking eyes, and Robin Yellow-bill hops, runs, and flies before the coach within reach of the driver's whip, _sans peur_! And this too is the land of moose and cariboo: here the hunters, on snow-shoes, track the huge animals in the season; and moose and cariboo, in the Halifax markets, are cheaper than beef with us. And to think this place is only a four days' journey from the metropolis, in the languid winter! By the ashes of Nimrod, I will launch myself on a pair of snow-shoes, and shoot a moose in the snow before I am twelve months older, as sure as these ponies carry us to breakfast! "How far are we from breakfast, driver?" "Twenty miles," quoth Jehu. Now I had been anxious to get a sight of our ponies, for the sake of estimating their speed and endurance; but at this time they were not in sight. For the coach we (three passengers) were in, was built like an omnibus-sleigh on wheels, with a high seat and "dasher" in front, so that we could not see what it was that drew our ark, and therefore I climbed up in the driver's perch to overlook our motors. There were four of them; little, shaggy, black ponies, with bunchy manes and fetlocks, not much larger than Newfoundland dogs. Yet they swept us along the road as rapidly as if they were full-sized horses, up hill and down, without visible signs of fatigue. And now we passed through another French settlement, "Tracadie," and again the Norman kirtle and petticoat of the pastoral, black-eyed Evangelines hove in sight, and passed like a day-dream. And here we are in an English settlement, where we enjoy a substantial breakfast, and then again ride through the primeval woods, with an occasional glimpse of the broad Gulf and its mountain scenery, until we come upon a pretty inland village, by name Antigonish. At Antigonish, we find a bridal party, and the pretty English landlady offers us wine and cake with hospitable welcome; and a jovial time of it we have until we are summoned, by crack of whip, to ride over to West River. I must say that the natural prejudices we have against Nova Scotia are ill-placed, unjust, and groundless. The country itself is the great redeeming feature of the province, and a very large portion of it is uninfested by Scotchmen. Take for instance the road we are now travelling. For hours we bowl along a smooth turnpike, in the midst of a deep forest: although scarce a week has elapsed since these gigantic trees were leafless, yet the foliage has sprung forth as it were with a touch, and now the canopy of leaves about us, and overhead, is so dense as scarcely to afford a twinkle of light from the sun. Sometimes we ride by startling precipices and winding streams; sometimes overlook an English settlement, with its rolling pasture-lands, bare of trees and rich in verdure. At last we approach the precincts of Northumberland Strait, and are cleverly carried into New Glasgow. It is fast-day, and the shops are closed in Sabbath stillness; but on the sign-boards of the village one reads the historic names of "Ross" and "Cameron;" and "Graham," "McGregor" and "McDonald." What a pleasant thing it must be to live in that village! Here too I saw for the first time in the province a thistle! But it was a silver-plated one, in the blue bonnet of a "pothecary's boy." A metallic effigy of the ORIGINAL PLANT, that had bloomed some generations ago in native land. There was poetry in it, however, even on the brow of an incipient apothecary. When we had put New Glasgow behind us, we felt relieved, and rode along the marshes on the border of the strait that divides the Province from Prince Edward's Island, so named in honor of his graceless highness the Duke of Kent, Edward, father of our Queen Victoria. Thence we came forth upon higher ground, the coal-mines of Pictou; and here is the great Pictou railway, from the mines to the town, six miles in length. Then by rolling hill and dale down to West River, where John Frazer keeps the Twelve-Mile House. This inn is clean and commodious; only twelve miles from Pictou; and, reader, I would advise you, as twelve miles is but a short distance, to go to Pictou without stopping at West River. For John Frazer's is a house of petty annoyances. From the moment you enter, you feel the insolence of the surly, snarling landlord, and his no less gifted lady; the same old greed which has no eye except for money; the miserly table, for which you are obliged to pay before hand; the lack of attendance; the abundance of impertinence. Just as you are getting into bed you are peremptorily called to the door to pay for your room, which haply you had forgotten; if you want your boots brushed the answer is, "Perhaps"--if you request them to call you in the morning, for the only stage, they say, "Just as it happens;" (indeed, it was only by accident that the stage-driver discovered he had one more trunk than his complement of passengers, and so awoke me just as the coach was on the point of departure;) if you can submit to all this, then, reader, go to Twelve-Mile House, at West River. We left this last outpost of the Scotch settlements with pleasure. After all, there is a secret feeling of joy in contrasting one's self with such wretched, penurious, mis-made specimens of the human animal. And from this time henceforth I shall learn to prize my own language, and not be carried away by any catch-penny Scotch synonyms, such as the _lift_ for the sky, and the _gloamin_ for twilight. And as for _poortith cauld_, and _pauky chiel_, I leave them to those who can appreciate them: "Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland, Cold and beggarly poor countrie; If ever I cross thy border again, The muckle deil maun carry me." CHAPTER XII. The Ride from West River--A Fellow Passenger--Parallels of History--One Hundred Romances--Baron de Castine--His Character--Made Chief of the Abenaquis--Duke of York's Charter--Encroachments of the Puritans--Church's Indian Wars--False Reports--Reflections. It would make a curious collection of pictures if I had obtained photographs of all the coaches I travelled in, and upon, during my brief sojourn in the province; some high, some low, some red, some green, or yellow as it chanced, with horses few or many, often superior animals--stylish, fast, and sound; and again, the most diminutive of ponies, such as Monsieur the Clown drives into the ring of his canvass coliseum when he utters the pleasant salute of "Here I am, with all my little family?" This morning we have the old, familiar stage-coach of Yankee land--red, picked out with yellow; high, narrow, iron steps; broad thoroughbraces; wide seats; all jingle, tip, tilt, and rock, from one end of the road to the other. My fellow traveller on the box is a little man with a big hat; soft spoken, sweet voiced, and excessively shy and modest. But this was a most pleasing change from the experiences of the last few hours, let me tell you; and, if you ever travel by West River, you will find any change pleasant--no matter what. My companion was shy, but not taciturn; on the contrary, he could talk well enough after the ice was broken, and long enough, too, for that matter. I found that he was a Church of England clergyman by profession, and a Welshman by birth. He was well versed in the earlier history of the colony--that portion of it which is by far the most interesting--I mean its French or Acadian period. "There are in the traditions and scattered fragments of history that yet survive in this once unhappy land," he said, in a peculiarly low and mellifluous voice, "much that deserves to be embalmed in story and in poetry. Your Longfellow has already preserved one of the most touching of its incidents; but I think I am safe in asserting that there yet remain the materials of one hundred romances. Take the whole history of Acadia during the seventeenth century--the almost patriarchal simplicity of its society, the kindness, the innocence, the virtues of its people; the universal toleration which prevailed among them, in spite of the interference of the home government; look," said he, "at the perfect and abiding faith which existed between them and the Indians! Does the world-renowned story of William Penn alone merit our encomiums, except that we have forgotten this earlier but not less beautiful example? And with the true spirit of Christianity, when they refused to take up arms in their own defence, preferring rather to die by their faith than shed the blood of other men; to what parallel in history can we turn, if not to the martyred Hussites, for whom humanity has not yet dried all its tears?" As he said this, a little flush passed over his face, and he appeared for a moment as if surprised at his own enthusiasm; then shrinking under his big hat again, he relapsed into silence. We rode on for some time without a word on either side, until I ventured to remark that I coincided with him in the belief that Acadia was the romantic ground of early discovery in America; and that even the fluent pen of Hawthorne had failed to lend a charm to the harsh, repulsive, acrimonious features of New England's colonial history. "I have read but one book of Hawthorne's," said he--"'The Scarlet Letter.' I do not coincide with you; I think that to be a remarkable instance of the triumph of genius over difficulties. By the way," said he, "speaking of authors, what an exquisite poem Tom Moore would have written, had he visited Chapel Island, which you have seen no doubt? (here he gave a little nod with the big hat) and what a rich volume would have dropped from the arabesque pen of your own Irving (another nod), had he written the life of the Baron de St. Castine, chief of the Abenaquis, as he did that of Philip of Pokanoket." "Do you know the particulars of that history?" said I. "I do not know the particulars," he replied, "only the outlines derived from chronicle and tradition. Imagination," he added, with a faint smile, "can supply the rest, just as an engineer pacing a bastion can draw from it the proportions of the rest of the fortress." And then, from under the shelter of the big hat, there came low and sad tones of music, like a requiem over a bier, upon which are laid funeral flowers, and sword, and plume; a melancholy voice almost intoning the history of a Christian hero, who had been the chief of that powerful nation--the rightful owners of the fair lands around us. Even if memory could now supply the words, it would fail to reproduce the effect conveyed by the tones of _that voice_. And of the story itself I can but furnish the faint outlines: FAINT OUTLINES. Baron de St. Castine, chief of the Abenaquis, was a Frenchman, born in the little village of Oberon, in the province of Bearn, about the middle of the seventeenth century. Three great influences conspired to make him unhappy--first, education, which at that time was held to be a reputable part of the discipline of the scions of noble families; next, a delicate and impressible mind, and lastly, he was born under the shadow of the Pyrenees, and within sight of the Atlantic. He had also served in the wars of Louis XIV. as colonel of the Carrignan, Cavignon, or Corignon regiment; therefore, from his military education, was formed to endure, or to think lightly of hardships. Although not by profession a Protestant, yet he was a liberal Catholic. The doctrines of Calvin had been spread throughout the province during his youth, and John la Placette, a native of Bearn, was then one of the leaders of the free churches of Copenhagen, in Denmark, and of Utrecht, in Holland. But, whatever his religious prejudices may have been, they do not intrude themselves in any part of his career; we know him only as a pure Christian, an upright man, and a faithful friend of humanity. Like many other Frenchmen of birth and education in those days, the Baron de St. Castine had been attracted by descriptions of newly discovered countries in the western hemisphere, and fascinated by the ideal life of the children of nature. To a mind at once susceptible and heroic, impulsive by temperament, and disciplined to endure, such promptings have a charm that is irresistible. As the chronicler relates, he preferred the forests of Acadia, to the Pyrenian mountains that compassed the place of his nativity, and taking up his abode with the savages, on the first year behaved himself so among them as to draw from them their inexpressible esteem. He married a woman of the nation, and repudiating their example, did not change his wife, by which he taught his wild neighbors that God did not love inconstancy. By this woman, his first and only wife, he had one son and two daughters, the latter were afterwards married, "very handsomely, to Frenchmen, and had good dowries." Of the son there is preserved a single touching incident. In person the baron was strikingly handsome, a fine form, a well featured face, with a noble expression of candor, firmness and benevolence. Possessed of an ample fortune, he used it to enlarge the comforts of the people of his adoption; these making him a recompense in beaver skins and other rich furs, from which he drew a still larger revenue, to be in turn again devoted to the objects of his benevolence. It was said of him, "that he can draw from his coffers two or three hundred thousand crowns of good dry gold; but all the use he makes of it is to buy presents for his _fellow savages_, who, upon their return from hunting, present him with skins to treble the value." Is it then surprising that this man, so wise, so good, so faithful to his _fellow savages_, should, after twenty years, rise to the most eminent station in that unsophisticated nation? That indeed these simple Indians, who knew no arts except those of peace and war, should have looked up to him as their tutular god? By the treaty of Breda, the lands from the Penobscots to Nova Scotia had been ceded to France, in exchange for the island of St. Christopher. Upon these lands the Baron de St. Castine had peacefully resided for many years, until a new patent was granted to the Duke of York, the boundaries of which extended beyond the limits of the lands ceded by the treaty. Oh, those patents! those patents! What wrongs were perpetrated by those remorseless instruments; what evil councils prevailed when they were hatched; what corrupt, what base, what knavish hands formed them; what vile, what ignoble, what ponderous lies has history assumed to maintain, or to excuse them, and the acts committed under them? The first English aggression after the treaty, was but a trifling one in respect to immediate effects. A quantity of wine having been landed by a French vessel upon the lands covered by the patent, was seized by the Duke of York's agents. This, upon a proper representation by the French ambassador at the court of Charles II., was restored to the rightful owners. But thereupon a new boundary line was run, _and the whole of Castine's plantations included within it_. Immediately after this, the Rose frigate, under the command of Captain Andross, sailed up the Penobscot, plundered and destroyed Castine's house and fort, and sailed away with all his arms and goods. Not only this, intruders from other quarters invaded the lands of the Indians, took possession of the rivers, and spoiled the fisheries with seines, turned their cattle in to devour the standing corn of the Abenaquis, and committed other depredations, which, although complained of, were neither inquired into nor redressed. Then came reprisals; and first the savages retaliated by killing the cattle of their enemies. Then followed those fearful and bloody campaigns, which, under the name of Church's Indian Wars, disgrace the early annals of New England. Night surprises, butcheries that spared neither age nor sex, prisoners taken and sold abroad into slavery, after the glut of revenge was satiated, these to return and bring with them an inextinguishable hatred against the English, and desire of revenge. Anon a conspiracy and the surprisal of Dover, accompanied with all the appalling features of barbaric warfare--Major Waldron being tied down by the Indians in his own arm-chair, and each one of them drawing a sharp knife across his breast, says with the stroke, "Thus I cross out my account;" these, and other atrocities, on either side, constitute the principal records of a Christian people, who professed to be only pilgrims and sojourners in a strange land--the victims of persecution in their own. Daring all this dark and bloody period, no name is more conspicuous in the annals than that of the Chief of the Abenaquis. Like a frightful ogre, he hovers in the background, deadly and ubiquitous--the terror of the colonies. It was he who had stirred up the Indians to do the work. Then come reports of a massacre in some town on the frontier, and with it is coupled a whisper of "Castine!" a fort has been surprised, he is there! Some of Church's men have fallen in an ambuscade; the baron has planned it, and furnished the arms and ammunition by which the deed was consummated! Superstition invests him with imaginary powers; fanaticism exclaims, 'tis he who had taught the savages to believe that we are the people who crucified the Saviour. But in spite of all these stories, the wonderful Bernese is not captured, nor indeed seen by any, except that sometimes an English prisoner escaping from the enemy, comes to tell of his clemency and tenderness; he has bound up the wounds of these, he has saved the lives of those. At last a small settlement of French and Indians is attacked by Church's men at Penobscot, every person there being either killed or taken prisoner; among the latter a daughter of the great baron, with her children, from whom they learn that her unhappy father, ruined and broken-hearted, had returned to France, the victim of persecutors, who, under the name of saints, exhibited a cruelty and rapacity that would have disgraced the reputation of a Philip or an Alva! "It is a matter of surprise to the historical student," said the little man, "that with a people like yours, so conspicuous in many rare examples of erudition, that the history of Acadia has not merited a closer attention, throwing as it does so strong a reflective light upon your own. Such a task doubtless does not present many inviting features, especially to those who would preserve, at any sacrifice of truth, the earlier pages of discovery in America, pure, spotless, and unsullied. But I think this dark, tragic background would set off all the brighter the characters of those really good men who flourished in that period, of whom there were no doubt many, although now obscured by the dull, dead moonshine of indiscriminate forefathers' flattery. I know very well that in some regards we might copy the example of a few of the first planters of New England, but for the rest I believe with Adam Clark, that for the sake of humanity, it were better that such ages should never return." "We talk much," says he, "of ancient manners, their _simplicity and ingenuousness_, and say that _the former days were better than these_. But who says this who is a judge of the times? In those days of celebrated simplicity, there were not so _many_ crimes as at present, I grant; but what they wanted in _number_, they made up in _degree_; _deceit_, _cruelty_, _rapine_, _murder_, and _wrong_ of almost every kind, then flourished. _We_ are _refined_ in our vices, they were _gross_ and _barbarous_ in theirs. They had neither so many _ways_ nor so many _means_ of sinning; but the _sum_ of their moral turpitude was greater than ours. We have a sort of _decency_ and good _breeding_, which lay a certain restraint on our passions; they were boorish and beastly, and their bad passions ever in full play. Civilization prevents barbarity and atrocity; mental cultivation induces decency of manners--those primitive times were generally without these. Who that knows them would wish such ages to return?"[A] [A] Adam Clark's "Commentary on Book of Kings." II. Samuel, chap. iii. CHAPTER XIII. Truro--On the Road to Halifax--Drive to the Left--A Member of the Foreign Legion--Irish Wit at Government Expense--The first Battle of the Legion--Ten Pounds Reward--Sir John Gaspard's Revenge--The Shubenacadie Lakes--Dartmouth Ferry, and the Hotel Waverley. Pleasant Truro! At last we regain the territories of civility and civilization! Here is the honest little English inn, with its cheerful dining-room, its clean spread, its abundant dishes, its glass of ripe ale, its pleased alacrity of service. After our long ride from West River, we enjoy the best inn's best room, the ease, the comfort, and the fair aspect of one of the prettiest towns in the province. Truro is situated on the head waters of the Basin of Minas, or Cobequid Bay, as it is denominated on the map, between the Shubenacadie and Salmon rivers. Here we are within fifty miles of the idyllic land, the pastoral meadows of Grand-Pré! But, alas! there is yet a long ride before us; the path from Truro to Grand-Pré being in the shape of an acute angle, of which Halifax is the apex. As yet there is no direct road from place to place, but by the shores of the Basin of Minas. Let us look, however, at pleasant Truro. One of the striking features of this part of the country is the peculiarity of the rivers; these are full or empty, with every flux and reflux of the tide; for instance, when we crossed the Salmon, we saw only a high, broad, muddy ditch, drained to the very bottom. This is owing to the ocean tides, which, sweeping up the Bay of Fundy, pour into the Basin of Minas, and fill all its tributary streams; then, with prodigal reaction, sweeping forth again, leave only the vacant channels of the rivers--if they may be called by that name. This peculiar feature of hydrography is of course local--limited to this section of the province--indeed if it be not to this corner of the world. The country surrounding the village is well cultivated, diversified with rolling hill and dale, and although I had not the opportunity of seeing much of it, yet the mere description of its natural scenery was sufficiently tempting. Here, too, I saw something that reminded me of home--a clump of cedar-trees! These of course were exotics, brought, not without expense, from the States, planted in the courtyard of a little aristocratic cottage, and protected in winter by warm over-coats of wheat straw. So we go! Here they grub up larches and spruces to plant cedars. The mail coach was soon at the door of our inn, and after taking leave of my fellow-traveller with the big hat, I engaged a seat on the stage-box beside Jeangros, a French Canadian, or Canuck--one of the best whips on the line. Jeangros is not a great portly fellow, as his name would seem to indicate, but a spare, small man--nevertheless with an air of great courage and command. Jeangros touched up the leaders, the mail-coach rattled through the street of the town, and off we trotted from Truro into the pleasant road that leads to Halifax. One thing I observed in the province especially worthy of imitation--the old English practice of turning to the _left_ in driving, instead of to the _right_, as we do. Let me exhibit the merits of the respective systems by a brief diagram. By the English system they drive thus: [Illustration] The arrows represent the drivers, as well as the directions of the vehicles; of course when two vehicles, coming in opposite directions, pass each other on the road, each driver is nearest the point of contact, and can see readily, and provide against accidents. Now contrast our system with the former: [Illustration] no wonder we have so many collisions. "The rule of the road is a paradox quite, In driving your carriage along, If you keep to the left, you are sure to go right, If you keep to the right, you go wrong." It would be a good thing if our present senseless laws were reversed in this matter, and a few lives saved, and a few broken limbs prevented. When I took leave of my native country for a short sojourn in this province, the great question then before the public was the invasion of international law, by the British minister and a whole solar system of British consuls. I had the pleasure of being a fellow exile on the Canada with Mr. Crampton, Mr. Barclay, and Mr.----, Her British Majesty's representatives, and of course felt no little interest to know the fate of the _Foreign Legion_. Before I left Halifax, I learned some particulars of that famous flock of jail birds. All that we knew, at home, was that a number of recruits for the Crimea had been picked up in the streets and alleys of Columbia, and carried, at an enormous expense, to Halifax, there to be enrolled. And also, that as a mere cover to this infraction of the law of Neutrality, the men were engaged as laborers, to work upon the public improvements of Nova Scotia. The sequel of that enterprise remained to be told. A majority of these recruits were Irishmen--some of them not wanting in the mother wit of the race. So when they were gathered in the great province building at Halifax, and Sir John Gaspard le Marchant, in chapeau, feather and sword, came down to review his levies, with great spirit and military pomp, "Well, my men," said he, "you are here to enlist, eh, and serve Her Majesty?" To which the spokesman of the Foreign Legion, fully understanding the beauty of his position, replied, with a sly twinkle of the eye, "We didn't engage to 'list at all, at all, but to wurruk on the railroad." Upon which Sir John Gaspard, seeing that Her Majesty had been imposed upon, politely told the legion to go to----Dante's Inferno. Now whether the place to which the Foreign Legion was consigned by Sir John Gaspard, possessed even less attractions than Halifax, or from whatever reason soever, it chanced that the jolly boys, raked from our alleys and jails, never stirred a foot out of the province; and while the peace of the whole world was endangered by their abduction, as that of Greece and Troy had been by the rape of Helen, they were quietly enlisting in less warlike expeditions--in fact, engaging themselves to work upon that great railroad, of which mention has been made heretofore. Now we have seen something of the clannish propensities of the people of the colonies, and the contractors knew what sort of material they had to deal with. And, inasmuch as there was a pretty large group of five-shilling Highlandmen, grading, levelling, and filling in one end of a section of the road, the gang of Irishmen was placed at the opposite end, as far from them as possible, which no doubt would have preserved peaceful relations between the two, but for the fact, that as the work progressed the hostile forces naturally approached each other. It was towards the close of a summer evening, that the ground was broken by the gentlemen of the shamrock, within sight of the shanties decorated with the honorable order of the thistle. A lovely evening in the month of June! Not with spumy cannon and prickly bayonets, but with peaceful spade and mattock, advanced the sons of St. Patrick towards the children of a sister isle. Then did Roderick Dhu step forth from his shanty, and inquire, in choice Gaelic, if a person named Brian Borheime was in the ranks of the approaching forces. Then then did Brian Borheime advance, spade in hand, and with a single spat of his implement level Roderick, as though he had been a piece of turf. Then was Brian flattened out by the spade of Vich Ian Vohr; and Vich Ian Vohr, by the spade of Captain Rock. Then fell Captain Rock by the spade of Rob Roy; and Rob Roy smelt the earth under the spade of Handy Andy. In a word, the fight became general--the bagpipe blew to arms--Celt joined Celt, there was the tug of war; but the sun set upon the lowered standard of the thistle, and victory proclaimed Shamrock the conqueror. Several of the natives were left for dead upon the field of battle, the triumphant Irish ran away, to a man, to avoid the consequences, and I blush to say it, as I do to record any act of heartless ingratitude, handbills were speedily posted up by the order of government, offering a reward of ten pounds apiece for the capture of certain members of the Foreign Legion, who had been the ringleaders in the riot, which handbill was not only signed by that seducer of soldiers, Sir John Gaspard le Marchant, but also ornamented with the horn of the unicorn and the claws of the British lion. But there is a Nemesis even in Nova Scotia, for this riot produced effects, unwonted and unlooked for. One of the prominent leaders in the Nova Scotia Parliament, a gentleman distinguished both as an orator and as a poet--the Hon. Joseph Howe, who had signalized himself as an advocate of the right of Her Majesty to recruit for the Crimea in the streets of Columbia, and was ready to pit the British Lion against the American Eagle in support of that right, fell by the very legion he had been so zealous to create. The Hon. Joseph Howe, M. P., by the support of the Irish population, could always command a _popular_ majority and keep his seat in the house, so long as he maintained his loyalty to this votive class of citizens. But, unfortunately, Hon. Joseph Howe, in alluding to the riot, took the Scotch side of the broil. This was sufficient. At the election following he was a defeated candidate, and politely advised to retire to private life. Thus was the Hon. J. H. "hoist by his own petard," the first man to fall by this expensive military company. An adventure upon the Shubenacadie brought one of these heroes into prominent relief. After we had parted from pleasant Truro, at every nook and corner of the road, there seemed to be a passenger waiting for the Halifax coach. So that the top of the vehicle was soon filled with dusty fellow-travellers, and Jeangros was getting to be a little impatient. Just as we turned into the densest part of the forest, where the evening sun was most obscured by the close foliage, we saw two men, one decorated with a pair of handcuffs, and the other armed with a brace of pistols. The latter hailed the coach. "What d'ye want?" quoth Jeangros, drawing up by the roadside. "Government prisoner," said the man with the pistols. "What the ---- is government prisoner to me?" quoth Jeangros. "I want to take him to Dartmouth," said the tall policeman. "Then take him there," said our jolly driver, shaking up the leaders. "Hold up," shouted out the tall policeman, "I will pay his fare." "Why didn't you say so, then?" replied Jeangros, full of the dignity of his position as driver of H. B. M. Mail-coach, before whose tin horn everything must get out of the way. There was a doubt which was the drunkenest, the officer or the prisoner. We found out afterwards that the officer had conciliated his captive with drink, partly to keep him friendly in case of an attempted rescue, and partly to get him in such a state that running away would be impracticable. And, indeed, there would have been a great race if the prisoner had attempted to escape. The prisoner too drunk to run--the officer too drunk to pursue. The pair had scarcely crawled up among the luggage upon the stage-top, before there was an outcry from the passengers on the box in front--"Uncock your pistols! uncock your pistols!" for the officer had dropped his fire-arms, cocked and capped, upon the top of our coach, with the muzzles pointed towards us. And indeed I may affirm here, that I never saw metallic cylinders with more menacing aspect, than those which lay quietly behind us, ready to explode--unconscious instruments as they were--and carry any of the party into the next world upon the slightest lurch of the stage-coach. "Uncock your pistols," said the passengers. But the officer, in the mellifluous dialect of his mother country, replied that "He'd be ---- if he would. Me prishner," said he, "me prishner might escape; or, the divil knows but there might be a rescue come to him, for there's a good many of the same hereabouts." It struck me that no person upon the top of the stage-coach was so particularly interested in this dispute as the member of the Foreign Legion, who was on his way either to the gallows or a perpetual prison. I observed that he nervously twitched at his handcuffs, perhaps--as I thought--to prepare for escape in case of an explosion; or else to be ready for the rescue; or else to take advantage of his captor, the tall policeman--jump from the stage, and run for dear life and liberty. Never was I more mistaken. True to his race, and to tradition, Pat was only striving to free himself from the leather shackles, in order to fight any man who was an enemy to his friend the policeman, and the pistols, that were cocked to shoot himself. But had not poor Paddy made such blunders in all times? The hubbub increased, a terrific contest was impending; the travellers below poked their heads out of the windows; there was every prospect of a catastrophe of some kind, when suddenly Jeangros rose to his feet, and said, in a voice clear and sharp through the tumult as an electric flash through a storm, "_Uncock those pistols, or I will throw you from the top of the coach!_" There was a pause instantly, and we heard the sharp click of the cocks, as they were lowered in obedience to the little stage-driver. It had a wonderful power of command, that voice--soft and clear, but brief, decisive, authoritative. It is quite interesting to ride fellow-passenger with a person who has played a part in the national drama, but more villainous face I never saw. Mr. Crampton, with whom I sailed on the Canada, had a much more amiable expression; indeed I think we should all be obliged to him for ridding us of at least a portion of his fellow-countrymen. But now we ride by the Shubenacadie lakes, a chain--a bracelet--binding the province from the Basin of Minas to the seaboard. The eye never tires of this lovely feature of Acadia. Lake above lake--the division, the isthmus between, not wider than the breadth of your India shawl, my lady! I must declare that, all in all, the scenery of the province is surpassingly beautiful. As you ride by these sparkling waters, through the flowery, bowery, woods, you feel as if you like to pitch tent here--at least for the summer. And now we approach a rustic inn by the roadside, rich in shrubbery before it, and green moss from ridge-pole to low drooping eaves, where we change horses. And as we rest here upon the wooden inn-porch, dismounted from our high perch on the stage-coach, we see right above us against the clear evening sky, Her Majesty's _ci-devant_ partisan, now prisoner--by merit raised to that bad eminence. The officer hands him a glass of brandy, to keep up his spirits. The prisoner takes it, and, lifting the glass high in air, shouts out with the exultation of a fiend: "Here's to the hinges of liberty--may they never want oil, Nor an Orangeman's bones in a pot for to boil." Once more upon the stage to Dartmouth, where we deposit our precious fellow-travellers, and then to the ferry, and look you! across the harbor, the twinkling lights of dear old mouldy Halifax. And now we are crossing Chebucto, and the cab carries us again to our former quarters in the Hotel Waverley. CHAPTER XIV. Halifax again--Hotel Waverley--"Gone the Old Familiar Faces"--The Story of Marie de la Tour. Again in old quarters! It is strange how we become attached to a place, be it what it may, if we only have known it before. The same old room we occupied years ago, however comfortless then, has a familiar air of welcome now. There is surely some little trace of self, some unseen spider-thread of attachment clinging to the walls, the old chair, the forlorn wash-stand, and the knobby four-poster, that holds the hardest of beds, the most consumptive of pillows, and a bolster as round, as white, and as hard, as a cathedral mass-candle. Heigho, Hotel Waverley! Here am I again; but where are the familiar faces? Where the brave soldier of Inkerman and Balaklava? Where the jolly old Captain of the native rifles? Where the Colonel, with his little meerschaum pipe he was so intent upon coloring? Where the party of salmon-fishermen, the Solomons of piscatology? Where the passengers by the "Canada?" And where is Picton? Gone, like last year's birds! "A glass of ale, Henry, and one cigar, only _one_; I wish to be solitary." I like this bed-room of mine at the Waverley, with its blue and white striped curtain at the window, through which the gas-lights of Halifax streets appear in lucid spots, as I wait for Henry, with the candles. Now I am no longer alone. I shut my chamber door, as it were, upon one world, only that I may enjoy another. So I trim the candles, and spread out the writing materials, and at once the characters of two centuries ago awake, and their life to me is as the life of to-day. There is nothing more captivating in literature, than the narrative of some heroic deed of woman. Very few such are recorded; how many might be, if the actors themselves had not shunned notoriety, and "uncommended died," rather than encounter the ordeal of public praise? Of such the poet has written: "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." Of such, many have lived and died, to live again only in fiction; whereas their own true histories would have been greater than the inventions of authors. We read of heroes laden with the "glittering spoils of empire," but the heroic deeds of woman are oftentimes, all in all, as great, without the glitter; without the pomp and pageantry of triumphal processions; without the pealing trumpet of renown. Boadicea, chained to the car of Suetonius, is the too common memorial of heroic womanity. The story I relate is but a transcript, a mere episode in the sad history of Acadia: yet the record will be pleasing to those who estimate the merits of brave women. This, then, is the legend of MARIE DE LA TOUR. In the year 1621, Sir William Alexander, afterwards Earl of Sterling,[B] a romantic poet, and favorite of King James I., was presented by that monarch with a patent to all the land known as Acadia, in the Americas. Royalty in those days made out its parchment deeds for a province, without taking the trouble to search the record office, to see if there were any prior liens upon the territory. The good old rule obtained thus-- "That they may take who have the power, And they may keep who can." or, to quote the words of another writer-- "For the time once was here, to all be it known, That all a man sailed by or saw was his own." It is due to Sir William Alexander to say that he gave the province the proud name which at present it enjoys, of Nova Scotia, or New Scotland, a title much more appropriate than that of "Acadia,"[C] which to us means nothing. [B] This William Alexander, Earl of Sterling, was the ancestor of General Lord Sterling, one of the most distinguished officers in the American Revolution. [C] The name "Acadia," is, no doubt, a primitive word, from the Abenaqui tongue--we find it repeated in _Tracadie_, _Shubenacadie_, and elsewhere in the province. At this time the French Colony was slowly recovering from the effects of the Argall expedition, that eight years before had laid waste its fair possessions. Among a number of emigrants from the Loire and the Seine, two gentlemen of birth and education, La Tour by name, father and son, set out to seek their fortunes in the New World. It must be remembered that in the original patent of Acadia, given by Henry IV. to De Monts, freedom of religious opinion was one of the conditions of the grant, and therefore the fact, that both the La Tours were Huguenots, did not prevent them holding commissions under the French crown, the father having in charge a small fleet of transports then ready to sail from the harbor of Brest; the son, being the commander of a fort and garrison at Cape Sable, upon the western end of Acadia. Affairs being in this condition, it chanced that the English and French ships set sail for the same port, at about the same time; and it so happened that Sir William Alexander's fleet running afoul of the elder La Tour's in a fog, not only captured that gallant chieftain but also his transports, munitions of war, stores, artillery, etc. etc., and sailed back with the prizes to England. I beg you to observe, my dear reader, that occurrences of this kind were common enough at this period even in times of peace, and not considered piracy either, the ocean was looked upon as a mighty chessboard, and the game was won by those who could command the greatest number of pieces. Claude de la Tour, not as a prisoner of war, but as an enforced guest of Sir William, was carried to London; and there robbed of his goods, but treated like a gentleman; introduced at Court, although deprived of his purse and liberty, and in a word, found himself surrounded with the most hostile and hospitable conditions possible in life. It is not surprising then that with true French philosophy he should have made the best of it; gained the good will of the queen, played off a little _badinage_ with the ladies of the court, and forgetting the late Lady de la Tour, asleep in the old graveyard in the city of Rochelle, essayed to wear his widower weeds with that union of grace and sentiment for which his countrymen are so celebrated. The consequence was one of her majesty's maids of honor fell in love with him; the queen encouraged the match; the king had just instituted the new order of Knights Baronet, of Nova Scotia; La Tour, now in the way of good fortune, was the first to be honored with the novel title, and at the same time placed the matrimonial ring upon the finger of the love-sick maid of honor. Indeed Charles Etienne de la Tour, commandant of the little fort at Cape Sable, had scarcely lost a father, before he had gained a step-mother. That the French widower should have been so captivated by these marks of royal favor as to lose his discretion, in the fullness of his gratitude; and, that after receiving a grant of land from his patron, as a further incentive, he should volunteer to assist in bringing Acadia under the British Crown, and as a primary step, undertake to reduce the Fort at Cape Sable; I say, that when I state this, nobody will be surprised, except a chosen few, who cherish some old-fashioned notions, in these days more romantic than real. "Two ships of war being placed under his command," he set sail, with his guns and a Step-mother, to attack the Fort at Cape Sable. The latter was but poorly garrisoned; but then it contained a Daughter-in-law! Under such circumstances, it was plain to be seen that the contest would be continued to the last ounce of powder. Opening the trenches before the French fort, and parading his Scotch troops in the eyes of his son, the elder La Tour attempted to capture the garrison by argument. In vain he "boasted of the reception he had met with in England, of his interest at court, and the honor of knighthood which had been conferred upon him." In vain he represented "the advantages that would result from submission," the benefits of British patronage; and paraded before the eyes of the young commander the parchment grant, the seal, the royal autograph, and the glittering title of Knight Baronet, which had inspired his perfidy. His son, shocked and indignant, declined the proffered honors and emoluments that were only to be gained by an act of treason; and intimated his intention "to defend the Fort with his life, sooner than deliver it up to the enemies of his country." The father used the most earnest entreaties, the most touching and parental arguments. Charles Etienne was proof against these. The Baronet alluded to the large force under his command, and deplored the necessity of making an assault, in case his propositions were rejected. Charles Etienne only doubled his sentinels, and stood more firmly intrenched upon his honor. Then the elder La Tour ordered an assault. For two days the storm continued; sometimes the Mother-in-law led the Scotch soldiers to the breach, but the French soldiers, under the Daughter-in-law, drove them back with such bitter fury, that of the assailants it was hard to say which numbered most, the living or the dead. At last, La Tour the elder abandoned the siege; and "ashamed to appear in England, afraid to appear in France," accepted the humiliating alternative of requesting an asylum from his son. Permission to reside in the neighborhood was granted by Charles Etienne. The Scotch troops were reëmbarked for England; and the younger and the elder Mrs. de la Tour smiled at each other grimly from the plain and from the parapet. Further than this there was no intercourse between the families. Whenever Marie de la Tour sent the baby to grandmother, it went with a troop of cavalry and a flag of truce; and whenever Lady de la Tour left her card at the gate, the drums beat, and the guard turned out with fixed bayonets. Such discipline had prepared Marie de la Tour for the heroic part which afterwards raised her to the historical position she occupies in the chronicles of Acadia. I have had occasion to speak of freedom of opinion existing in this Province--but for the invasion of English and Scotch filibusters, this absolute liberty of faith would have produced the happiest fruits in the new colonies. But unfortunately in a weak and newly-settled country, union in all things is an indispensable condition of existence. This very liberty of opinion, in a great measure disintegrated the early French settlements, and separated a people which otherwise might have encountered successfully its rapacious enemies. At this time the French Governor of Acadia, Razillia, died. Charles Etienne la Tour as a subordinate officer, had full command of the eastern part of the province, as the Chevalier d'Aulney de Charnisé, had of the western portion, extending as far as the Penobscot. As for the Sterling patent, Sir William, finding it of little value, had sold it to the elder La Tour, but the defeated adventurer of Cape Sable by the treaty of St. Germains in 1632, was stripped of his new possessions by King Charles I., who conveyed the whole of the territory again to Louis XIII. of France. Thus it will be seen, that two claimants only were in possession of Acadia; namely, the younger La Tour and D'Aulney. The elder La Tour now retires from the scene, goes to England with his wife, and is heard of no more. Between the rival commanders in Acadia, there were certain points of resemblance--both were youthful, both were brave, enterprising and ambitious, both the happy husbands of proud and beautiful wives. Otherwise La Tour was a Huguenot and D'Aulney a Catholic--thus it will be seen that the latter had the most favor at the French court, while the former could more securely count upon the friendship of the English of Massachusetts Bay--no inconsiderable allies as affairs then stood. Under such circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that there was a constant feud between the two young officers, and their young wives. The chronicles of the Pilgrims, the records of Bradford, Winthrop, Mather, and Hutchinson, are full of the exploits of these pugnacious heroes. At one time La Tour appears in person at Boston, to beat up recruits, as more than two hundred years after, another power attempted to raise a foreign legion, and, although the pilgrim fathers do not officially sanction the proceeding, yet they connive at it, and quote Scripture to warrant them. Close upon this follows a protest of D'Aulney, and with it the exhibition of a warrant from the French king for the arrest of La Tour. Upon this there is a meeting of the council and a treaty, offensive and defensive, made with D'Aulney. Meanwhile, Marie de la Tour arrived at Boston from England, where she had been on a visit to her mother-in-law. The captain of the vessel upon which she had reëmbarked for the new world, having carried her to this city instead of to the river St. John, according to the letter of the charter, was promptly served with a summons by that lady to appear before the magistrates to show cause why he did it; and the consequence was, madame recovered damages to the amount of two thousand pounds in the Marine Court of the Modern Athens. With this sum in her pocket, she chartered a vessel for the river St. John, and arrived at a small fort belonging to her husband, on its banks, just in time to defend it against D'Aulney, who had rallied his forces for an attack upon it, during the absence of Charles Etienne. Marie de la Tour at this time was one of the most beautiful women in the new world. She was not less than twenty, nor more than thirty years of age; her features had a charm beyond the limits of the regular; her eyes were expressive; her mouth intellectual; her complexion brown and clear, could pale or flush with emotions either tender or indignant. Before such a commandress D'Aulney de Charnisé set down his forces in the year 1644. The garrison was small--the brave Charles Etienne absent in a distant part of the province. But the unconquerable spirit of the woman prevailed over these disadvantages. At the first attack by D'Aulney, the guns of the fort were directed with such consummate skill that every shot told. The besieger, with twenty killed and thirteen wounded, was only too happy to warp his frigate out of the leach of this lovely lady's artillery, and retire to Penobscot to refit for further operations. Again D'Aulney sailed up the St. John, with the intention of taking the place by assault. By land as by water, his forces were repulsed with great slaughter. A host of Catholic soldiers fell before a handful of Protestant guns, which was not surprising, as the cannon were well pointed, and loaded with grape and canister. For three days the French officer carried on the attack, and then again retreated. On the fourth day a Swiss hireling deserted to the enemy and betrayed the weakness of the garrison. D'Aulney, now confident of success, determined to take the fort by storm; but as he mounted the wall, the lovely La Tour, at the head of her little garrison, met the besiegers with such determined bravery, that again they were repulsed. That evening D'Aulney hung the traitorous Swiss, and proposed honorable terms, if the brave commandress would surrender. To these terms Marie assented, in the vain hope of saving the lives of the brave men who had survived; the remnants of her little garrison. But the perfidious D'Aulney, who, from the vigorous defence of the fort, had supposed the number of soldiers to have been greater, instead of feeling that admiration which brave men always experience when acts of valor are presented by an enemy, lost himself in an abyss of chagrin, to find he had been thrice defeated by a garrison so contemptible in numbers, and led by a _female_. To his eternal infamy let it be recorded, that pretending to have been deceived by the terms of capitulation, D'Aulney hanged the brave survivors of the garrison, and even had the baseness and cruelty to parade Madame de la Tour herself on the same scaffold, with the ignominious cord around her neck, as a reprieved criminal. To quote the words of the chronicler: "The violent and unusual exertions which Madame la Tour had made, the dreadful fate of her household and followers, and the total wreck of his fortune, had such an effect that she died soon after this event." So perished the beautiful, the brave, the faithful, the unfortunate! Shall I add that her besieger, D'Aulney, died soon after, leaving a bereaved but blooming widow? That Charles Etienne la Tour, to prevent further difficulties in the province, laid siege to that sad and sympathizing lady, not with flag and drum, shot and shell, but with the more effectual artillery of love? That Madame D'Aulney finally surrendered, and that Charles Etienne was wont to say to her, after the wedding: "Beloved, _your_ husband and _my_ wife have had their pitched battle, but let _us_ live in peace for the rest of our days, my dear." Quaint, old, mouldy Halifax seems more attractive after re-writing this portion of its early history. The defence of that little fort, with its slender garrison, by Madame la Tour, against the perfidious Charnisé, brings to mind other instances of female heroism, peculiar to the French people. It recalls the achievements of Joan of Arc, and Charlotte Corday. Not less, than these, in the scale of intrepid valor, are those of Marie de la Tour. CHAPTER XV. Bedford Basin--Legend of the two French Admirals--An Invitation to the Queen--Visit to the Prince's Lodge--A Touch of Old England--The Ruins. The harbor of Chebucto, after stretching inland far enough to make a commodious and beautiful site for the great city of Halifax, true to the fine artistic taste peculiar to all bodies of water in the province, penetrates still further in the landscape, and broadens out into a superb land-locked lake, called Bedford Basin. The entrance to this basin is very narrow, and it has no other outlet. Oral tradition maintains that about a century ago a certain French fleet, lying in the harbor, surprised by the approach of a superior body of English men-of-war in the offing, weighed anchor and sailed up through this narrow estuary into the basin itself, deceived by seeing so much water there, and believing it to be but a twin harbor through which they could escape again to the open sea. And further, that the French Admiral finding himself caught in this net with no chance of escape, drew his sword, and placing the hilt upon the deck of his vessel, fell upon the point of the weapon, and so died. This tradition is based partly upon fact; its epoch is one of the most interesting in the history of this province, and probably the turning point in the affairs of the whole northern continent. The suicide was an officer high in rank, the Duke d'Anville, who in 1746, after the first capture of Louisburgh, sailed from Brest with the most formidable fleet that had ever crossed the Atlantic, to re-take this famous fortress; then to re-take Annapolis, next to destroy Boston, and finally to _visit_ the West Indies. But his squadron being dispersed by tempestuous weather, he arrived in Chebucto harbor with but a few ships, and not finding any of the rest of his fleet there, was so affected by this and other disasters on the voyage, that he destroyed himself. So says the _London Chronicle_ of August 24th, 1758, from which I take this account. The French say he died of apoplexy, the English by poison. At all events, he was buried in a little island in the harbor, after a defeat by the elements of as great an armament as that of the Spanish Armada. Some idea of the disasters of this voyage may be formed from one fact, that from the time of the sailing of the expedition from Brest until its arrival at Chebucto, no less than 1,270 men died on the way from the plague. Many of the ships arriving after this sad occurrence, Vice-Admiral Destournelle endeavored to fulfill the object of the mission, and even with his crippled forces essay to restore the glory of France in the western hemisphere. But he being overruled by a council of war, plucked out his sword, and followed his commander, the Duke d'Anville. What might have come of it, had either admiral again planted the _fleur de lis_ upon the bastions of Louisburgh? But to return to the to-day of to-day. Bedford Basin is now rapidly growing in importance. The great Nova Scotia railway skirts the margin of its storied waters, and already suburban villas for Haligonian Sparrowgrasses, are being erected upon its banks. I was much amused one morning, upon opening one of the Halifax papers, to find in its columns a most warm and hearty invitation from the editor to her majesty, Queen Victoria, soliciting her to visit the province, which, according to the editorial phraseology, would be, no doubt, as interesting as it was endeared to her, as the former residence of her gracious father, the Duke of Kent. In the year 1798, just twenty years before her present majesty was born, the young Prince Edward was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the forces in British North America. Loyalty, then as now, was rampant in Nova Scotia, and upon the arrival of his Royal Highness, among other marks of compliment, an adjacent island, that at present rejoices in a governor and parliament of its own, was re-christened with the name it now bears, namely--Prince Edward's Island. But I am afraid Prince Edward was a sad reprobate in those days--at least, such is the record of tradition. The article in the newspaper reminded me that somewhere upon Bedford Basin were the remains of the "Prince's Lodge;" so one afternoon, accompanied by a dear old friend, I paid this royal bower by Bendemeer's stream, a visit. Rattling through the unpaved streets of Halifax in a one horse vehicle, called, for obvious reasons, a "jumper," we were soon on the high-road towards the basin. Water of the intensest blue--hill-slopes, now cultivated, and anon patched with evergreens that look as black as squares upon a chess board, between the open, broken grounds--a fine road--a summer sky--an atmosphere spicy with whiffs of resinous odors, and no fog,--these are the features of our ride. Yonder is a red building, reflected in the water like the prison of Chillon, where some of our citizens were imprisoned during the war of 1812--ship captives doubtless! And here is the customary little English inn, where we stop our steed to let him cool, while the stout landlord, girt with a clean white apron, brings out to his thirsty travellers a brace of foaming, creamy glasses of "right h'English h'ale." Then remounting the jumper, we skirt the edge of the basin again, until a stately dome rises up before us on the road, which, as we approach, we see is supported by columns, and based upon a gentle promontory overhanging the water. This is the "Music House," where the Prince's band were wont to play in days "lang syne." Here we stop, and leaving our jumper in charge of a farmer, stroll over the grounds. That peculiar arrangement of lofty trees, sweeping lawns, and graceful management of water, which forms the prevailing feature of English landscape gardening, was at once apparent. Although there were no trim walks, green hedges, or beds of flowers; although the whole place was ruined and neglected, yet the magic touch of art was not less visible to the practised eye. The art that concealed art, seemed to lend a charm to the sweet seclusion, without intruding upon or disturbing the intentions of nature. Proceeding up the gentle slope that led from the gate, a number of columbines and rose-bushes scattered in wild profusion, indicated where once had been the Prince's garden. These, although now in bloom and teeming with flowers, have a vagrant, neglected air, like beauties that had ran astray, never to be reclaimed. A little further we come upon the ruins of a spacious mansion, and beyond these the remains of the library, with its tumbled-down bricks and timbers, choking up the stream that wound through the vice-regal domains: and here the bowling-green, yet fresh with verdure; here the fishing pavilion, leaning over an artificial lake, with an artificial island in the midst; and here are willows, and deciduous trees, planted by the Prince; and other rose-bushes and columbines scattered in wild profusion. I could not but admire the elegance and grace, which, even now, were so apparent, amid the ruins of the lodge, nor could I help recalling those earlier days, when the red-coats clustered around the gates, and the grounds were sparkling with lamps at night; when the band from the music-house woke the echoes with the clash of martial instruments, and the young Prince, with his gay gallants, and his powdered, patched, and painted Jezebels, held his brilliant court, with banner, music, and flotilla; with the array of soldiery, and the pageantry of ships-of-war, on Bedford Basin. I stood by the ruins of a little stone bridge, which had once spanned the sparkling brook, and led to the Prince's library; I saw, far and near, the flaunting flowers of the now abandoned garden, and the distant columns of the silent music house, and I felt sad amid the desolation, although I knew not why. For wherefore should any one feel sad to see the temples of dissipation laid in the dust? For my own part, I am a poor casuist, but nevertheless, I do not think my conscience will suffer from this feeling. There is a touch of humanity in it, and always some germ of sympathy will bourgeon and bloom around the once populous abodes of men, whether they were tenanted by the pure or by the impure. CHAPTER XVI. The Last Night--Farewell Hotel Waverley--Friends Old and New--What followed the Marriage of La Tour le Borgne--Invasion of Col. Church. Faint nebulous spots in the air, little red disks in a halo of fog, acquaint us that there are gas-lights this night in the streets of Halifax. Something new, I take it, this illumination? Carbonated hydrogen is a novelty as yet in Chebucto. But in this soft and pleasant atmosphere, I cannot but feel some regret at leaving my old quarters in the Hotel Waverley. If I feel how much there is to welcome me elsewhere, yet I do not forsake this queer old city--these strange, dingy, weather-beaten streets, without reluctance; and chiefly I feel that now I must separate from some old friends, and from some new ones too, whom I can ill spare. And if any of these should ever read this little book, I trust they will not think the less of me because of it. If the salient features of the province have sometimes appeared to me, a stranger, a trifle distorted, it may be that my own stand-point is defective. And so farewell! To-morrow I shall draw nearer homeward, by Windsor and the shores of the Gasperau, by Grand-Pré and the Basin of Minas. Candles, Henry! and books! The marriage of La Tour to the widow of his deceased rival, for a time enabled that brave young adventurer to remain in quiet possession of the territory. But to the Catholic Court of France, a suspected although not an avowed Protestant, in commission, was an object of distrust. No matter what might have been his former services, indeed, his defence of Cape Sable had saved the French possessions from the encroachments of the Sterling patent, yet he was heretic to the true faith, and therefore defenceless in an important point against the attacks of an enemy. Such a one was La Tour le Borgne, who professed to be a creditor of D'Aulney, and pressing his suit with all the ardor of bigotry and rapacity, easily succeeded in "obtaining a decree by which he was authorized to enter upon the possessions of his _deceased debtor_!" But the adherents of Charles Etienne did not readily yield to the new adventurer. They had tasted the sweets of religious liberty, and were not disposed to come within the arbitrary yoke without a struggle. Disregarding the "decree," they stood out manfully against the forces of Le Borgne. Again were Catholic French and Protestant French cannon pointed against each other in unhappy Acadia. But fort after fort fell beneath the new claimant's superior artillery, until La Tour le Borgne himself was met by a counter-force of bigotry, before which his own was as chaff to the fanning-mill. The man of England, Oliver Cromwell, had his little claim, too, in Acadia. Against his forces both the French commanders made but ineffectual resistance. Acadia for the third time fell into the hands of the English. Now in the history of the world there is nothing more patent than this: that persecution in the name of religion, is only a ring of calamities, which ends sooner or later where it began. And this portion of its history can be cited as an example. Charles Etienne de la Tour, alienated by the unjust treatment of his countrymen, decided to accept the protection of his national enemy. As the heir of Sir Claude de la Tour, he laid claim to the Sterling grants (which it will be remembered had been ceded to his father by Sir William Alexander after the unsuccessful attack upon Cape Sable,) and in conjunction with two English Puritans obtained a new patent for Acadia from the Protector, under the great seal, with the title of Sir Charles La Tour. Then Sir Thomas Temple (one of the partners in the Cromwell patent) purchased the interest of Charles Etienne in Acadia. Then came the restoration, and again Acadia was restored to France by Charles II. in 1668. But Sir Thomas having embarked all his fortune in the enterprise, was not disposed to submit to the arbitrary disposal of his property by this treaty; and therefore endeavored to evade its articles by making a distinction between such parts of the province as were supposed to constitute Acadia proper, and the other portions of the territory comprehended under the title of Nova Scotia. "This distinction being deemed frivolous," Sir Thomas was ordered to obey the letter of the treaty, and accordingly the _whole of Nova Scotia_ was delivered up to the Chevalier de Grande Fontaine. During twenty years succeeding this event, Acadia enjoyed comparative repose, subject only to occasional visits of filibusters. At the expiration of that time, a more serious invasion was meditated. Under the command of Sir William Phipps, a native of New England, three ships, with transports and soldiers, appeared before Port Royal, and demanded an unconditional surrender. Although the fort was poorly garrisoned, this was refused by Manivel, the French governor, but finally terms of capitulation were agreed upon: these were, that the French troops should be allowed to retain their arms and baggage, and be carried to Quebec; that the inhabitants should be maintained in the peaceable possession of their property, and in the exercise of their religion; and that the honor of the women should be observed. Sir William agreed to the conditions, but declined signing the articles, pompously intimating that the "word of a general was a better security than any document whatever." The French governor, deceived by this specious parade of language, took the New England filibuster at his word, and formally surrendered the keys of the fortress, according to the verbal contract. Again was poor Acadia the victim of her perfidious enemy. Sir William, disregarding the terms of the capitulation, and the "word of a general," violated the articles he had pledged his honor to maintain, disarmed and imprisoned the soldiers, sacked the churches, and gave the place up to all the ruthless cruelties and violences of a general pillage. Not only this, the too credulous Governor, Manivel, was himself imprisoned, plundered of money and clothes, and carried off on board the conqueror's frigate, with many of his unfortunate companions, to view the further spoliations of his countrymen. Many a peaceful Acadian village expired in flames during that coasting expedition, and to add to the miseries of the defenceless Acadians, two _piratical_ vessels followed in the wake of the pious Sir William, and set fire to the houses, slaughtered the cattle, hanged the inhabitants, and deliberately burned up one whole family, whom they had shut in a dwelling-house for that purpose. Soon after this, Sir William was rewarded with the governorship of New England, as Argall had been with that of Virginia, nearly a century before. Now let it be remembered that in these expeditions, very little, if any, attempt was made by the invaders to colonize or reside on the lands they were so ready to lay waste and destroy. The mind of the species "Puritan," by rigid discipline hardened against all frivolous amusements, and insensible to the charms of the drama, and the splendors of the mimic spectacle, with its hollow shows of buckram, tinsel, and pasteboard, seems to have been peculiarly fitted to enjoy these more substantial enterprises, which, owing to the defenceless condition of the French province, must have appeared to the rigid Dudleys and Endicotts merely as a series of light and elegant pastimes. Scarcely had Sir William Phipps returned to Boston, when the Chevalier Villabon came from France with troops and implements of war. On his arrival, he found the British flag flying at Port Royal, unsupported by an English garrison. It was immediately lowered from the flag-staff, the white flag of Louis substituted, and once more Acadia was under the dominion of her parental government. Villabon, in a series of petty skirmishes, soon recovered the rest of the territory, which was only occupied at a few points by feeble New England garrisons, and, in conjunction with a force of Abenaqui Indians, laid siege to the fort at Pemaquid, on the Penobscot, and captured it. In this affair, as we have seen, the famous Baron Castine was engaged. The capture of the fort at Pemaquid, led to a train of reprisals, conspicuous in which was an actor in the theatre of events who heretofore had not appeared upon the Acadian stage. This was Col. Church, a celebrated bushwhacker and Indian-fighter, of memorable account in the King Philip war. In order to estimate truly the condition of the respective parties, we must remember the severe iron and gunpowder nature of the Puritan of New England, his prejudices, his dyspepsia; his high-peaked hat and ruff; his troublesome conscience and catarrh; his natural antipathies to Papists and Indians, from having been scalped by one, and roasted by both; his English insolence; and his religious bias, at once tyrannic and territorial. Then, on the other, we must call to view the simple Acadian peasant, Papist or Protestant, just as it happened; ignorant of the great events of the world; a mere offshoot of rural Normandy; without a thought of other possessions than those he might reclaim from the sea by his dykes; credulous, pure-minded, patient of injuries; that like the swallow in the spring, thrice built the nest, and when again it was destroyed, ----"found the ruin wrought, But, not cast down, forth from the place it flew, And with its mate fresh earth and grasses brought, And built the nest anew." Against such people, the expedition of Col. Church, fresh from the slaughter of Pequod wars, bent its merciless energies. Regardless of the facts that the people were non-resistants; that the expeditions of the French had been only feeble retaliations of great injuries; and always by levies from the mother country, and not from the colonists; that Villabon, at the capture of Pemaquid, had generously saved the lives of the soldiers in the garrison from the fury of the Mic-Macs, who had just grounds of retribution for the massacres which had marked the former inroads of these ruthless invaders; the wrath of the Pilgrim Fathers fell upon the unfortunate Acadians as though they had been a nation of Sepoys.[D] [D] One incident will suffice to show the character of these forays. A small island on Passamaquoddy Bay was invaded by the forces under Col. Church, at night. The inhabitants made no resistance. All gave up; "but," says Church in his dispatch to the governor, "looking over a little run, I saw something look black just by me: stopped and heard a talking; stepped over and saw a little hut, or wigwam, with a crowd of people round about it, which was contrary to my former directions. I asked them what they were doing? They replied, 'there were some of the enemy in a house, and would not come out.' I asked what house? They said, 'a bark house' I hastily bid them pull it down, _and knock them on the head, never asking whether they were French or Indians, they being all enemies alike to me_." Such was the merciless character of these early expeditions to peaceful Acadia. "Herod of Galilee's babe-butchering deed Lives not on history's blushing page alone; Our skies, it seems, have seen like victims bleed, And our own Ramahs echoed groan for groan; The fiends of France, whose cruelties decreed Those dexterous drownings in the Loire and Rhone, Were, at their worst, but copyists, second-hand, Of our shrined, sainted sires, the Plymouth Pilgrim band." One of the severest cruelties practised upon these inoffensive people, was that of requiring them to betray their friends, the Indians, under the heaviest penalties. In Acadia, the red and the white man were as brothers; no treachery, no broken faith, no over-reaching policy had severed the slightest fibre of good fellowship on either side. But the Abenaqui race was a warlike people. At the first invasion, under Argall, the red man had seen with surprise a mere handful of white men disputing for a territory to which neither could offer a claim; so vast as to make either occupation or control by the adventurers ridiculous; and therefore, with good-natured zeal, he had hastened to put an end to the quarrel, as though the white people had only been fractious but not irreconcilable kinsmen. But as the power of New England advanced more and more in Acadia, the first generous desire of the red man had merged into suspicion, and finally hatred of the peaked hat and ruff of Plymouth. In all his dealings with the Acadians, the Indian had found only unimpeachable faith and honor; but with the colonist of Massachusetts, there had been nothing but over-reaching and treachery: intercourse with the first had not led to a scratch, or a single drop of blood; while on the other hand a bounty of "one hundred pounds was offered for each male of their tribe if over twelve years of age, if scalped; one hundred and five pounds if taken prisoner; fifty pounds for each _woman and child scalped_, and fifty pounds when brought in alive." The Abenaqui tribes therefore, first, to avenge the injuries of their unresisting friends, the Acadians, and after to avenge their own, waged war upon the invaders with all the severities of an aggrieved and barbarous people. And, as I have said before, the severest cruelty inflicted upon the Acadian colonist, was to oblige him to betray his best friend and protector, the painted heathen, with whom he struck hands and plighted faith. To the honor of these colonists, be it said, that although they saw their long years' labor of dykes broken down, the sea sweeping over their farms, the fire rolling about their homesteads, their cattle and sheep destroyed, their effects plundered, and wanton and nameless outrages committed by the English and Yankee soldiery, yet in no instance did they purchase indemnity from these, by betraying a single Indian. CHAPTER XVII. A few more Threads of History--Acadia again lost--The Oath of Allegiance--Settlement of Halifax--The brave Three Hundred--Massacre at Norridgewoack--Le Père Ralle. During the invasion of Col. Church, the inhabitants of Grand-Pré were exposed to such treatment as may be conceived of. The smoke from the borders of the five rivers, overlooked by Blomidon, rose in the stilly air, and again the sea rolled past the broken dykes, which for nearly a century had kept out its desolating waters between the Cape and the Gasperau. Driven to despair, a few of the younger Acadians took up arms to defend their hearthstones, but the great body of the people submitted without resistance. A brief stand was made at Port Royal, but this last outpost finally capitulated. By the terms of the articles agreed upon, the inhabitants were to have the privilege of remaining upon their estates for two years, upon taking an oath of allegiance to remain faithful to her majesty, Queen Anne, during that period. Upon that consideration, those who lived _within cannon-shot_ of the fort, were to be protected in their rights and properties. This was but a piece of _finesse_ on the part of the invaders, an entering wedge, as it were, of a novel kind of tyranny, namely, that inasmuch as those within cannon-shot had taken the oath of allegiance, those without the reach of artillery, at Port Royal, also, were bound to do the same. And a strong detachment of New England troops, under Captain Pigeon, was sent upon an expedition to enforce the arbitrary oath. But Captain Pigeon, in the pursuit of his duty, fell in with an enemy of a less gentle nature than the Acadians. A body of Abenaqui came down upon him and his men, and smote them hip and thigh, even as the three hundred warriors of Israel smote the Midianites in the valley of Moreh. Then was there temporary relief in the land until the year 1713, when by a treaty Acadia was formally surrendered to England. The weight of the oath of allegiance now fell heavily upon the innocent colonists. We can scarcely appreciate the abhorrence of a people, so conscientious as this, to take an oath of fidelity to a race that had only been known to them by its rapacity. But partly by persuasion, partly by menace, a majority of the Acadians took the oath, which was as follows: "_Je promets et jure sincèrement, en foi de Chrétien, que je serai entièrement fidèle et obéirai vraiment sa Majesté le roi George, que je reconnaias pour le Souverain seigneur de l'Acadie, ou Nouvelle Ecosse, ainsi Dieu me soit en aide_." Under the shadow of the protection derived from their acceptance of this oath, the Acadians reposed a few years. It did not oblige them to bear arms against their countrymen, nor did it compromise their religious independence of faith. Again the dykes were built to resist the encroachments of the sea; again village after village arose--at the mouth of the Gasperau, on the shores of the Canard, beside the Strait of Frontenac, at Le Have, and Rossignol, at Port Royal and Pisiquid. During all these years no attempt had been made by the captors of this province, to colonize the places baptized with the waters of Puritan progress. Lunenburgh was settled with King William's Dutchmen; the walls of Louisburgh were rising in one of the harbors of a neighboring island; but in no instance had the filibusters projected a _colony_ on the soil which had been wrested from its rightful owners. The only result of all their bloody visitations upon a non-resisting people, had been to make defenceless Acadia a neutral province. From this time until the close of the drama, in all the wars between the Georges and the Louises, in both hemispheres, the people of Acadia went by the name of "The Neutral French." Meantime the walls of Louisburgh were rising on the island of Cape Breton, which, with Canada, still remained under the sovereign rule of the French. The Acadians were invited to remove within the protection of this formidable fortress, but they preferred remaining intrenched behind their dykes, firmly believing that the only invader they had now to dread was the sea, inasmuch as they had accepted the oath of fidelity, in which, and in their inoffensive pursuits, they imagined themselves secure from farther molestation. Some of their Indian neighbors, however, accepted the invitation of the Cape Breton French, and removed thither. These simple savages, notwithstanding the changes in the government, still regarded the Acadians as friends, and the English as enemies. They could not comprehend the nature of a treaty by which their own lands were ceded to a hostile force; a treaty in which they were neither consulted nor considered.[E] They had their own injuries to remember, which in no wise had been balanced in the compact of the strangers. The rulers in New France (so says the chronicler) "affected to consider the Indians as an independent people." At Canseau, at Cape Sable, at Annapolis, and Passamaquoddy, English forts, fishing stations, and vessels were attacked and destroyed by the savages with all the circumstances that make up the hideous features of barbaric reprisal. Unhappy Acadia came in for her share of condemnation. Although her innocent people had no part in these transactions, yet her missionaries had converted the Abenaqui to faith in the symbol of the crucifixion, and it was currently reported and credited in New England, that they had taught the savages to believe also the English were the people who had crucified our Saviour. To complicate matters again, the Chevalier de St. George (of whom there is no recollection except that he was anonymous, both as a prince, and as a man) sent his son, the fifth remove in stupidity, of the most stupid line of monarchs (not even excepting the Georges) that ever wore crowns, to stir up an insurrection among the most obtuse race of people that ever wore, or went without, breeches. A war between France and England followed the descent of the Pretender. A war naturally followed in the Colonies. [E] In the treaty of Utrecht, no mention was made either of the Indians or of their lands. Again the ring of fire and slaughter met and ended in a treaty; the treaty of Aix la Chapelle, by which Cape Breton was ceded to France, and Nova Scotia, or Acadia, to England. Up to this time no attempt at colonizing the fertile valleys of Acadia, by its captors, had been attempted. At last, under large and favorable grants from the Crown, a colony was established by the Hon. Edward Cornwallis, at a place now known as Halifax. No sooner was Halifax settled, than sundry tribes of red men made predatory visits to the borders of the new colony. Reprisals followed reprisals, and it is not easy to say on which side lay the largest amount of savage fury. At the same time, the Acadians remained true to the spirit and letter of the oath they had taken. "They had relapsed," says the chronicler, "into a sort of sullen neutrality." This was considered just cause of offence. The oath which had satisfied Governor Phipps, did not satisfy George II. A new oath of allegiance was tendered, by which the Acadians were required to become loyal subjects of the English Crown, to bear arms against their countrymen, and the Indians to whom the poor colonists were bound by so many ties of obligation and affection. The consciences of these simple people revolted at a requisition "so repugnant to the feelings of human nature." Three hundred of the younger and braver Acadians took up arms against their oppressors. This overt act was just what was desired by the wily Puritans. Acadia, with its twenty thousand inhabitants, was placed under the ban of having violated the oath of neutrality in the persons of the three hundred. In vain the great body of the people protested that this act was contrary to their wishes, their peaceful habits, and beyond their control. At the fort of Beau Séjour, the brave three hundred made a gallant stand, but were defeated. Would there had been a Leonidas among them! Would that the whole of their kinsmen had erected forts instead of dykes, and dropped the plough-handles to press the edge of the sabre against the grindstone! Sad indeed is the fate of that people who make any terms with such an enemy, except such as may be granted at the bayonet's point. Sad indeed is the condition of that people who are wrapt in security when Persecution steals in upon them, hiding its bloody hands under the garments of sanctity. Among the many incidents of these cruel wars, the fate of a Jesuit priest may stand as a type of the rest. Le Père Ralle had been a missionary for forty years among the various tribes of the Abenaqui. "His literary attainments were of a high order;" his knowledge of modern languages respectable; "his Latin," according to Haliburton, "was pure, classical and elegant;" and he was master of several of the Abenaqui dialects; indeed, a manuscript dictionary of the Abenaqui languages, in his handwriting, is still preserved in the library of the Harvard University. Of one of these tribes--the Norridgewoacks--Father Ralle was the pastor. Its little village was on the banks of the Kennebeck; the roof of its tiny chapel rose above the pointed wigwams of the savages; and a huge cross, the emblem of peace, lifted itself above all, the conspicuous feature of the settlement in the distance. By the tribe over which he had exercised his gentle rule for so many years, Le Père Ralle was regarded with superstitious reverence and affection. It does not appear that these people had been accused of any overt acts; but, nevertheless, the village was marked out for destruction. Two hundred and eight Massachusetts men were dispatched upon this errand. The settlement was surprised at night, and a terrible scene of slaughter ensued. Ralle came forth from his chapel to save, if possible, the lives of his miserable parishioners. "As soon as he was seen," says the chronicler,[F] "he was saluted with a great shout and a shower of bullets, and fell, together with seven Indians, who had rushed out of their tents to defend him with their bodies; and when the pursuit ceased, the Indians who had fled, returned to weep over their beloved missionary, and found him dead at the foot of the cross, his body perforated with balls, his head scalped, his skull broken with blows of hatchets, his mouth and eyes filled with mud, the bones of his legs broken, and his limbs dreadfully mangled. After having bathed his remains with their tears, they buried him on the site of the chapel, that had been hewn down with its crucifix, with whatever else remained of the emblems of idolatry." Such was the merciless character of the invasion of Acadia; such the looming phantom of the greater crime which was so speedily to spread ruin over her fair valleys, and scatter forever her pastoral people. [F] Charlevoix. The tranquillity of entire subjugation followed these events in the province. The New Englander built his menacing forts along the rivers, and pressed into his service the labors of the neutral French. "The requisitions which were made of them were not calculated to conciliate affection," says the chronicler; the poor Acadian peasant was informed, if he did not supply the garrison fuel, his own house would be used for that purpose, and that neglect to furnish timber for the repairs of a fort, would be followed by drum-head courts martial, and "military execution." To all these exactions, these unhappy people patiently submitted. But in vain. The very existence of the subjugated race had become irksome to their oppressors. A cruelty yet more intolerable to which the history of the world affords no parallel, remained to be perpetrated. CHAPTER XVIII. On the road to Windsor--The great Nova Scotia Railway--A Fellow Passenger--Cape Sable Shipwrecks--Seals--Ponies--Windsor--Sam Slick--A lively Example. A dewy, spring-like morning is all I remembered of my farewell to Halifax. A very sweet and odorous air as I rode towards the railway station in the funereal cab; a morning without fog, a sparkling freshness that twinkled in the leaves and crisped the waters. So I take leave of thee, quaint old city of Chebucto. The words of a familiar ditty, the memory of the unfortunate Miss Bailey, rises upon me as the morning bugle sounds-- "A captain bold in Halifax, who lived in country quarters, Seduced a maid, who hung herself next morning in her garters; His wicked conscience smoted him, he lost his spirits daily, He took to drinking ratifia, and thought upon Miss Bailey." While the psychological features of the case were puzzling his brain and keeping him wide awake-- "The candles blue, at XII. o'clock, began to burn quite paley, A ghost appeared at his bedside, and said-- behold, Miss Bailey!!!" Even such a sprite, so dead in look, so woe-begone, drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night to tell him half his Troy was burned; but this visit was for a different purpose, as we find by the words which the gallant Lothario addressed to his victim: "'You'll find,' says he, 'a five-pound note in my regimental small-clothes; 'T will bribe the sexton for your grave,' the ghost then vanished gaily, Saying, 'God bless you, wicked Captain Smith, although you've ruined Miss Bailey.'" There is no end to these legends; the whole province is full of them. The Province Building is stuffed with rich historical manuscripts, that only wait for the antiquarian explorer.[G] [G] Since my visit this work has actually commenced. At the close of the legislative session of 1857, the Hon. Joseph Howe moved, and the Hon. Attorney-General seconded, and the House, after some demur, resolved, that his Excellency be requested to appoint a commission for examining and arranging the records of the Province. Dining the recess the office was instituted, and Thomas B. Akins, Esq., a gentleman distinguished for antiquarian taste and research, was appointed commissioner. It was known that in the garrets or cellars of the Province Building were heaps of manuscript records, of various kinds; but their exact nature and value were only surmised. Some of these had vanished, it is said, by the agency of rats and mice; and moth and mold were doing their work on other portions. To stay the waste, to ascertain what the heaps contained, and to arrange documents at all worthy of preservation, the commission was appointed. Mr. Akins has been for some months at the superintendence of the work, helped by a very industrious assistant, Mr. James Farquhar. Very pleasing results indeed have been realized. Several boxes of documents, arranged and labelled, have been packed, and fifteen or twenty volumes of interesting manuscripts have been prepared. Some of these are of great interest, relative to the history of the Province, and of British America generally, being original papers concerning the conquest and settling of the Provinces, and having reference to the Acadian French, the Indians, the taking of Louisburgh, of Quebec, and other matters of historic importance connected with the suppression of French dominion in America. We understand some of these documents prove, as many previously believed, that what appeared to be a stern necessity, and not wanton oppression or tyranny, caused the painful dispersion of the former French inhabitants of the more poetic and pastoral parts of Acadia. If this be so, some excellent sentiment and eloquent romance will have to be taken with considerable modification. A few of the most indignant bursts (?) in Longfellow's fine poem of "Evangeline" may be in this predicament; and may have to be read, not exactly as so much gospel, but rather as rhetorical extremes, unsubstantial, but too elegant to be altogether discarded. In volumes alluded to, of the record commission, the dispatches, and letters, and other documents of a former age, and in the handwriting, or from the immediate dictation, of eminent personages, will present very attractive material for those who find deep interest in such venerable inquiries; who obtain from this kind of lore a charming renewal of the past, a clearing up of local history, and an almost face-to-face conference with persons whose names are landmarks of national annals. The commission not only examines and arranges, but forms copious characteristic "contents" of the volumes, and an index for easy reference; it also keeps a journal of each day's proceedings. The "contents" tell the nature and topics of each document, and will thus facilitate research, and prevent much injurious turning over of the manuscripts. The work, too long delayed, has been happily commenced. Its neglect was felt to be a fault and a reproach, and serious loss was known to impend; but still it was put off, and spoken lightly of, and sneered at, and a very mistaken economy pretended, until last legislative session, when it was adopted by accident apparently, and is now in successful operation. The next questions are, how will the arranged documents be preserved? who will have them in charge? will they be allowed to be scattered about in the hands of privileged persons, to be lost wholesale? or will they, as they should, be sacredly conserved, a store to which all shall have a common but well-guarded light of access and research.--_Halifax Sun_, _Dec. 9, 1857_. But now we approach the station of the great Nova Scotia Railway, nine and three-quarter miles in length, that skirts the margin of Bedford Basin, and ends at the head of that blue sheet of water in the village of Sackville. It is amusing to see the gravity and importance of the conductor, in uniform frock-coat and with crown and V. R. buttons, as he paces up and down the platform before starting; and the quiet dignity of the sixpenny ticket-office; and the busy air of the freight-master, checking off boxes and bundles for the distant terminus--so distant that it can barely be distinguished by the naked eye. But it was a pleasant ride, that by the Basin! Not less pleasant because of the company of an old friend, who, with wife and children, went with me to the end of the iron road. Arrived there, we parted, with many a hearty hand-shake, and thence by stage to Windsor, on the river Avon, forty-five miles or so west of Halifax. My fellow-passenger on the stage-top was a pony! Yes, a real pony! not bigger, however, than a good sized pointer dog, although his head was of most preposterous horse-like length. This equine Tom Thumb, was one of the mustangs, or wild horses of Sable Island, some little account of which here may not be uninteresting. But first let me say, in order not to tax the credulity of my reader too much, that pony did not stand upright upon the roof of the coach, as may have been surmised, but was very cleverly laid upon his side, with his four legs strapped in the form of a saw-buck, precisely as butchers tie the legs of calves or of sheep together, for transportation in carts to the shambles, only pony's fetters were not so cruel--indeed he seemed to be quite at his ease--like the member of the foreign legion on the road to Dartmouth. Now then, pony's birth-place is one of the most interesting upon our coast. Do you remember it, my transatlantic traveller? The little yellow spot that greets you so far out at sea, and bids you welcome to the western hemisphere? I hope you have seen it in fine weather; many a goodly ship has left her bones upon that yellow island in less auspicious seasons. The first of these misadventurers was Sir Humphrey Gilbert, who was lost in a storm close by; the memorable words with which he hailed his consort are now familiar to every reader: "Heaven," said he, "is as near by sea as by land," and so bade the world farewell in the tempest. Legends of wrecks of buccaneers, of spectres, multiply as we penetrate into the mysterious history of the yellow island. And its present aspect is sufficiently tempting to the adventurous, for whom-- "If danger other charms have none, Then danger's self is lure alone." The following description, from a lecture delivered in Halifax, by Dr. J. Bernard Gilpin, will commend itself to our modern Robinson Crusoes: "Should any one be visiting the island now, he might see, about ten miles' distance, looking seaward, half a dozen low, dark hummocks on the horizon. As he approaches, they gradually resolve themselves into hills fringed by breakers, and by and by the white sea beach with its continued surf--the sand-hills, part naked, part waving in grass of the deepest green, unfold themselves--a house and a barn dot the western extremity--here and there along the wild beach lie the ribs of unlucky traders half-buried in the shifting sand. By this time a red ensign is waving at its peak, and from a tall flag-staff and crow's nest erected upon the highest hill midway of the island, an answering flag is waving to the wind. Before the anchor is let go, and the cutter is rounding to in five fathoms of water, men and horses begin to dot the beach, a life-boat is drawn rapidly on a boat-cart to the beach, manned, and fairly breasting the breakers upon the bar. It may have been three long winter months that this boat's crew have had no tidings of the world, or they may have three hundred emigrants and wrecked crews, waiting to be carried off. The hurried greetings over, news told and newspapers and letters given, the visitor prepares to return with them to the island. Should it be evening, he will see the cutter already under weigh and standing seaward; but, should it be fine weather, plenty of day, and wind right off the shore, even then she lies to the wind anchor apeak, and mainsail hoisted, ready to run at a moment's notice, so sudden are the shifts of wind, and so hard to claw off from those treacherous shores. But the life-boat is now entering the perpetual fringe of surf--a few seals tumble and play in the broken waters, and the stranger draws his breath hard, as the crew bend to their oars, the helmsman standing high in the pointed stern, with loud command and powerful arm keeping her true, the great boat goes riding on the back of a huge wave, and is carried high up on the beach in a mass of struggling water. To spring from their seats into the water, and hold hard the boat, now on the point of being swept back by the receding wave, is the work of an instant. Another moment they are left high and dry on the beach, another, and the returning wave and a vigorous run of the crew has borne her out of all harm's way. "Such is the ceremony of landing at Sable Island nine or ten months out of the year: though there are at times some sweet halcyon days when a lad might land in a flat. Dry-shod the visitor picks his way between the thoroughly drenched crew, picks up a huge scallop or two, admires the tumbling play of the round-headed seals, and plods his way through the deep sand of an opening between the hills, or gulch (so called) to the head-quarters establishment. And here, for the last fifty years, a kind welcome has awaited all, be they voluntary idlers or sea-wrecked men. Screened by the sand-hills, here is a well-stocked barn and barnyard, filled with its ordinary inhabitants, sleek milch cows and heady bulls, lazy swine, a horse grazing at a tether, with geese and ducks and fowls around. Two or three large stores and boat-houses, quarters for the men, the Superintendent's house, blacksmith shop, sailors' home for sea-wrecked men, and oil-house, stand around an irregular square, and surmounted by the tall flag-staff and crow's nest on the neighboring hill. So abrupt the contrast, so snug the scene, if the roar of the ocean were out of his ears, one might fancy himself twenty miles inland. "Nearly the first thing the visitor does is to mount the flag-staff, and climbing into the crow's nest, scan the scene. The ocean bounds him everywhere. Spread east and west, he views the narrow island in form of a bow, as if the great Atlantic waves had bent it around, nowhere much above a mile wide, twenty-six miles long, including the dry bars, and holding a shallow late thirteen miles long in its centre. "There it all lies spread like a map at his feet--grassy hill and sandy valley fading away into the distance. On the foreground the outpost men galloping their rough ponies into head-quarters, recalled by the flag flying above his head; the West-end house of refuge, with bread and matches, firewood and kettle, and directions to find water, and head-quarters with flag-staff on the adjoining hill. Every sandy peak or grassy knoll with a dead man's name or old ship's tradition--Baker's Hill, Trott's Cove, Scotchman's Head, French Gardens--traditionary spot where the poor convicts expiated their social crimes--the little burial-ground nestling in the long grass of a high hill, and consecrated to the repose of many a sea-tossed limb; and two or three miles down the shallow lake, the South-side house and barn, and staff and boats lying on the lake beside the door. Nine miles further down, by the help of a glass, he may view the flag-staff at the foot of the lake, and five miles further the East-end look-out, with its staff and watch-house. Herds of wild ponies dot the hills, and black duck and sheldrakes are heading their young broods on the mirror-like ponds. Seals innumerable are basking on the warm sands, or piled like ledges of rock along the shores. The Glascow's bow, the Maskonemet's stern, the East Boston's hulk, and the grinning ribs of the well-fastened Guide are spotting the sands, each with its tale of last adventure, hardships passed, and toil endured. The whole picture is set in a silver-frosted frame of rolling surf and sea-ribbed sand." The patrol duty of the hardy islander is thus described: "Mounted upon his hardy pony, the solitary patrol starts upon his lonely way. He rides up the centre valleys, ever and anon mounting a grassy hill to look seaward, reaches the West-end bar, speculates upon perchance a broken spar, an empty bottle, or a cask of beef struggling in the land-wash--now fords the shallow lake, looking well for his land-range, to escape the hole where Baker was drowned; and coming on the breeding-ground of the countless birds, his pony's hoof with a reckless smash goes crunching through a dozen eggs or callow young. He fairly puts his pony to her mettle to escape the cloud of angry birds which, arising in countless numbers, dent his weather-beaten tarpaulin with their sharp bills, and snap his pony's ears, and confuse him with their sharp, shrill cries. Ten minutes more, and he is holding hard to count the seals. There they lie, old ocean flocks, resting their wave-tossed limbs--great ocean bulls, and cows, and calves. He marks them all. The wary old male turns his broad moustached nostrils to the tainted gale of man and horse sweeping down upon them, and the whole herd are simultaneously lumbering a retreat. And now he goes, plying his little short whip, charging the whole herd to cut off their retreat for the pleasure and fun of galloping in and over and amongst fifty great bodies, rolling and tumbling and tossing, and splashing the surf in their awkward endeavors to escape." And now to return to our pony, who seems to sympathize with his fellow-traveller, for every instant he raises his head as if he would peep into his note-book. Let me quote this of him and of his brethren: "When the present breed of wild ponies was introduced, there is no record. In an old print, seemingly a hundred years old, they are depicted as being lassoed by men in cocked hats and antique habiliments. At present, three or four hundred are their utmost numbers, and it is curious to observe how in their figures and habits they approach the wild races of Mexico or the Ukraine. They are divided into herds or gangs, each having a separate pasture, and each presided over by an old male, conspicuous by the length of his mane, rolling in tangled masses over eye and ear down to his fore arm. Half his time seems taken up in tossing it from his eyes as he collects his out-lying mares and foals on the approach of strangers, and keeping them well up in a pack boldly faces the enemy whilst they retreat at a gallop. If pressed, however, he, too, retreats on their rear. He brooks no undivided allegiance, and many a fierce battle is waged by the contending chieftains for the honor of the herd. In form they resemble the wild horses of all lands: the large head, thick, shaggy neck of the male, low withers, paddling gait, and sloping quarters, have all their counterparts in the mustang and the horse of the Ukraine. There seems a remarkable tendency in these horses to assume the Isabella colors, the light chestnuts, and even the piebalds or paint horses of the Indian prairies or the Mexican Savannah. The annual drive or herding, usually resulting in the whole island being swept from end to end, and a kicking, snorting, half-terrified mass driven into a large pound, from which two or three dozen are selected, lassoed, and exported to town, affords fine sport, wild riding, and plenty of falls." Thus much for Sable Island. "Dark isle of mourning! aptly art thou named, For thou hast been the cause of many a tear; For deeds of treacherous strife too justly famed, The Atlantic's charnel--desolate and drear; A thing none love, though wand'ring thousands fear-- If for a moment rest the Muse's wing Where through the waves thy sandy wastes appear, 'Tis that she may one strain of horror sing, Wild as the dashing waves that tempests o'er thee fling."[H] [H] Poem by the Hon. Joseph Howe. And now pony we must part. Windsor approaches! Yonder among the embowering trees is the residence of Judge Halliburton, the author of "Sam Slick." How I admire him for his hearty hostility to republican institutions! It is natural, straightforward, shrewd, and, no doubt, sincere. At the same time, it affords an example of how much the colonist or satellite form of government tends to limit the scope of the mind, which under happier skies and in a wider intelligence might have shone to advantage. CHAPTER XIX. Windsor-upon-Avon--Ride to the Gasperau--The Basin of Minas--Blomidon--This is the Acadian Land--Basil, the Blacksmith--A Yankee Settlement--Useless Reflections. Windsor lies upon the river Avon. It is not the Avon which runs by Stratford's storied banks, but still it is the Avon. There is something in a name. Witness it, O river of the Blue Noses! I cannot recall a prettier village than this. If you doubt my word, come and see it. Yonder we discern a portion of the Basin of Minas; around us are the rich meadows of Nova Scotia. Intellect has here placed a crowning college upon a hill; opulence has surrounded it with picturesque villas. A ride into the country, a visit to a bachelor's lodge, studded with horns of moose and cariboo, with woodland scenes and Landseer's pictures, and then--over the bridge, and over the Avon, towards Grand-Pré and the Gasperau! I suppose, by this time, my dear reader, you are tired of sketches of lake scenery, mountain scenery, pines and spruces, strawberry blossoms, and other natural features of the province? For my part, I rode through a strawberry-bed three hundred miles long--from Sydney to Halifax--diversified by just such patches of scenery, and was not tired of it. But it is a different matter when you come to put it on paper. So I forbear. Up hill we go, soon to approach the tragic theatre. A crack of the whip, a stretch of the leaders, and now, suddenly, the whole valley comes in view! Before us are the great waters of Minas; yonder Blomidon bursts upon the sight; and below, curving like a scimitar around the edge of the Basin, and against the distant cliffs that shut out the stormy Bay of Fundy, is the Acadian land--the idyllic meadows of Grand-Pré lie at our feet. The Abbé Reynal's account of the colony, as it appeared one hundred years ago, I take from the pages of Haliburton: "Hunting and fishing, which had formerly been the delight of the colony, and might have still supplied it with subsistence, had no further attraction for a simple and quiet people, and gave way to agriculture, which had been established in the marshes and low lands, by repelling with dykes the sea and rivers which covered these plains. These grounds yielded fifty for one at first, and afterwards fifteen or twenty for one at least; wheat and oats succeeded best in them, but they likewise produced rye, barley and maize. There were also potatoes in great plenty, the use of which was become common. At the same time these immense meadows were covered with numerous flocks. They computed as many as sixty thousand head of horned cattle; and most families had several horses, though the tillage was carried on by oxen. Their habitations, which were constructed of wood, were extremely convenient, and furnished as neatly as substantial farmer's houses in Europe. They reared a great deal of poultry of all kinds, which made a variety in their food, at once wholesome and plentiful. Their ordinary drink was beer and cider, to which they sometimes added rum. Their usual clothing was in general the produce of their own flax, or the fleeces of their own sheep; with these they made common linens and coarse cloths. If any of them had a desire for articles of greater luxury, they procured them from Annapolis or Louisburg, and gave in exchange corn, cattle or furs. The neutral French had nothing else to give their neighbors, and made still fewer exchanges among themselves; because each separate family was able, and had been accustomed to provide for its own wants. They therefore knew nothing of paper currency, which was so common throughout the rest of North America. Even the small quantity of gold and silver which had been introduced into the colony, did not inspire that activity in which consists its real value. Their manners were of course extremely simple. There was seldom a cause, either civil or criminal, of importance enough to be carried before the Court of Judication, established at Annapolis. Whatever little differences arose from time to time among them, were amicably adjusted by their elders. All their public acts were drawn by their pastors, who had likewise the keeping of their wills; for which, and their religious services, the inhabitants paid a twenty-seventh part of their harvest, which was always sufficient to afford more means than there were objects of generosity. "Real misery was wholly unknown, and benevolence anticipated the demands of poverty.[I] Every misfortune was relieved, as it were, before it could be felt, without ostentation on the one hand, and without meanness on the other. It was, in short, a society of brethren; every individual of which was equally ready to give, and to receive, what he thought the common right of mankind. So perfect a harmony naturally prevented all those connections of gallantry which are so often fatal to the peace of families. This evil was prevented by early marriages, for no one passed his youth in a state of celibacy. As soon as a young man arrived to the proper age, the community built him a house, broke up the lands about it, and supplied him with all the necessaries of life for a twelvemonth. There he received the partner whom he had chosen, and who brought him her portion in flocks. This new family grew and prospered like the others. In 1755, all together made a population of eighteen thousand souls. Such is the picture of these people, as drawn by the Abbé Reynal. By many, it is thought to represent a state of social happiness totally inconsistent with the frailties and passions of human nature, and that it is worthy rather of the poet than the historian. In describing a scene of rural felicity like this, it is not improbable that his narrative has partaken of the warmth of feeling for which he was remarkable; but it comes much nearer the truth than is generally imagined. Tradition is fresh and positive in the various parts of the United States where they were located respecting their guileless, peaceable, and scrupulous character; and the descendants of those, whose long cherished and endearing local attachment induced them to return to the land of their nativity, still deserve the name of a mild, frugal, and pious people." [I] At the present moment, the poor in the Township of Clare are maintained by the inhabitants at large; and being members of one great family, spend the remainder of their days in visits from house to house. An illegitimate child is almost unknown in the settlements. As we rest here upon the summit of the Gasperau Mountain, and look down on yonder valley, we can readily imagine such a people. A pastoral people, rich in meadow-lands, secured by laborious dykes, and secluded from the struggling outside world. But we miss the thatch-roof cottages, by hundreds, which should be the prominent feature in the picture, the vast herds of cattle, the belfries of scattered village chapels, the murmur of evening fields, "Where peace was tinkling in the shepherd's bell, And singing with the reapers." These no longer exist: "Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré." I sank back in the stage as it rolled down the mountain-road, and fairly covered my eyes with my hands, as I repeated Webster's boast: "Thank God! I too am an American." "But," said I, recovering, "thank God, I belong to a State that has never bragged much of its great moral antecedents!" and in that reflection I felt comforted, and the load on my back a little lightened. A few weeping willows, the never-failing relics of an Acadian settlement, yet remain on the roadside; these, with the dykes and Great Prairie itself, are the only memorials of a once happy people. The sun was just sinking behind the Gasperau mountain as we entered the ancient village. There was a smithy beside the stage-house, and we could see the dusky glow of the forge within, and the swart mechanic "Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place." But it was not Basil the Blacksmith, nor one of his descendants, that held the horse-hoof. The face of the smith was of the genuine New England type, and just such faces as I saw everywhere in the village. In the shifting panorama of the itinerary I suddenly found myself in a hundred-year-old colony of genuine Yankees, the real true blues of Connecticut, quilted in amidst the blue noses of Nova Scotia. But of the poor Acadians not one remains now in the ancient village. It is a solemn comment upon their peaceful and unrevengeful natures, that two hundred settlers from Hew England remained unmolested upon their lands, and that the descendants of those New England settlers now occupy them. A solemn comment upon our history, and the touching epitaph of an exterminated race. Much as we may admire the various bays and lakes, the inlets, promontories, and straits, the mountains and woodlands of this rarely-visited corner of creation--and, compared with it, we can boast of no coast scenery so beautiful--the valley of Grand-Pré transcends all the rest in the Province. Only our valley of Wyoming, as an inland picture, may match it, both in beauty and tradition. One has had its Gertrude, the other its Evangeline. But Campbell never saw Wyoming, nor has Longfellow yet visited the shores of the Basin of Minas. And I may venture to say, neither poet has touched the key-note of divine anger which either story might have awakened. But let us be thankful for those simple and beautiful idyls. After all, it is a question whether the greatest and noblest impulses of man are not awakened rather by the sympathy we feel for the oppressed, than by the hatred engendered by the acts of the oppressor? I wish I could shake off these useless reflections of a bygone period. But who can help it? "This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe when it hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roof village, the home of Acadian farmers-- Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!" CHAPTER XX. The Valley of Acadia--A Morning Ride to the Dykes--An unexpected Wild-duck Chase--High Tides--The Gasperau--Sunset--The Lamp of History--Conclusion. The eastern sun glittered on roof and window-pane next morning. Neat houses in the midst of trim gardens, rise tier above tier on the hill-slopes that overlook the prairie lands. A green expanse, several miles in width, extends to the edge of the dykes, and in the distance, upon its verge, here and there a farmhouse looms up in the warm haze of a summer morning. On the left hand the meadows roll away until they are merged in the bases of the cliffs that, stretching forth over the blue water of the Basin, end abruptly at Cape Blomidon. These cliffs are precise counterparts of our own Palisades, on the Hudson. Then to the right, again, the vision follows the hazy coast-line until it melts in the indistinct outline of wave and vapor, back of which rises the Gasperau mountain, that protects the valley on the east with corresponding barriers of rock and forest. Within this hemicycle lie the waters of Minas, bounded on the north by the horizon-line, the clouds and the sky. Once happy Acadia nestled in this valley. Does it not seem incredible that even Puritan tyranny could have looked with hard and pitiless eyes upon such a scene, and invade with rapine, sword and fire, the peace and serenity of a land so fair? A morning ride across the Grand-Pré convinced me that the natural opulence of the valley had not been exaggerated. These once desolate and bitter marshes, reclaimed from the sea by the patient labor of the French peasant, are about three miles broad by twenty miles long. The prairie grass, even at this time of year, is knee-deep, and, as I was informed, yields, without cultivation, from two to four tons to the acre. The fertility of the valley in other respects is equally great. The dyke lands are intersected by a network of white causeways, raised above the level of the meadows. We passed over these to the outer edge of the dykes. "These lands," said my young companion, "are filled in this season with immense flocks of all kinds of feathered game." And I soon had reason to be convinced of the truth of it, for just then we started up what seemed to be a wounded wild-duck, upon which out leaped my companion from the wagon and gave chase. A bunch of tall grass, upon the edge of a little pool, lay between him and the game; he brushed hastily through this, and out of it poured a little feathered colony. As these young ones were not yet able to fly, they were soon captured--seven little black ducks safely nestled together under the seat of the wagon, and poor Niobe trailed her broken wing within a tempting distance in vain. We were soon upon the dykes themselves, which are raised upon the edge of the meadows, and are quite insignificant in height, albeit of great extent otherwise. But from the bottom of the dykes to the edge of yonder sparkling water, there is a bare beach, full three miles in extent. What does this mean? What are these dykes for, if the enemy is so far off? The answer to this query discloses a remarkable phenomenon. The tide in this part of the world rises sixty or seventy feet every twelve hours. At present the beach is bare; the five rivers of the valley--the Gasperau, the Cornwallis, the Canard, the Habitant, the Perot--are empty. Betimes the tide will roll in in one broad unretreating wave, surging and shouldering its way over the expanse, filling all the rivers, and dashing against the protecting barriers under our feet; but before sunset the rivers will be emptied again, the bridges will uselessly hang in the air over the deserted channels, the beach will yawn wide and bare where a ship of the line might have anchored. Sometimes a stranger schooner from New England, secure in a safe distance from shore, drops down in six or seven fathom. Then, suddenly, the ebb sweeps off from the intruder, and leaves his two-master keeled over, with useless anchor and cable exposed, "to point a moral and adorn a tale." Sometimes a party will take boat for a row upon the placid bosom of this bay; but woe unto them if they consult not the almanac! A mistake may leave them high and dry on the beach, miles from the dykes, and as the tide comes in with a _bore_, a sudden influx, wave above wave, the risk is imminent. I passed two days in this happy valley, sometimes riding across to the dykes, sometimes visiting the neighboring villages, sometimes wandering on foot over the hills to the upper waters of the rivers. And the Gasperau in particular is an attractive little mountain sylph, as it comes skipping down the rocks, breaking here and there out in a broad cascade, or rippling and singing in the heart of the grand old forest. I think my friend Kensett might set his pallet here, and pitch a brief tent by Minas and the Gasperau to advantage. For my own part, I would that I had my trout-pole and a fly! But now the sun sinks behind the cliffs of Blow-me-down. To-morrow I must take the steamer for home, "sweet home!" What shall I say in conclusion? Shall I stop here and write _finis_, or once more trim the lamp of history? I feel as it were the whole wrongs of the French Province concentrated here, as in the last drop of its life blood, no tender dream of pastoral description, no clever veil of elaborate verse, can conceal the hideous features of this remorseless act, this wanton and useless deed of New England cruelty. Do not mistake me, my reader. Do not think that I am prejudiced against New England. But I hate tyranny--under whatever disguise, or in whatever shape--in an individual, or in a nation--in a state, or in a congregation of states; so do you; and of course you will agree with me, that so long as the maxim obtains, "that the object justifies the means," certain effects must follow, and this maxim was the guiding star of our forefathers when they marched into the French province. The peculiar situation of the Acadians, embarrassed the colonists of Massachusetts. The French _neutrals_, had taken the oath of fidelity, but they refused to take the oath of allegiance which compelled them to bear arms against their countrymen, and the Indians, who from first to last had been their constant and devoted friends. The long course of persecution, for a century and a half, had struck but one spark of resistance from this people--the stand of the three hundred young warriors at Fort Séjour. Upon this act followed the retaliation of the Pilgrim Fathers. They determined to remove and disperse the Acadians among the British colonies. To carry out this edict, Colonel Winslow, with five transports and a sufficient force of New England troops, was dispatched to the Basin of Minas. At a consultation, held between Colonel Winslow and Captain Murray, it was agreed that a proclamation should be issued at the different settlements, requiring the attendance of the people at the respective posts on the same day; which proclamation would be so ambiguous in its nature, that the object for which they were to assemble could not be discerned, and so peremptory in its terms, as to insure implicit obedience. This instrument having been drafted and approved, was distributed according to the original plan. That which was addressed to the people inhabiting the country now comprised within the limit of King's County, was as follows: "'_To the inhabitants of the District of Grand-Pré, Minas, River Canard, etc.; as well ancient, as young men and lads_: "'Whereas, his Excellency the Governor has instructed us of his late resolution, respecting the matter proposed to the inhabitants, and has ordered us to communicate the same in person, his Excellency, being desirous that each of them should be fully satisfied of his Majesty's intentions, which he has also ordered us to communicate to you, such as they have been given to him: We therefore order and strictly enjoin, by these presents, all of the inhabitants, as well of the above-named District, as of all the other Districts, both old men and young men, as well as all the lads of ten years of age, to attend at the church at Grand-Pré, on Friday the fifth instant, at three of the clock in the afternoon, that we may impart to them what we are ordered to communicate to them; declaring that no excuse will be admitted on any pretence whatever, on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels, in default of real estate.--Given at Grand-Pré, second September, 1755, and twenty-ninth year of his Majesty's reign. JOHN WINSLOW.' "In obedience to this summons, four hundred and eighteen able-bodied men assembled. These being shut into the church (for that too had become an arsenal), Colonel Winslow placed himself with his officers, in the centre, and addressed them thus: "'GENTLEMEN: I have received from his Excellency, Governor Lawrence, the King's commission, which I have in my hand; and by his orders you are convened together, to manifest to you his Majesty's final resolution to the French inhabitants of this his province of Nova Scotia; who, for almost half a century, have had more indulgence granted them than any of his subjects in any part of his dominions; what use you have made of it you yourselves best know. The part of duty I am now upon, though necessary, is very disagreeable to my natural make and temper, as I know it must be grievous to you, who are of the same species; but it is not my business to animadvert, but to obey such orders as I receive, and therefore, without hesitation, shall deliver you his Majesty's orders and instructions, namely, that your lands and tenements, cattle of all kinds and live stock of all sorts, are forfeited to the Crown; with all other your effects, saving your money and household goods, and you yourselves to be removed from this his province. "'Thus it is peremptorily his Majesty's orders, that the whole French inhabitants of these Districts be removed; and I am, through his Majesty's goodness, directed to allow you liberty to carry off your money and household goods, as many as you can without discommoding the vessels you go in. I shall do everything in my power that all those goods be secured to you, and that you are not molested in carrying them off; also that whole families shall go in the same vessel, and make this remove, which I am sensible must give you a great deal of trouble, as easy as his Majesty's service will admit: and hope that, in whatever part of the world you may fall, you may be faithful subjects, a peaceable and happy people. I must also inform you that it is his Majesty's pleasure that you remain in security under the inspection and direction of the troops I have the honor to command.' "The poor people, unconscious of any crime, and full of concern for having incurred his Majesty's displeasure, petitioned Colonel Winslow for leave to visit their families, and entreated him to detain a part only of the prisoners as hostages; urging with tears and prayers their intention to fulfill their promise of returning after taking leave of their kindred and consoling them in their distresses and misfortunes. The answer of Colonel Winslow to this petition was to grant leave of absence to twenty only, for a single day. This sentence they bore with fortitude and resignation, but when the hour of embarkation arrived, in which they were to part with their friends and relatives without a hope of ever seeing them again, and to be dispersed among strangers, whose language, customs, and religion, were opposed to their own, the weakness of human nature prevailed, and they were overpowered with the sense of their miseries. The young men were first ordered to go on board of one of the vessels. This they instantly and peremptorily refused to do, declaring that they would not leave their parents; but expressed a willingness to comply with the order, provided they were permitted to embark with their families. The request was rejected, and the troops were ordered to fix bayonets and advance toward the prisoners, a motion which had the effect of producing obedience on the part of the young men, who forthwith commenced their march. The road from the chapel to the shore--just one mile in length--was crowded with women and children; who, on their knees, greeted them as they passed, with their tears and their blessings; while the prisoners advanced with slow and reluctant steps, weeping, praying, and singing hymns. This detachment was followed by the seniors, who passed through the same scene of sorrow and distress. In this manner was the whole male part of the population of the District of Minas put on board the five transports stationed in the river Gasperau." Now, my dear lady; you who have followed the fortunes of Evangeline, in Longfellow's beautiful poem, and haply wept over her weary pilgrimage, pray give a thought to the rest of the 18,000 sent into a similar exile! And you, my dear friend, who have listened to the oracles of Plymouth pulpits, take a Sabbath afternoon, and calmly consider how far you may venture to place your faith upon it, whether you can subscribe to the idolatrous worship of that boulder stone, and say-- "Rock of ages cleft for me, Let me to thy bosom flee;" or whether you measure any other act between this present time and the past eighteen hundred years, except by the eternal principles of Righteousness and Truth? Gentle reader, as we sit in this little inn-room, and see the ragged edge of the moon shimmering over the meadows of Grand-Pré, do we not feel a touch of the sin that soiled her garments a hundred years ago? Had we not better abstain from blowing our Puritan trumpets so loudly, and wreathe with crape our banners for a season? Let us rather date from more recent achievements. Let us take a fresh start in history and brag of nothing that antedates Bunker Hill. Here everybody has a hand to applaud. But for the age that preceded it, the least said about it the better! There, out lamp! and good night! to-morrow "Home, sweet Home!" But I love this province! APPENDIX. Peccavi! I hope the reader will forgive me for my luckless description of the procession to lay the corner stone of the Halifax Lunatic Asylum, in Chapter I. No person can trifle or jest with the _object_ of so noble a charity. But the procession itself was pretty much as I have described it; indeed, pretty much like all the civic processions I have ever witnessed in any country. The following account of the results of that good work may interest the reader: "A visit to the LUNATIC ASYLUM building, on the eastern side of the harbor, furnishes some notes of interest. The walk from the ferry has very pleasing features of village, farming and woodland character. The building stands on a rising ground, which commands a noble view of the western bank of the harbor opposite; northward, of the Narrows and Basin; and southward, of the islands, headlands and ocean. The medical superintendent of the institution is actively engaged carrying out plans toward the completion of the building, and gives very courteous facilities to visitors. The part of the Asylum which now appears of such respectable dimensions is just one-third part of the intended building. It is expected to accommodate ninety patients; the completed building, two hundred and fifty. The private and public rooms, cooking, serving, heating and other apartments appear to be very judiciously arranged, with an eye to good order, cheerfulness and thorough efficiency. The building is well drained, defective mason-work has been remedied, and all appears steadily advancing towards the consummation of wishes long entertained by its philanthropic projectors. The building is to be lighted with gas manufactured on the premises; all the apartments are to be heated by steam; and the water required for various purposes of the establishment, after being conveyed from the lakes, is to be raised to the loft immediately under the roof, and there held in tanks, ready for demand. The roofing we understand to be a model for lightness of material and firmness of construction. The heating apparatus occupies the underground floor. It consists of numerous coils of metal tubes, to which the steam is conveyed from an out-building, which contains the furnace and other apparatus. From the hot-air apartment the warm air is conveyed, by means of flues, to the various rooms of the building, each flue being under the immediate control of the officers of the institution. Ventilation is obtained by flues communicating with the space just below the roof; and the impure air is expected to pass off through openings in the cupola which rises above the roof ridges. By the heating apparatus the danger and trouble consequent on numerous fires are avoided, at about the same expense which the common mode would cause. Very judicious arrangements for drainage, laying off the grounds, etc., appear to have been adopted, and are in progress. The building is to be approached by a gracefully curved carriage road. The grounds are to be surrounded by a hawthorn fence, immediately within which will be a shaded, thoroughly drained path for walking. The slopes of the hill in front are in course of levelling, and will soon present a scene of lawn and grain field; while a southwest area is laid off as an extensive garden and nursery of trees and shrubs. This important appendage to such an institution is charmingly situated, as regards scenery; and, with its terraces, plantation, vegetable and flower departments, etc., will soon be a very admirable place of resort for purposes of sanitary toil, or retirement and rest. We rejoice that, altogether, the establishment promises to be a very decided proof of provincial advance, and a credit to the country. After all the difficulties, delays and doubts that have occurred, this is a very gratifying result. The building is expected to be ready for reception of patients sometime in September, or the early part of October."--_Halifax Morning Sun_, _June 14, 1858_. * * * * * HALIFAX.--The following letter of a correspondent of the _New York Times_ may interest the reader. It is a very fair account of the aspect of the chief city of this Province: "The Lieutenant-Governor, Sir J. Gaspard le Marchant, is said to be a severe disciplinarian. He served in the wars of the Peninsula, and is now being rewarded for his distinguished services as Governor of this Province. He reviews the troops twice a week upon the Common, and is very strict. The evolutions of the rank and file are the most perfect exhibitions of the kind I have ever witnessed. During one of these reviews I took occasion to remark to a citizen that they were _almost_ equal to the Seventh Regiment of New York. The bystanders laughed incredulously. The bands are as perfect in movement as the troops. The whole affair passes off literally like clock-work, a pendulum being kept in sight of the reviewing officers, by which to measure the music of the bands, and step of the soldiers. Each review concludes with a presentation of the royal standard--the identical colors which were first unfurled upon the Redan by this regiment at the fall of Sebastopol. The ceremony is impressive, an almost superstitious reverence being paid to the triumphant bunting. The review ended, the band remains for a half hour to play for the entertainment of the citizens, who generally attend in large numbers. "There are among the officers and soldiers of the 62d and 63d many bearing upon their left breasts the Victoria medal, and other decorations bestowed for distinguished bravery at Sebastopol. The most eminent of these is Colonel Ingall, who has both breasts covered with these testimonials of bravery. They are not, however, confined to the officers, but many of the rank and file are favored in like manner. "The military as a whole are popular among the citizens, and many of the officers, and not a few of the privates since their return from the Crimea, have stormed other Malakoffs, when the victory has been as signal, if the risks have not been as great, carrying off, as trophies, some of the finest girls in the place. "Upon entering this harbor from the sea the principal objects of interest to a stranger are the fortifications which line its two sides, the first three or four being round castles pierced for two tiers of guns, and having temporary wooden roofs thrown over them to protect the works; they are situated upon prominent points and islands commanding both entrances. The first principal fort is that situated at the junction of the 'northwest arm' with the harbor. This is a granite structure of some pretensions, and during the past season was, with the high, level lands which surround it, made the head-quarters or camping-ground for the troops. Tents here covered all the hill-side, presenting a very picturesque appearance; camp life was adopted in all its details, and the most thorough drilling was gone through with, including the digging of trenches, throwing up earth-works, etc. The fortifications upon George's Island, just below the town, are being extended and strengthened, and when completed, will be the principal defence of the harbor. The Citadel or Fort George, occupies the high, round hill which rises directly back of the town, to about three hundred feet above the tide, and perfectly commands the town and adjacent harbor. There is said to be room enough within its walls for all the inhabitants of the town, to which they could retreat in case of a siege. From a personal inspection, however, I judge they would have to pack them pretty closely. The works cover an area of about six acres, there being a double line of forts, composed of massive granite, and presenting every variety of angle. A ditch twenty-five feet deep and sixty feet wide surrounds it on all sides, with a single entrance or bridgeway, on the east aide, which could be removed in an hour. Two ravelins, which have been lately completed within the walls, are elegant specimens of masonry. The whole hill is being rounded off, and a line of earth-works are to be constructed at its base at every salient angle. The parapet is now covered at wide intervals, with 32-pounders, mounted upon iron carriages. Extensive changes and improvements are being adopted, and when the present plans are complete, this fort, it is said, will mount over 400 guns. The cast-iron swivel carriages are condemned as being too liable to injury from cannon-shots, and are all to be replaced by others made of teak-wood. "There exists, evidently, some reluctance among the officers in command to a close inspection of these works by foreigners. An instance in point occurred to-day. There were two young men, Americans, looking at the fort. They had obtained permission, which is given in writing by the Quartermaster-General, to inspect the Signal-Station, etc., but they were observed with paper and pencil in hand, taking down particular memoranda of the fortification, the size of guns, their number, the positions of the ravelins and what not. As this was considered a palpable breach of courtesy, a sergeant tapped them on the shoulder and led them out of the gate, with a reprimand for what he called their want of good manners. It is a long time since anything of the kind has occurred. "This Citadel is the place from which all vessels are signalled to the town. The signal stations are four in number; the first being at the Citadel, the second at 'York Redcut,' five miles down the harbor, the third, 'Camperdown,' some ten miles further, and the fourth, with which this last signals, is the island of 'Sambro,' ten miles south of the entrance to the harbor. The system is carried on by means of a series of black balls, which are hoisted in different positions upon two yard-arms, a long and a short one, placed one above the other on a tall flag-staff. The communication is very rapid, and is exempt from liability to mistakes. A sentence transmitting an order of any kind from one of the lower stations is sent and received in less than two minutes. The distance from 'Sambro,' the outer station, is about twenty miles from the Citadel. Maryatt's code of marine signals is in use here. The new marine code, lately issued under the auspices of the London Board of Trade, 'for all nations,' is pronounced by the operator as too complicated to become of any practical use, necessitating, as it would, the employment of a 'flag-lieutenant' on board every ship, who should do nothing but the signalling, since not one captain in a hundred would ever have the time or patience to acquaint himself with its mysteries. "Some works of internal improvement are in progress, which will be important in promoting the prosperity and in developing the resources of this Province. A railroad across the Isthmus to Truro, with a branch-road to Windsor, will connect the interior towns with Halifax, and furnish _modern_ facilities for communication with the other Provinces and with the States. Twenty-two miles of the road are already completed, and the remainder will be finished soon. A canal is also in progress from the head of Halifax harbor (north side) in the direction of Truro, which is to connect a remarkable chain of lakes with the Shubenacadie River, which empties into Minas' Basin at the head of the Bay of Fundy. Great results are anticipated in favor of the farming and other interests along its route. The work is in an advanced stage towards completion. "There is, it is said, no portion of the American Continent so abundantly supplied with water communication as Nova Scotia. The whole interior is a continuous chain of lakes. The coast is rocky and most unpromising, but the interior is said to contain some of the best farming land east of Illinois. Hon. Albert Pillsbury, the American Consul, who is thoroughly conversant with the resources of the Province, declares it, in his opinion, the richest portion of the American Continent--richest in coal, minerals and agricultural resources. Mr. Pillsbury takes advantage of his well-deserved popularity in the Province to tell the Blue Noses some home truths. On one occasion he told them it was evident the Lord knew they were the laziest people on the earth, and had, therefore, taken pity on them, and given them more facilities for transacting their business than were possessed by any other people under the sun. "In the newspaper line Nova Scotia appears to be fully up to the spirit of the age. The following is a list of all kinds published in the Province: "_Tri-Weeklies._--Morning Journal, Morning Chronicle, Morning Advertiser, the Sun, and British Colonist. "_Weeklies._--Acadian Recorder, Nova Scotian, Weekly Sun, and Weekly Colonist. "_Religious (?)._--Church Times, Episcopal; Presbyterian Witness, Presbyterian Church of Nova Scotia, etc.; Monthly Record, Established Church of Scotland or Kirk; Christian Messenger, Baptist; Catholic, Roman Catholic; Wesleyan, Methodist. "_Temperance._--The Abstainer. "_Weeklies._--Yarmouth Herald, published at Yarmouth; Yarmouth Tribune (semi-weekly); Liverpool Transcript, Liverpool; Western News, Bridgetown; Avon Herald (semi-weekly), Windsor; Eastern Chronicle, Pictou; Antigonish Casket, Antigonish; Cape Breton News, Sidney, C. B. "In telegraphs they are better supplied than any other portion of the world of equal territory, and the same number of inhabitants. There are thirty-nine offices, and 1,300 miles of telegraphic wire in this Province. "The Reciprocity Treaty has largely increased the trade of Nova Scotia, but the means of intercommunication are still far behind the wants of the people. When it was proposed a year ago to place a steamer upon the line from Halifax to Boston, to carry freight and passengers, the idea was scouted as chimerical, and certain to fail. The Eastern State, a Philadelphia-built propeller of 330 tons, was purchased and commenced to ply fortnightly; she has accommodations for fifty passengers, and two hundred tons of freight. She has seldom had less than fifty passengers upon any trip, and upon the last one from Halifax there were one hundred and sixty-three. The fare from Boston to Halifax is $10, meals included. She has also had a good supply of freight, and has cleared for her owners the last year over $2,500. Captain Killam, her commander, is highly esteemed, for his sailorly and gentlemanly qualities. In the opinion of shrewd business men, a steamer would pay between this and New York direct. At present, Boston virtually controls the fish-market in part by her intimate relations with the Provinces, and New York buys second-hand from them, when they might as well have their fish from first hands. "Government lands are to be purchased in any quantity at $1 per acre, and by an act of the Provincial Legislature, aliens are as free to purchase as native citizens or residents. Several American capitalists have availed themselves of the opening, and invested largely in the 'timber and farming lands of Nova Scotia, and an infusion of this element is all that is required to develop a prosperous future for this Province.' "SAILE." "TORIES.--The number of loyalists who arrived in Nova Scotia was very great. They constituted a large proportion of the original settlers in almost every section of the colony. So termed because of their loyalty to the sovereign, and unwillingness to remain in the revolted and independent States, they found their way hither chiefly in the years 1783-4. Sometimes termed refugees, because of their seeking refuge on British soil from those with whom they had contended in the great Revolutionary struggle, the names are often interchanged, whilst sometimes they are joined together in the title of 'Loyalist Refugees.' No less than 20,000 arrived prior to the close of the year in which the Independence of the United States was acknowledged. These chose spots suited to their inclinations, if not always adapted to their wants, in the counties of Digby, Annapolis, Guysboro', Shelburne, and Hants. In these five counties, for the most part, are resident the children of the loyalists, though, as hinted, they are to be met with in smaller companies elsewhere. "We cannot doubt that the purest motives and highest sense of duty actuated very many, though not all, of this vast number, when they turned their backs upon the houses and farms, the pursuits and business, the friends and relations of past years. To this may, in some measure, be attributed the marked loyalty of this province. Principles of obedience to the laws, and allegiance to the crown, were instilled into the minds of their children, who in their turn handed down the sentiments of their ancestors until the good leaven spread, and tended to strengthen that loyalty which already existed in the hearts of the people. More than once has this trait been manifested by our countrymen in town and country. When the first blood of the rebellion in Canada was shed in 1837, meetings were held in every village and settlement in the province, each proclaiming in fervent language the deepest attachment to the sovereign and the government, while in Halifax the people determined to support the wives and children of the absent troops. When two years later the inhabitants of the State of Maine prepared to invade New Brunswick, the announcement was received with intense feelings of regard for the honor of the British Crown. The House, which was then sitting, voted £100,000, and 8,000 men to aid the New Brunswickers in repelling the invaders, and rising in a body gave three cheers for the queen, and three for their loyal brethren of the sister province. Long may the feeling continue to exist, and grow within our borders! long may we remain beneath the mild away of that gracious queen, whose virtues shed lustre on the crown she wears! long may every Nova Scotian's voice exclaim, 'God save our noble Queen.'"--_Nova Scotia and Nova Scotians, by_ REV. GEO. W. HILL, A.M. "NEGROES.--There are to be found in the colony some five thousand negroes, whose ancestors came to the province in four distinct bodies, and at different times. The first class were originally slaves, who accompanied their masters from the older colonies; but as the opinion prevailed that the courts would not recognize a state of slavery, they were liberated. On receiving their freedom they either remained in the employment of their former owners, or obtaining a small piece of land in the neighborhood, eked out a miserable existence, rarely improving their condition, bodily or mental. "There were, secondly, a number of free negroes, who arrived at the conclusion of the American Revolutionary war; but an immense number of these were removed at their own request to Sierra Leone, being dissatisfied with both the soil and climate. "Shortly after the removal of these people, the insurgent negroes of Jamaica were transported to Nova Scotia; they were known by the name of Maroons in the island, and still termed so, on their landing at Halifax. Their story is replete with interest: during their brief stay in Nova Scotia they gave incredible trouble from their lawless and licentious habits, in addition to costing the government no less a sum than ten thousand pounds a year. Their idleness and gross conduct at last determined the government to send them, as the others, to Sierra Leone, which was accordingly done in the year 1803, after having resided at Preston for the space of four years. "The last arrival of Africans in a body was at the conclusion of the second American War in 1815, when a large number were permitted to take refuge on board the British squadron, blockading the Chesapeake and southern harbors, and were afterwards landed at Halifax. The blacks now resident in Nova Scotia are descendants chiefly of the first and last importations--the greater part of the two intermediate having been removed. Even some of these last were transported by their own wish to Trinidad, while those who remained settled down at Preston and Hammonds Plains, or wandered to Windsor and other places close at hand. "But little changed in any respect--their persons and their property--they have passed through much wretchedness during the last half century. Their natural indolence and love of ease being ill suited to our latitude, in which a long and severe winter demands unceasing diligence, and more than ordinary prudence, in those who depend upon manual labor for their means of subsistence. Amongst them, however, are to be found a few who are prudent, diligent and prosperous. These are worthy of the more esteem, in proportion as they have met with greater obstacles, and happily have surmounted them."--_Ibid._ EMINENT MEN.--Besides many gentlemen of rare talents, distinguished in the annals of the province, the following Nova Scotians have won a more extended reputation: Sir EDWARD BELCHER, the famous Arctic navigator; Rear-Admiral PROVO WALLIS, who captured our own vessel the Chesapeake, after the death of his superior, Captain Brooke. The words of Lawrence, "Don't give up the ship," record the memorable achievement of this naval officer. DONALD MCKAY, who after perfecting his education in New York as a ship-builder, removed to Boston, Massachusetts, and there has won for that city distinguished honors; THOMAS C. HALIBURTON, the author of "Sam Slick," and a great number of other clever books; SAMUEL CUNARD, the father of the Cunard line! who does not know him? General BECKWITH, not less known in the annals of philanthropy; GILBERT STUART NEWTON, artist; General Inglis, the defender of Lucknow, and General William Fenwick Williams, the hero of Kars. The mere mention of such names is sufficient--their eulogy suggests itself. * * * * * Transcriber's note: For clarity, changes have been applied to the text as follows: Page 15. Final hyphen (chapter 3) replaced by em-dash 16. Chapters 3 and 4: 'Louisburg' replaced with Louisburgh 26. Closing quotation marks added after ...a halo of fog. 49. Hyphen removed from 'sun-shine' to ensure consistency with other uses 54. Hyphen removed from 'bag-pipe' to ensure consistency with other uses. 56. Hyphen removed from 'main-land' to ensure consistency with other uses 69. Hyphen removed from 'road-side' to ensure consistency with other uses 70. Hyphen added to 'sawbuck' to ensure consistency with other uses 71. Ending quotation marks added to end of paragraph: ...like a beast neither. 76. Full stop replaced by comma between ...such a look and "you must know... 77. Hyphen removed from 'over-land' to ensure consistency with other uses 79. Hyphen removed from 'light-house' to ensure consistency with other uses 79. Hyphen removed from 'over-head' to ensure consistency with other uses 88. Hyphen added to 'overcoats' to ensure consistency with other uses 89. Hyphen removed from 'mid-night' to ensure consistency with other uses 96. Hyphen removed from 'over-head' to ensure consistency with other uses 97. Hyphen removed from 'night-fall' to ensure consistency with other uses 97. Duplicate 'of' removed from ...the lady of of the "Balaklava" put on... 99. Hyphen removed from 'sea-board' to ensure consistency with other uses 100. Hyphen removed from 'sweet-meats' to ensure consistency with other uses 101. Opening quotation marks added to paragraph Picton, I will be frank... 118. Closing quotation marks removed from ..."On board the 'Vigilant,' 122. Closing quotation marks added to paragraph ...milk and potatoes down there. 134. Closing quotation marks added to paragraph ...the inevitable hour'---- 134. Opening quotation marks added to paragraph 'The paths of glory lead... 147. Hyphen replaced by space in 'Nova-Scotia' to ensure consistency 153. Hyphen removed in 'moon-light' to ensure consistency 154. Hyphen removed in 'patch-work' to ensure consistency 154. Hyphen removed in 'chamber-maid' to ensure consistency 160. 'Kavanah' replaced by 'Kavanagh' to ensure consistency 161. Hyphen removed in 'oat-meal' to ensure consistency 197. Hyphen added to 'doorway' to ensure consistency 200. Hyphen added to 'fireplace' to ensure consistency 201. Hyphen added to 'keynote' to ensure consistency 208. Spelling of 'melliflous' corrected to 'mellifluous' 209. Spelling of 'hackmatack' standardised to ensure consistency with other uses 211. Hyphen removed from 'sunlight' to ensure consistency with other uses 217. Comma removed from At, last we approach... 222. Opening quotation marks added after em dash in ...said he--'The Scarlet Letter.'... 232. Hyphen added to 'Grand Pré' to ensure consistency with other uses 233. Hyphen added to 'overcoats' to ensure consistency with other uses 242. Uncock capitalised in "uncock those pistols 245. Closing quotation marks added after ..."Canada? 266. Hyphen added to 'gaslights' to ensure consistency 284. Hyphen removed in 'hand-writing' to ensure consistency 316. Hyphen added to 'Grand Pré' to ensure consistency with other uses 329. Hyphen added to 'headquarters' to ensure consistency 
35985	----	images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) Amy in Acadia [Illustration: "From a drawer behind the counter she drew a small fan." FRONTISPIECE. _See_ p. 25.] Amy in Acadia _A Story for Girls_ By Helen Leah Reed Author of "The Brenda Books" "Miss Theodora" "Irma and Nap" With Illustrations by Katharine Pyle Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1905 _Copyright, 1905_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved_ Published October, 1905 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A. TO CONSTANCE MY NIECE WHO JOURNEYED WITH ME THROUGH ACADIA Contents CHAPTER PAGE I BANISHED 1 II LOST AND FOUND 14 III TOWARD METEGHAN 29 IV YVONNE 43 V NEW PEOPLE 57 VI PIERRE AND POINT À L'ÉGLISE 71 VII DIGBY DAYS 89 VIII TWO ADVENTURES 105 IX OLD PORT ROYAL 119 X EXPLORATIONS 134 XI A TEA PARTY 147 XII IN THE FOG 163 XIII LETTERS AND SOME COMMENTS 178 XIV AN EXCURSION 191 XV WITH PREJUDICE 204 XVI EVANGELINE'S COUNTRY 219 XVII SAFE AGAIN 236 XVIII THE RIGHT AND THE WRONG OF IT 249 XIX A DISCOVERY 263 XX FIRE AND FLAME 279 XXI OLD CHEBUCTO 299 XXII FINDING COUSINS 315 XXIII GOOD-BYE TO HALIFAX 329 List of Illustrations "From a drawer behind the counter she drew a small fan" _Frontispiece_ "'Madame Bourque,' she cried, 'I asked him to come to see me'" _Page_ 71 "'Hello! hello!' she shouted" " 170 "'Why, what is the matter, child?' she asked affectionately" " 246 "After one ineffectual effort to pry open the lock, the other one had thrown down the scissors" " 282 "Behind Lucian stalked Malachai, flourishing his cane after the fashion of a drum-major" " 320 _Amy in Acadia_ CHAPTER I BANISHED "No, Fritz, I cannot--" "You _will_ not." "Well, then I _will_ not ask mother to invite you to go on with us." Amy spoke decidedly, but Fritz was not ready to give up. "Oh, Amy, do be reasonable! I cannot say anything more to your mother, for you are in an obstinate mood, evidently determined to persuade yourself that you do not wish us to travel with you." "That is true; I do not wish you to go on with us." "But you and I are _such_ friends." "So we are, and so we shall continue to be. Because we are such friends, I am sure that you will forgive me for being so--" "So unreasonable." "No--reasonable. Now just look at the whole thing sensibly. Here we are--mamma and I and two girls." "What do you call yourself? Aren't you a girl?" "Don't interrupt; perhaps I should have said two _school_girls. We have come away partly for rest and change, partly for study. So it would only upset all our plans to have you and your friend with us. You'd be dreadfully in the way." "In the way! I like that. Why, you could rest, or study all day, for all we'd care, and we'd afford you the change that you would certainly need once in a while. Only--if you'll excuse my saying so--who ever heard of any one's resting or studying on a pleasure-trip? Just look at the funny side of it yourself, Amy--and smile--please." Whereupon, quite against her will, the smile that twitched Amy's lips extended itself into a laugh, in which Fritz Tomkins joined heartily. "Ah, Amy, that laugh makes me think of old times. So now perhaps you'll condescend to explain why two lonely youths may not visit the historic Acadia in company with you and your mother, not to mention the other members of your party." Amy made no answer, and Fritz continued: "Just think what we shall lose! It always benefits me to be with your mother, and you are so full of information, Amy, and you so love to impart what you know, that by the end of the journey I should be a walking guidebook. To go with you would be better than attending a summer school." "There, Fritz," interrupted Amy, with rising color, "you are getting back at me for what I have said. But we really mean to make this an improving trip." "So I should judge. Improving only to yourselves." "Well, then I'll explain, since you find it so hard to understand. You surely know that mamma has been overworking, and yet she does not wish to waste the whole summer. So, after resting a little, she expects to find good sketching-material in Nova Scotia. Then I need more strength before the beginning of my Senior year." "I'll be a Senior, too, in the autumn," murmured Fritz; but Amy, not heeding the interruption, continued: "Then there's Priscilla; she has been rather low-spirited since her father died. She is generally in Plymouth in the summer, and this will be a change. Besides, she is to read a little English with me for her Radcliffe examinations." "_Rest_--and _change_--and _study_, for three of you. Well, I do hope that the other girl is to get some pleasure out of the trip. Didn't you tell me that she comes from Chicago?" "Oh, Martine finds amusement in everything--even in study. She was at a boarding-school last year on the Hudson, and she made life there so entertaining for herself and her classmates that she had to leave. Her parents then decided to have her visit relatives in Boston this spring. Next year she's to go to Miss Crawdon's. She's especially in mother's care, and I do hope she'll enjoy the summer, for she is worried about her mother, who is ill at some baths in Germany." "Thus far, Amy, you haven't offered a single reason for your desire to banish us from your side. Neither Taps nor I will stand in the way of your mother's sketches, except to pose for her when she asks. We certainly won't deprive the air of its invigorating qualities; and we might even study--" "No, Fritz, you'd simply be in the way." "I won't admit that, Miss Amy Redmond, and if I should ask your mother, she would probably say that you are quite wrong in your opinion. In fact, that's why you won't let me talk with her. However, as you've extorted a promise from me, Taps and I will go as far away from you as we can--in Nova Scotia. We'll travel in the opposite direction from Acadia, for Nova Scotia is large enough to contain us all without a collision. But mark my words, many a time in the next few weeks you'll sigh for a manly arm to pull you out of your difficulties. _Then_ you'll remember me." "I'm not afraid. Acadia has no dangers. Even the Micmacs are tamed. The French and Indian wars are over." "That reminds me,--please excuse me for interrupting,--you will find Digby, where you are going to-morrow, very tame compared with Pubnico." "Pubnico?" "Yes, Pubnico, a wonderful French village, with Acadians and descendants of the old noblesse, and with many interesting things that you'll miss altogether in your misguided course. Then we shall go to the deserted Loyalist town, Shelburne, which is full of history and haunted houses." "You seem to have digested a whole guidebook, Fritz. As Shelburne is on the opposite side of the peninsula, I suppose that you really have not intended to travel with us." "Oh, I had two strings to my bow, and when I heard of the French villages, I decided that to visit them would be the next best thing to do." Then, looking at his watch, "But now I really must say good-bye; it's past my time for meeting Taps." "Good-bye, Fritz." Amy held out her hand amicably. "You are not angry, are you?" "No, not angry, only--I may never forgive you. Certainly I shall not forget." Before Amy could reply, Fritz had wheeled away, and, turning a corner, was soon lost to sight. As Amy walked a few steps along the hotel piazza, suddenly she met her mother face to face. "Where's Fritz?" asked Mrs. Redmond. "I expected to find him with you." "Oh, he's gone. It's settled that the boys are not to come with us." "But, my dear, I hope you have not sent him off. Sometimes you are too abrupt." "Why, mother, I thought that you did not wish them to come with us." "I was certainly surprised to see Fritz on the boat last evening. But he is like my own son, and if he has set his heart on going to Digby, we must not keep him away." "Oh, he's going around on the other coast, he and his friend." "Did you meet his friend?" "No, I heard Fritz call him 'Taps'--a perfectly ridiculous name. Do you know anything about him?" "Only what Fritz told me last evening--that he was a Freshman who had taken a violent fancy to him. Fritz said that he had agreed to travel with the boy this summer from a sense of duty." "A sense of duty!" "Yes; 'Taps,' as he calls him, has been trying to shake off some undesirable friends. He gave up a trip to Europe that he might avoid running across them, and Fritz, knowing the circumstances, thought that he could do no less than agree to take some other trip with him. It was only on the spur of the moment that they decided to come with us." "Fritz was terribly cut up to find that we did not care to have them." "Naturally--and indeed, Amy, if I had had a chance to talk frankly with him, we could have had them with us part of the time. His friend was a bright, honest-looking lad, hardly more than a schoolboy." "Oh, mamma, I thought him so dandified!--just the kind to be a nuisance in a party that intends to rough it." "Do you realize, Amy, that you use much more slang than before you went to college?" "That's another reason for not having Fritz with us; it is not _my_ college, but _his_, that twists my vocabulary." "Possibly, but I only hope that he is not offended. Well! well! Why, Priscilla, why, Martine, where have you been?" As she spoke two young girls came running up the steps, and one of them with a bound flung herself upon Mrs. Redmond's neck. "Oh, isn't it a perfect morning, so cool and salt-smelling! and it's almost as good as Europe to see a foreign flag floating from the hotel--even if it is only English. And isn't Yarmouth a dear sleepy old town, though it's said to be so American! Some one told me that it was the only place in Nova Scotia where they hustled. My, but I wish they could see Chicago! Then they'd know what 'hustle' means." "Yes, my dear," gasped Mrs. Redmond; "but would you move your arm--just a little? You almost choke me." "Please excuse me, but I feel so excited that I must hug somebody, and Priscilla and Amy never let me hug them." "Why, I'm sure--" began Amy. "Oh, no, you haven't said a word, that's quite true, and I've never even tried to embrace you, yet I'm perfectly sure that you would hate it, and so Mrs. Redmond--" "Is the victim," rejoined Amy. "Well, mamma _is_ amiable. Only, while we are travelling, do be careful not to squeeze too tightly; it rumples her stock. Mamma, you'll really have to put on a fresh one before we start out." During this conversation Priscilla had been silent. She was shorter than Martine, and fairer, and her expression was sad, or querulous,--at first glance it was hard to say which. Yet her half-mourning costume--the black skirt, and the black ribbon at her throat--suggested what was really the case--that Priscilla had had some recent sorrow. "What have you been doing, Priscilla?" asked Mrs. Redmond, noticing the young girl's silence. "Doing!" interrupted Martine, before Priscilla could speak. "Only think how silly she's been. This beautiful morning--and in a new place--she has spent writing letters. Isn't she a goose?" "Oh, Martine!" and Amy shook her head in reproof. Priscilla colored deeply as she turned apologetically to Mrs. Redmond. "I promised mamma to write as soon as I could. She will get my letter day after to-morrow." "You were very considerate to write promptly. Your mother will be delighted to hear so soon. But where have _you_ been, Martine?" "Oh, rambling a little; I just couldn't stay in the house." "It's strange, Martine," added Amy, "but a while ago, when I took a stroll down the road, I saw a boy and a girl wheeling down a side street together who looked so like you." "Which, the boy or the girl?" Disregarding Martine's flippancy, Amy continued: "I realized that it couldn't possibly be you, as you know no one in Yarmouth." "And didn't bring my wheel with me," added Martine. "So please, Miss Amy Redmond, don't see double, or else before I know it you'll have all my faults magnified to twice their size." While Martine was speaking, Priscilla looked at her closely. But Martine, if she felt Priscilla's eye upon her, showed no embarrassment. Instead, she burst into a peal of laughter that woke from his slumbers a quiet old gentleman dozing over his newspaper in a piazza chair. Martine's laughter quickly degenerated into a giggle, and with only an "Excuse me, I can't help it," she rushed into the house. "There, mother," said Amy, "I fear that Martine will be a greater care to us than we expected. If she hadn't run off I was going to suggest that we all go for a walk, to see what there really is to be seen in the town. We'll have plenty of time before dinner." "I'll get my hat and bring Martine with me;" and Mrs. Redmond left Priscilla and Amy by themselves. A little later the four travellers were walking up the broad street, partially shaded with trees, through which they had many glimpses of the blue harbor. "Isn't it strange," said Priscilla to Amy, "to think that this time yesterday we were half-stifled with Boston heat! They said that it was the hottest day of the season, and it is probably as hot there to-day; and here we are--" "Ready to shiver," interposed Amy. "You should have brought a coat, Priscilla, for I almost feel an east wind." "Oh, the air is soft. There's no danger of catching cold. Do you notice all the flowers in these little gardens? It's a pleasant air, like the Shoals, and those hawthorn hedges make me think of England,--at least, what I've read of it, for I've never been there. We must ask Martine." "You are almost as eloquent as Martine herself." Amy turned toward Priscilla with a smile. "You were so quiet at breakfast, and indeed all the morning, until now, that I feared you were not enjoying the trip." "Well, to be honest, I felt homesick at first. You see, I have never been away before without any of my family, and then I hadn't got the motion of the boat out of my head. But now I feel perfectly well, and perhaps--" but here Priscilla's voice was not quite steady--"perhaps I shall not be homesick." Amy drew Priscilla's hand within her arm. "Of course not. Naturally, you will miss your mother and the children. But you'll go back to them with such red cheeks, and so many interesting things to tell, that you will be glad you had courage to come away. You mustn't be homesick." "Oh, I won't be," said Priscilla,--"that is, if I can help it; but if I didn't know you much better than Martine, I think that I'd have to go home." Whereupon Amy, perceiving that Priscilla was not yet herself, strove to divert her by telling her little incidents of early Nova Scotian history. Her device was successful, and by the time they had overtaken Mrs. Redmond and Martine, Priscilla was quite cheerful again. In their walk they had turned aside from the main street, and had reached a point on the outskirts where elevated land gave them a good view of the water. Mrs. Redmond and Martine had found a large flat rock, on which they seated themselves, and Mrs. Redmond was already at work with her sketchbook before her. "I'm glad that you've come, Amy,--I mean Miss Redmond," began Martine. "I've been trying to tell your mother about some kind of a queer stone that I heard some people talking about at the breakfast-table to-day, but I haven't it quite clear in my mind, and so I'm waiting for you to help me out." "Oh, the runic stone?" asked Amy. "There isn't so very much to tell about it, except that it was found more than seventy years ago, and is thought by some people to be a memorial of the Norsemen." "The Norsemen in Nova Scotia? But why didn't they discover the stone before?" "It was found by a Dr. Fletcher in a cove on his own property. The inscription was on the under side, and showed signs of great age. There, I believe I have something about it here;" and pulling a small notebook from her pocket, Amy refreshed her memory. "Yes, it weighed about four hundred and fifty pounds, and some antiquarians have translated the inscription, 'Harki's son addressed the men.' It seems that there was a man named Harki among those Norsemen who sailed along the coast of America in 1007." "That is certainly worth knowing," said Mrs. Redmond, "and I hope that we can see the stone before we go." "Well, it's only fair," continued Amy, "to tell you that some learned people do not believe in the Norse theory." "Perhaps it's like the inscription on the Dighton rock," interposed Priscilla, "that they now think was made by Indians." "Yes," added Amy, "but the strange thing is that a few years ago a second stone was found about a mile away from the other, and the inscription on it was almost the same." "Well," exclaimed Martine, "it doesn't matter whether the Norsemen really were here or not, as long as we can imagine that they may have been. I like the romantic part of history, if it gives you something entertaining to think about. It's all the same whether or not it is true." After which heretical sentiment, Priscilla, Plymouth-born Priscilla, felt herself to be farther away than ever from Martine. When Priscilla nestled down beside Mrs. Redmond to watch the growth of her sketch, Martine became impatient. "Let us go back. We've seen everything there is to see in this part of the town, and perhaps I shall have time for a letter or two before dinner." "I'll go with you," responded Amy. "I have some packing to do." "Packing?" "Oh, just to rearrange some of my things." "Very well," said Mrs. Redmond. "Priscilla and I will wait until this sketch is finished, and then we'll return by the electric car." "Any one would know that you and your mother are from Boston," said Martine, turning to Amy with a laugh. "I have heard my father say that Bostonians are the only people in the world who take the trouble to say 'electric cars.'" "What do others say?" "Why, trolley, of course. They'd laugh at you if you said anything else in Chicago." "You're pretty rapid in Chicago." "And you are rather--well, rather slow in Boston." CHAPTER II LOST AND FOUND Amy's face was flushed, her hat slightly askew, and she felt even more uncomfortable than she looked. It was all on account of her lost keys. For ten minutes or more she had been bending over boxes, and poking among all kinds of things in the shed near the wharf, in the vain hope that she might find what she had lost. When she had discovered that the keys were missing, Priscilla volunteered to help her find them. As the discovery had been made at the very moment when the carriage was at the door to take them for an afternoon drive, Amy insisted that the others should go without her, since it was evidently her duty to search for the missing. "Let me go with you," Priscilla had urged. "When we find the keys we can go sightseeing by ourselves. It will be just as good fun as driving." Thus Amy and Priscilla made their way by themselves to the wharf, while Mrs. Redmond and Martine were driven in the direction of Milton. "It wouldn't be so bad if it were only my trunk key," Amy had lamented, "but there's a key of my mother's on the chain, and several keys of little boxes--one or two of which I have with me; the others are at home. I am always losing keys." "You probably lost them after your trunk had been examined this morning. What a fuss about nothing it was! Why, the inspector didn't even lift the tray from my trunk. But we had all the trouble of unlocking and opening our trunks, and in that way I suppose the keys were lost." Priscilla spoke with more energy than was usual with her. When they reached the wharf, the dignified Custom-House official and the small boys congregated there and in the neighborhood of the train knew nothing about the keys. The inspector remembered seeing them. "I noticed your party particularly, and you were swinging your keys by a long silver chain. Well, they may have slipped through a crack somewhere, and so the best thing for you is to get a locksmith to fit a key before you go any farther." Overhearing this advice, one or two of the boys lounging about offered to guide the young ladies to a locksmith. Thus Amy and Priscilla, not in the best of spirits, with hats askew and shirt-waists somewhat rumpled, came face to face with Fritz Tomkins. "Oh, ho!" he cried mischievously, as the girls drew near. "What a procession! All you need is a drum and a flag." Turning her head, Amy saw six little boys walking behind her in Indian file. There wasn't much going on at the wharf, and evidently all had thought that there would be some fun in conducting the American young ladies to the locksmith's. Fritz himself, seated in the shade at a shop-door, looked aggravatingly comfortable. "Why, Fritz!" exclaimed Amy, "I thought you were miles and miles away,--at Pubnico." "Don't, don't show your disappointment too plainly. We thought that we'd better not start before the train was ready. That will not be for an hour yet. In the meantime, is there anything that I can do for you? You look a little like a lady in distress." "Well, then, appearances are deceitful." Amy had recovered from her astonishment at seeing Fritz. "I am sure that you are hunting for something." "Why are you so sure?" Amy was determined not to tell. "She _is_ looking for something, isn't she, Priscilla?" Fritz had seen more or less of Priscilla in Boston the past winter, and naturally called her by her first name. Priscilla shook her head,--not in dissent, but to show that she had no intention of disclosing more than Amy herself chose to explain. "Very well," continued Fritz, "I am a mind reader. I can tell you all about it. You are looking for a bunch of keys." "How did you know?" For once Amy was off guard. "Ah! Then it's true." "Very well, since you know so much, where are the keys?" Fritz, thrusting his hand in his pocket, drew out a long silver chain, which he swung around his head in a circle before laying it in Amy's hand. "There, little boys, you--" "Don't call them little boys, Amy; remember how I felt when I was ten." "Here, young men." As Fritz spoke the boys drew nearer, and Fritz, drawing from his pocket a handful of silver, laid in each of six palms a bright ten-cent coin with the Queen's head stamped upon it. "But we didn't do anything," one of the six managed to say. "No, but you _would_ have helped the young lady find a locksmith, and besides, you brought her to the particular spot where I was sitting, and so you found her keys for her." This logic was so correct that the six boys, feeling that they had earned the money, rushed off with a shout of "Thank you," to find the quickest way of spending it. "You might have brought the keys to the hotel," complained Amy. "Then I needn't have had this dusty walk." "After the summary way in which you banished me this morning I certainly could not put myself in your way again. But I knew that when you came to dress for the afternoon you would miss your keys, and happen _my_ way. Surely you can't object to my being here?" "Of course not. I am very much obliged to you." "Besides, I found the keys only this afternoon. They had slipped under a board, and when I saw the end of the chain I recognized it at once. May I walk with you part way up-town? I'm sorry that I can't go all the way. But Taps and I have an errand to do, and it's now within an hour of train time. Remember, you have banished us." As they walked, Fritz, abandoning frivolity, outlined his plans for the next week. Priscilla listened with great interest. Nova Scotia was indeed a new land to her, and as she had rather suddenly decided to accompany Amy and her mother she had read nothing on the subject of the province in which they were to spend a few weeks. Fritz had known little more than Priscilla until he had stumbled on some one crossing on the boat the preceding night who had had much to say about the old Fort La Tour and its neighborhood. "Fort La Tour!" Amy exclaimed. "I shouldn't care to discredit your history, but I am sure that that was on the River St. John across the Bay, in quite the opposite direction from where you are going." "There, there, my dear Miss Amy Redmond, you are just like other people. Because you know _some_ Acadian history you think that you know it all. There certainly was a Fort La Tour at St. John, but its remains, I hear, are altogether invisible now; whereas the first Fort La Tour can still be seen in outline, at least. There isn't any masonry, I believe, yet you can trace the outline in the grass. You remember, Amy, it was once called Fort Loméron." "I'm sorry, Fritz, but I don't remember. You must have taken a special course in history lately." "Yes, this very morning. You see I had time to spare after you sent me into exile, and Taps and I were to have our dinner at a private boarding-house, where I thought we ought to stay, since you didn't care to have us at the hotel. Well, to make a long story short, I found a set of Parkman there, and it seemed wise to refresh my memory before going down to Port La Tour." "Do tell us what you learned." Amy spoke eagerly. "I'll admit that I've quite forgotten the first Fort La Tour." "I haven't much time now," said Fritz, "but I'll do what I can to make my knowledge yours,--only you mustn't expect me to be perfectly accurate. This, however, is the way I figure it out. After that old rascal, Argall, attacked Port Royal, in 1613, Biencourt, or Poutrincourt, as he was known after his father's death, wandered for years in the woods with a few followers, sleeping in the open air, and living on roots and nuts like an Indian. In some way or other he managed to get men enough, and material enough, to build a small fort in the Cape Sable region, that he called Fort Loméron,--a rocky and foggy neighborhood. But there was fine fishing and hunting, and he felt that the Fort was a warning to any enemies who might try to take away the rest of what his father had left him. Well, among his followers was young Charles de Saint Étienne de La Tour, who also had come out to Acadia as a boy. When Biencourt died La Tour claimed that Acadia had been left to him by his friend. He tried to get Louis XIII. to help him against the English, and against Sir William Alexander in particular, to whom James I. had granted Acadia. Now young Charles La Tour began to have a hard time because his father Claude had married a Maid of Honor to Queen Henrietta Maria, and had promised Charles I. that he would drive out the French and establish the English in Nova Scotia. But when Claude appeared with his two ships before his son's Fort, he could not persuade him to turn color and become a Baronet of Nova Scotia. The father made great promises in the name of King Charles if the son would surrender, but the son withstood the father, and the latter lost English support because he had not been able to keep his promise; and so he was nothing but a refugee the rest of his life." "Served him right for deserting his country," murmured Priscilla. "Well, it's hard to understand just who did what in those days, and why. Some say that Charles La Tour was no better than his father, and that he, too, accepted from the English the title 'Baronet of Nova Scotia.' On account of the conquest of Sir David Kirke, Nova Scotia was English for a while, and then again it was under the control of the French after Claude de Razilly brought out an expedition in 1632. Charles de Menou d'Aunay, by the way, La Tour's great enemy, came with Razilly. But La Tour made haste to put himself right with the King of France, and, after a visit to Paris, came back to Nova Scotia 'Lieutenant-General for the King at Fort Loméron and its dependencies, and Commander at Cape Sable for the Colony of New France.' Doesn't that strike you as quite tremendous, when you think of the rocks and the fogs and the seals, together with the forests, that chiefly made up his domain?" "It's very interesting," said Priscilla. "What became of La Tour?" "It's a long story," responded Fritz. "I'm afraid I haven't time to tell it now." "Oh, I know all about his quarrel with D'Aunay," interposed Amy. "It will come in better when we are at Port Royal--or rather Annapolis. But I had forgotten this Fort near Cape Sable." "You shouldn't have forgotten it." Fritz's tone deepened in reproach. "For many of La Tour's descendants live near the Fort, and the place itself is called Port La Tour. I am astonished that you should have left it out of your plan of travel. You can't go there now, because that is where Taps and I are bound, and it wouldn't do for us to get in your way--I mean for you to get in our way. Beyond the tip end of Nova Scotia there's Sable Island, that used to be haunted by pirates and privateers. Some of them may be there still, and if Taps and I go there, and if anything happens to us, you may be sorry that you drove us away. Good-bye, Amy; even a Nova Scotia train won't wait for me;" and before the astonished girls could say a word, Fritz, with a touch of his cap, was walking rapidly away from them. "We haven't offended him?" asked Priscilla, timidly. "No, indeed. His plans were already made to go among the French villages. In fact, I thought that he had gone this morning. He started off soon after breakfast." Although Amy spoke thus decidedly, secretly she wished that she had been less summary with Fritz. It was not strange, indeed, that her conscience should prick her a little. When she and Fritz were not yet in their teens they had become acquainted at Rockley, a summer resort on the North Shore where Fritz spent the summers with his uncle. Rockley was Amy's home all the year, and as not many boys or girls of her own age lived near her, she greatly appreciated the companionship of Fritz. The latter, for his part, knew that he was very fortunate in having the friendship of Amy and her mother; for, like Amy, he had neither brothers nor sisters, and although his father was living, his mother had died when he was a baby. His father spent little time with him, as he was fond of exploring new countries, and his travels often kept him away from home two or three years at a time. Before entering college Fritz had lived with his father's elder brother,--a serious, scholarly man. The uncle made little provision for amusement in his nephew's life, until Mrs. Redmond had shown him that all work and no play would do Fritz more harm than good. Amy and Fritz, on the whole, had been very congenial friends, although the latter could rarely resist an opportunity to tease Amy. Mrs. Redmond often had to act as peacemaker, and Fritz always took her reproofs good-naturedly. No one knew him so well as Mrs. Redmond did. There was no one to whose words he paid quicker attention. He called her his "adopted mother," and naturally it seemed strange to him that she should agree with Amy that he and his friend would be in the way on the Nova Scotia tour. Beneath the jesting tone that he had used with Amy lay something sharper, and Amy, as he finally turned away, realized this. After the departure of Fritz the girls walked on in silence. Suddenly an exclamation of Priscilla's brought them to a standstill. In the window of a little shop were two cups and saucers of thickish china, decorated in a high-colored rose pattern. The cups were of a quaint, flaring shape, and Priscilla announced that she must have them. There were other curiosities in the window,--a small cannon-ball, two reddish short-stemmed pipes, and many things of Indian make. The shop-keeper proved to be an elderly woman, with a pleasant, soft accent. The cups, she explained, had belonged to an old couple who had lately died, leaving no children. At the auction she had bought a few bits of china. "I know they are old,--more than a hundred years,--these two cups. I'm sorry I haven't any more, but people from the States are always looking for old things, and there's been a good many here this summer." Priscilla bought the cups, and Amy inquired about the cannon-ball. "It was dug up near Fort St. Louis, as some call it, or Fort La Tour, and the pipes too. They say there's many a strange thing buried there under the ground, if people only had the patience to dig." Amy decided that it was hardly wise to burden herself with the cannon-ball, and she didn't care especially for the pipes. "There's something else here," said the woman, "if you won't be offended at my showing it. Some Americans--" "How did you know that we were Americans?" interrupted Amy. "Oh, as soon as ever a Yankee--there, I beg your pardon--any one from the States opens her mouth--" "She puts her foot in it," returned Amy, with a smile. "No, no, I wouldn't say a word against the accent, but I can always tell it. I have a sister married in the States, and her children speak like their father. When they come to visit me I tell them that they are regular Yankees. Not that I have anything against that; I hope I'll live to see Boston some time." "Have you never been there?" asked Priscilla, in surprise. "No, Miss; I know that it isn't so far away, but I was born in the Old Country, and when I take a trip, that's where I'd rather go;" and the little woman sighed. "But I'll show you the curiosity I spoke of." From a drawer behind the counter she drew a small fan, one or two of whose sticks were broken, while the silk was faded and torn. "I bought that from an old lady who said that her grandmother fanned an officer who was wounded at the Battle of Bunker Hill, while he lay sick in her house after the battle. Perhaps I oughtn't to speak of it," she concluded apologetically. "Why not? The war's entirely over, and no one has any feeling about it now." "I suppose not." But the woman's voice carried a question. "Why, to prove that I have no resentment I'll buy the fan,--even if it did once soothe the brow of a hated Britisher." Amy smiled at Priscilla as she spoke. The price named came so well within Amy's means that she half doubted the authenticity of the relic. Of her doubts, however, she gave no hint to the talkative little Englishwoman. Instead, by what she afterwards called a genuine inspiration, she asked some question about the French people at Pubnico. "Oh, they are good enough," said the woman, "and spend plenty of money in Yarmouth; and there's many of the young people working here in our shops and mills, although many French come from Meteghan and up that way." "Meteghan?" queried Amy. "Yes, that's a pretty country up North on St Mary's Bay, and all French. If you're going to Digby you'd better stop off." "But we were going straight through to Digby." "Yes, most people go straight through, and don't know what they miss. You see, the natives up there are Acadians, and it's kind of foreign like, for they mostly speak only French. My husband and I, we went up there once and stayed at the hotel, for he had an order for some goods that he had to see about himself." While Mrs. Lufkins was talking the practical Priscilla had taken out her notebook, in which she wrote the name of the station and other things that would help them. "Do you think that your mother would like to change her plans?" "Yes, indeed; she will think this just the thing. Probably there will be good material for sketching,--scenery, and odd people, and all that kind of thing. I am sure that she will like it." "Thank you, Mrs. Lufkins," said Amy, as they turned away from the mistress of the little shop; and then in a particularly cheerful tone she added to Priscilla, "I feel as if I had found a gold-mine. Fritz was so very sure that he was to have a monopoly of the only French in Nova Scotia, that it will be great fun to write him about our French people." "Then you think you will go there?" "Certainly; mother will enjoy it, and it will be great fun for the rest of us. Wasn't Mrs. Lufkins entertaining? If she were Yarmouth-born, perhaps she wouldn't speak of us as Yankees. You know the first permanent settlement here was made about 1761, by Cape Codders. In fact, the name's from Yarmouth on the Cape, not from the English Yarmouth directly. I remember the names of two of the first settlers,--Sealed Landers and Eleshama Eldredge. Don't they sound like real old Puritans?" "But how did they come to be English? Why didn't they stay on our side in the Revolution?" Priscilla's tone contained a whole world of reproach for Sealed and Eleshama. "Oh, that's a long story. I dare say they were on our side--in their hearts; but they couldn't afford to give up all they had worked for, after coming here as pioneers. Many of the Yarmouth people were thought to be in sympathy with the American privateers that were always prowling about the coast. But the English managed to hold Nova Scotia, and in the War of 1812 the number of American vessels captured by Yarmouth was greater than the number of Yarmouth vessels captured by the Americans." "When I left home," said Priscilla, "I did not know that there was so much history down here. I thought that we were just coming for change of air." "Oh, the place is alive with history; only you must let me know if I bore you with too many stories." "You could never bore me." Priscilla laid her hand affectionately on Amy's. She was an undemonstrative girl, though her likes and dislikes were well known to herself. But for her fondness for Amy she would hardly have made one of this summer party. CHAPTER III TOWARD METEGHAN Amy rested her hand on her bicycle, waiting to mount. "I did not think that it would be quite so lonely; but still, you're sure it's perfectly safe?" "Oh, yes, Miss, and not a long way." There was a trace of accent in the speech of the man who replied to Amy's question. He had just deposited a pouch of mail in the vehicle in which sat Mrs. Redmond, Priscilla, and Martine, and had turned to adjust the harness of his meek-looking horse. "You are not afraid, are you?" Priscilla's voice was anxious. "I wish that I had brought my bicycle, and could ride with you." "You _do_ look like a maiden all forlorn,--spruce trees to right of you, spruce trees to left of you. Excuse my smiling;" and Martine's smile lengthened itself into a decided giggle. "Don't," whispered Priscilla. "The driver will think that you are laughing at him." It always surprised her that Martine should show so little respect for Amy, who was several years her senior. "Amy," interposed Mrs. Redmond, "do you object to our driving away and leaving you? Doubtless if we tried, we could find some kind of a conveyance to carry you and the bicycle." "Not till after dinner, Madame." Their driver turned toward Mrs. Redmond, lifting his hat politely,--"Every horse is away now." "The only thing for Amy to do is to let you hold her on your lap, Priscilla, while I take the bicycle on mine." At which absurd suggestion even Priscilla was forced to laugh; for the vehicle sent down to Meteghan station for her Majesty's mail was as narrow and shallow as any carriage could well be that made even a pretence of holding four persons. But with the deftness that comes with experience the driver had managed to find room not only for his passengers, but for their suit case and bags, for several packages that had come by train, and finally for his great pouch of mail. "There must be a perfect cavern under the seat," whispered Martine to Mrs. Redmond. "I am sure that we could put Amy there." But even as she spoke Amy had mounted, and was up the hill ahead before the driver had taken his seat. Yet although Amy had taken the hill so well, she was soon out of breath. The road was soft, and the hill steeper than she had thought, and when a little chubby boy darted directly toward her, she slipped from her wheel and bent down to talk to the little fellow. To her surprise, at first he did not respond to her "What's your name?" but hung his head shyly. Then it occurred to her that he did not understand, and when she repeated her question in French his "Louis, Mademoiselle," showed that her venture had been right. "Does every one here speak French, Monsieur?" she asked, as the carriage approached. "Yes, all," responded the driver, stopping beside her for a moment. "And no English?" "Oh, many, though some have no English." Martine and Priscilla praised the bright eyes of little Louis. Mrs. Redmond handed him an illustrated paper that she had brought from the train, and the driver started up his horse. "You follow me," he called back to Amy. "Yes, yes," cried Amy, laughing, knowing that she could soon pass him; but while she loitered to talk with the child, the carriage was soon so far ahead that she could barely discern the fluttering of the long veil that Martine held out to stream in the wind like a flag. After leaving little Louis, Amy pedalled along leisurely. At first she passed only one or two houses, but each of them offered her something to think of. In front of one, two or three barefooted children were playing hop-scotch, with the limits marked out in lines drawn by a stick on the dusty road. "I should think they'd stub their toes," she thought, as she watched them, "but they're so well-dressed, except their feet, that I suppose they prefer to go without shoes." In the doorway of a second cottage, set like the other, close to the road, a mother was standing with a baby in her arms, and a tiny little girl clinging to her skirts. These children, like all the others she had seen, had the brightest of black eyes. Beside the door was a well, boarded in, with a bucket beside it. The woman looked so friendly that Amy stopped for a drink of water, and, making use of her best French, she spent a few minutes talking with the woman. A fine team of oxen hauling an empty hay wagon, beside which walked a strapping youth in blue jeans and a flapping straw hat, was the next reminder to Amy that she was indeed in a foreign country. After she had returned the cheerful _bonjour_ of two or three bareheaded women whom she met trudging along toward a hayfield, Amy was recalled to herself. Her mother and the others were out of sight. "The driver will think that I am not even following;" and making good speed up a long, gradual hill, she saw the carriage waiting for her some distance ahead. "This way, this way," shouted Martine. The driver waved his whip toward the left, and when Amy caught up, they had changed their direction, and she could feel the soft fresh breeze blowing in from St. Mary's Bay. "Did you ever see such a clear blue sky?" "Oh, yes, Martine,"--Amy was thinking of cloudless days on the North Shore,--"but none bluer, perhaps." "But it seems so foreign," interposed Priscilla, in a tone that expressed some disapproval of foreign things. "I'm not sure that I like it." "It seems different from other places, though I can't tell why." "This child is part of the why. Just look at him." Martine pointed to a little boy of about eight, dressed in black, with deep embroidered ruffles of white falling about his wrists, and a broad ruffled collar on his coat. He wore a hat that was something like a tam-o'-shanter, and something like a mortar-board, and he carried a large slate under his arm. "He's evidently on his way home from school. See the crowd of children behind him." As the children drew nearer, some stood still, the better to see the party of strangers. Thus the latter had a chance to note various peculiarities of dress and general appearance. One or two little girls wore sunbonnets, one or two wore hats, and several had on their heads black _couvre-chefs_, that made them look like little old women. The sturdy little boys in blouses were more like other boys, and they indeed were too busy racing and tumbling over one another to pay attention to the travellers. "Amy," exclaimed Martine, "you should have kept beside us all the way, we have been hearing such wonderful stories. Down there by the bridge there are several descendants of the Baron d'Entremont, and other people whose ancestors came from France hundreds of years ago." "The Baron d'Entremont!" Amy felt a thrill of pleasure. Surely that was one of the names that Fritz had mentioned in connection with Pubnico, and if she too could come across some of his descendants, how delightful this would be! The houses were now nearer together than they had been. At the right there was a glimmer of blue water. On the bridge at the foot of the decline Amy dismounted to watch the men loading with lumber a little schooner at the wharf near-by. The carriage drew up before the tiny post-office, where part of the mail was left. A gray-bearded man in the door of a small shop caught Amy's eye. With his broad-brimmed hat, loose trousers, and slippers,--yes, slippers,--he reminded her of pictures she had seen of old Frenchmen. She longed to snap her kodak, to catch him just as he stood there, leaning on his cane. But she did not dare, there was something so very venerable and dignified in his appearance. Then her eye fell on the name d'Entremont over the shop. Martine and Priscilla joined her. Martine was in great spirits. "Your mother is writing a post-card in the office. So, while we are waiting, let us go in here and try the d'Entremont brand of ginger ale. They're sure to have some, and one doesn't often have the chance to patronize the descendant of a French nobleman." Within the dim little shop two or three men were lounging near the counter, who probably said to themselves, "Oh, those foolish Americans!" But their manner showed no disrespect as they moved aside, and the proprietor made one or two pleasant remarks as he served the trio. A few minutes later Amy was again on her bicycle, the others had taken their places in the carriage, and the little village was behind them. The large farms that they had seen near Meteghan station gave place to small gardens. The houses were near together, and they were painted in colors that drew many exclamations of approval from Martine. "This is great! I never dreamed that I should see a lavender cottage with green trimmings,--and what a shade of yellow for a house! Oh, Mrs. Redmond, I hope that our water-colors will last the trip. I'm afraid that we'll use them all up, painting the wonders of Meteghan. This is Meteghan, isn't it?" "Yes, Mees," replied the driver. "It was all Meteghan, from the station, only that was a different name for the other post-office. But there is our church; this is the true village." "Star of the Sea" was an imposing building, but the journey since leaving Yarmouth had been long, and they were too eager now to reach their destination to give the church more than a passing glance. Amy's quick eye had noted the swinging sign of the little inn not so very far beyond the church, and, hastening ahead, she was the first to be welcomed by Madame, wife of their driver, who was also proprietor of the small hotel. Welcomed with ceremonious politeness, they were soon made to feel perfectly at home. When the question was pressed, they all admitted that they were very hungry. In the pleasant rooms to which they were shown, they had barely time to make themselves ready when a loud bell called them to dinner. As the four entered the dining-room, they saw that there were several other guests at the long table. One, a stout man with a fondness for jokes, proved to be the agent for a millinery house in Halifax. There were one or two others who said so little that even Amy could not tell whether they were French or English; two middle-aged ladies near Mrs. Redmond quickly let her know that they were teachers from Connecticut, now for the first time making a tour of the provinces. They had sailed from New York to Halifax for the sake of the sea voyage, and had come down slowly through Windsor, Grand Pré, and Annapolis, and were enthusiastic about all these places. "But if you can," one of them concluded, "you must have a few days at Little Brook,--Petit Ruisseau, as some call it. It's the centre of everything interesting in Clare; it's really where the first Acadians landed after the expulsion, and only a short distance from Point à l'Église." Amy listened eagerly. Here evidently was some one who could tell her much that she wished to hear about this new country, and later, when they were all outside on the little piazza at the front, she learned what she wished to know. On consulting her mother, they decided that after a day at Meteghan they would go on to Little Brook, and spend at least two or three days there--if possible at the Hotel Paris, which the teachers recommended. Missing Priscilla and Martine, Amy found them in the little sitting-room. "Tell me," whispered Martine, "aren't you disappointed?" "Disappointed with what?" "Why, in this house--this room especially; it's so--so unforeign." Amy glanced around her,--at the bright-flowered carpet; the marble-topped table, on which was displayed a bouquet of wax-flowers under a glass globe; on the two machine-made oak rockers; and then on the pictures. "Where do you suppose they found that picture of the Queen with such very pink cheeks, and a mouth as small as a pin, and those wax-figure princelings--and those saints? Do you suppose Madame and her children know the names of them all?" At that moment Madame herself entered the door. "You like pretty things. Ah, you must see my rugs, if you would care to." "Yes, indeed," Amy replied politely. "Then come with me. They are in my room,--the best,--and the American ladies always admire them." So the two girls followed their landlady upstairs, where she proudly displayed rug after rug of wonderful design and still more wonderful color. Martine dared not say what she thought,--that it seemed a pity that so much time had been put into things that could only dazzle rather than please the average beholder. Amy conscientiously praised those that could be properly praised,--for here and there was a rug of really artistic design,--and Priscilla gave an exclamation of delight as she noticed on the bed a really exquisite spread. "You like that?" asked Madame. "It is good work, all by hand; only two or tree women can now make them. My old aunt who made that is dead, but--" "It is like the finest Marseilles, only I never saw so beautiful a pattern. I did not know people could make such things by hand." "On a loom, surely yes; there are only one or two in Meteghan, but you can see one work, if you wish, at Alexandre Babet's." "There, that will be something to see! Is it far?" cried Martine. "Oh, no. You can find it quickly." "After we are rested," responded Amy. "The sun is still hot. Your rugs and the spread are beautiful." As the girls sat down on the piazza, Priscilla turned to Amy. "You did not think those rugs really beautiful?" Amy did not resent this slight touch of reproach, even though Priscilla was so much her junior. "Yes, and no. Some of them were beautiful even from my point of view. They all were from that of their owner, and since she desired to please us by showing them, it seemed only fair to reward her with a word of praise." "But if every one praises her she will go on using those terrible aniline colors. They made my head ache just to look at them." "Oh, Priscilla, you are so precise I'll call you 'Prim' as well as 'Prissie.'" "_No_ one else calls me 'Prissie,' Martine." "No one else dares tease you. Probably your little brothers and sisters are frightened to death of you, and then, because you are the oldest, you have always been made to think that you are absolutely perfect." "Oh, Martine!" "There, there, I know just how it is. It's so in our family; I have an elder brother, and he has always been held up as a model, although, between you and me, he's far from perfect. It just keeps me busy, showing him his faults. So, Miss Prissie, if you are too old-maidish I'll have to show you yours." Priscilla was helpless under Martine's rapid fire of words. In her moments of reflection it surprised her that a girl whom six months before she had not even heard of, should now venture to say things to her that no one in her own family would dare to say. A little later, Amy and Priscilla and Martine set out to see the loom that made the fine quilts. Priscilla had desired to postpone the visit until next morning. "It would be better to rest now." "I'm tired resting," protested Martine. "Unless we move on, I will go indoors, and play doleful things on the melodeon. You don't know what I am when I'm melancholy." Unmoved by Martine, when Amy showed that it was better not to spend the whole afternoon listlessly, Priscilla objected no longer. The Babet house was a ten minutes' walk up the street. After mistaking one or two houses for the one they were seeking, their third trial brought a tall, long-bearded man to the door who answered to the name of Alexandre Babet. "We hear that some one here--your wife, perhaps,--makes those beautiful quilts." "Oh, yes," responded Alexandre, in fair English. "They are good quilts, and we have a loom." Martine pinched Priscilla's arm. "I'm disappointed; I thought that he'd speak French." "Come in, come in;" and Alexandre showed them into the neatest of sitting-rooms,--neat, but painfully bare. It was brightened, to be sure, by one or two gay pictures of saints in brilliant-colored garments, and by two or three geraniums in flower on the window. But the wooden floor was unpainted, and on it was only one rug, and there was little furniture besides the high dresser and a long table. Alexandre went off to summon his wife, and soon she came in from the kitchen, accompanied by another, whom Alexandre introduced as his sister. The girls soon became embarrassed under the piercing gaze of their black eyes. The women wore dark calico gowns with little shawls over their shoulders, and their _couvre-chefs_ were bound closely to their heads. Neither of them understood English, nor spoke it. But Alexandre proved as talkative as any two women. Moreover, he occasionally translated his own words into French, and in the same way made the women understand what the young American girls said--to the great amusement of Amy and Martine. Priscilla sat solemnly through the conversation, as if she found something pathetic in the aspect of the women. During a moment of silence, when the room seemed rather close and uncomfortable,--for the windows were shut, and the blinds were drawn,--there came a gentle tapping on the door. Madame Babet sprang to her feet. "No, no, sit still; she can come in." Then turning to the others, Alexandre added, "It is Yvonne, our little one. Come in, Yvonne," he called in a louder tone; "here are Americans." Upon this the door was pushed open, and a little girl wearing a pink gingham gown and a white sunbonnet, entered slowly, holding one hand outstretched, as if not quite sure of herself. Then, walking directly toward Madame Babet, she slipped to the floor beside her, and laid her head on her lap. The girls looked from her to Alexandre to read an explanation in his face, and he, understanding, raised his hand to his eyes. "Blind!" exclaimed Martine, involuntarily. "Poor little thing!" "She understands English," said the man, warningly; "she does not wish pity." "I see much," said Yvonne, proudly, "when the light does not glare. I see the American ladies. This one is pretty;" and rising, she made her way carefully to Martine, and laid her hand confidingly in hers. Martine's color deepened; she felt a great tenderness toward the girl, and she raised the little hand to her lips. CHAPTER IV YVONNE "She is adopted," said Alexandre, "but we know no difference. She calls us her parents. Her mother and father are dead, and she makes her home with us since she was a baby. When I get my gold out she shall sing, oh, so beautifully." "Your gold out?" queried Amy. "Ah, yes! Back here on my farm, which looks all rocks, there is much gold underneath. I know not how to get it out, but some day I shall find a miner who knows. See!" From a drawer in the dresser he brought out two pieces of quartz, which he asked the girls to look at carefully. "It is gold underneath, sans doute, and, Mees, if you know a miner in Boston to study this, he could have some of my gold when it is dug out, but as for me I know not how to get it out, and poor Yvonne cannot have her music." Gradually the girls gathered that Yvonne had a voice "sweeter than an angel's," and that Alexandre had set his heart on giving her a musical education. His plans soared far beyond the Western continent. He would send her to Paris, to Italy, and she should astonish the world. The most of this conversation or monologue took place in the little field back of the house that Alexandre dignified as "my farm." The soil was poor and rocky, and evidently he had hard work to raise the few patches of vegetables needed for his family. There was a tiny orchard,--it had not been an Acadian farm without that. The trees were knotty and scrubby, and Amy was not surprised that the prospect of a gold-mine offered even more than the usual attractions to the visionary Alexandre. But Amy, though she knew nothing of mineralogy, thought it most unlikely that a gold-mine lay hidden beneath the stony surface in which Alexandre had dug a deep, deep hole with a vague idea that it was a shaft. Indeed, Amy felt quite sure that even a mineralogist--for such was the meaning of his "miner"--would give him little encouragement. Yet as she looked at the slender figure of Yvonne walking ahead with Martine, she felt deep sympathy with his ambition. Evidently Yvonne, in spite of her infirmity, was the pride of the little household. Her print gown of a delicate pink cambric was spotlessly neat, and her white sunbonnet had been laundered with the greatest care. Though much shorter and slighter than Martine, the latter was surprised to find that the little Acadienne was hardly a year younger, and that it was true, as Alexandre said, that she ought soon to have the chance to study--if--and here was the question--if her voice was what he pictured it. "Miss Amy," murmured Priscilla, half impatiently, "I thought that we came to see the loom." "Indeed we did, but these people have been so interesting that we have spent too much time out here." Then turning toward their host, who had fallen back, she asked him to show them the loom. "Ah, yes, with the greatest pleasure,--the loom, and the beautiful quilts that my wife makes, and the lace of Yvonne. The mine did almost make me forget, but we shall go in quick." When they were again in the house he led them up a steep flight of stairs to an unfinished room, with great rafters overhead and two small windows admitting little light. There at the loom sat his silent wife, and beside her stood the equally silent sister. So it fell on Alexandre to explain the workings of the great wooden frame. While he was talking, however, the attention of all the girls flagged a little. Amy had never been interested in machinery, and made no pretence of understanding it. Priscilla was impressed by the quaintness of the scene, but she was weary from her two or three days of travelling, and her mind wandered while the voluble Frenchman was talking; and Martine, fully occupied with Yvonne, paid little heed to any one else. Nevertheless they were all sufficiently impressed with the skill with which the rather dull-looking wife of Alexandre managed warp and woof, and produced, even as they were looking at her, a fragment of pattern. While Alexandre was in the midst of one of his speeches Priscilla whispered to Amy, and Amy, as if at her suggestion, turned to Alexandre. "We cannot stay much longer," she said politely, "and we are delighted to have seen this loom, so that we can understand how these quilts are made. It's really quite wonderful, your wife is so clever;" and she paused for a moment to watch the busy fingers now flying in and out among the threads. "But we came particularly to see some of the quilts." "Oh, yes, Mees, certainly, we will show you quick;" then with an eye to business,--"perhaps you will want to buy." "Yes," said Amy, "perhaps we may. Come, Priscilla; come, Martine." The two women followed the girls downstairs, and when they were again in the little front room, from a wooden chest in the corner they brought out a large quilt of much more beautiful design than any they had seen. "I must have that," cried Martine in delight; "it is just what I want." Then, when a second was shown, she was equally enthusiastic, and then a third was laid on top of the pile. "The money from the quilts is saved for Yvonne," Alexandre whispered to Amy, and the latter did not protest when four of the quilts were laid aside for Martine. Amy also chose one for herself, but Priscilla, although she praised them, expressed no inclination to buy. Only when some narrow hand-made lace was brought out from the chest did she become enthusiastic, or as nearly enthusiastic as was possible for Priscilla, and Yvonne blushed under her praise. "It is an old art," the little blind girl explained; "it was my grandmother taught me, and her grandmother taught her, and so on back to the days of old France." "But how can she do it? She is blind!" exclaimed Amy. "Oh, not all blind, and not always! She can see a little, though everything is dim, and the lace it is knitted,--not pillow lace, like some,--and she can make her fingers go, oh, so quickly! Ah, she has much talent, the little Yvonne, and you must hear her sing." So Yvonne sang to them standing there in the middle of the room, without notes and unaccompanied, and the plaintiveness of the tone and the richness of the voice drew tears from the eyes of the three American girls, while father and mother and aunt were lost in admiration as they gazed at the slender figure in the pale pink gown. Hardly had she finished when Martine, jumping up, impulsively threw her arms about Yvonne's neck. "You must go back with me to the hotel. You must sing to me again. There is a melodeon in the parlor, and I will accompany you. Please, Mr. Babet, can she go back with us?" "It is an honor for Yvonne," he replied politely; "I will ask her mother." "Oh, let me; I will make her say 'Yes'"; and in a few words of rapid French Martine asked that Yvonne might go to the hotel as her guest, to stay to tea. The mother at once assented, and both of the silent women were in a flutter of excitement as they accompanied Yvonne to her bedroom to make some additions to her dress. "Ah," said Alexandre, "she has never been inside the hotel; it will seem very grand to her." Then Yvonne, kissing them all,--the mother, the aunt, and finally the tall father,--turned her back to the cottage, and with beaming face leaned on Martine's arm as Amy led the way. A little distance down the road they saw a man standing by a gate. "Good-day, little one," he called; "where are you going?" "To the hotel, Uncle Placide." "How happens it?" "These American ladies have asked me. I am to have tea." "Ah, well, she is a dear little one, and you are good to her." The whole party had now halted in front of the gate, and these words seemed to be particularly addressed to Amy; for, standing directly in front of her, Placide lifted his hat. "Won't you enter?" he asked pleasantly. "But, uncle," remonstrated Yvonne, "we have no time; we go to the hotel." "Oh, but there is much time; I have been in the States, and I like to talk to the strangers, so enter my garden at least, ladies, to taste of my cherries." There was nothing to do but enter the garden. At the mention of cherries Yvonne indeed had seemed more willing to halt on her way to the hotel, and the others, as Placide thrust upon them liberal handfuls of his great crimson cherries, did not regret the delay. "You are from Boston," he said, after Amy had mentioned her home. "Ah, I worked in Boston, that is, in Lowell, which was the same, and then I came home when I had saved enough to buy a house. It is not so gay here as in Lowell, but it is happier, and I can make a pleasanter living. I never did like the mill, but the pay was good." "What do you do now, Mr. Placide?" asked Amy. "Oh, I fish. The sea is good to us Acadians; it is better than the factory. One gets health here as well as fish, and fish enough to keep the house fed. So, with my potatoes and my cherries, I am rich." Then, with an afterthought,--"But I hope sometime that little Yvonne can go to Boston, where there is much music. She could study and be great singer, for the voice it needs teaching. I know that, because I have been in the States where people study so much." The girls found it hard to leave Placide, for he was even more fluent than Alexandre, and his years in the States had given him a certain amount of information about things American, and he was evidently fond of displaying what he knew. But at last they managed to say good-bye, and continued their way down the road. "I am tired," sighed Priscilla, as the four stood at the door of the little hotel. "Then let us sit here on the piazza. Would this suit you, Yvonne?" Yvonne turned toward Amy with a smile. "I like whatever the other ladies like; it is all good for me." "Oh, yes," added Martine, "it will be great fun to sit here and watch the passers-by. Things are rushing this afternoon; two persons are entering that shop across the way, and I can count three ox-carts and two buggies in sight. Where do you suppose the buggies are going?" "Perhaps half a mile up the road; perhaps to Yarmouth. You know there is a continuous street along St. Mary's Bay, about forty miles from Yarmouth to Weymouth." "One street forty miles long!" Amy's statement roused Priscilla from her lethargy. "The young lady says true," interposed Madame, their landlady, who had stepped out on the piazza. "Forty miles, and all Acadians! Is it not marvellous that they have grown to be so much, when the English treated them so cruelly, long, long ago?" "Ah, yes, Evangeline," responded Martine, politely. "Evangeline never came back," said the literal Priscilla. "That is true," assented the landlady. "But there is more than Evangeline to tell about. Little Yvonne here knows many tales." Yvonne sighed softly. "Ah, yes, very many. But Evangeline lived not in Meteghan. Her country was Grand Pré, far north. You will go there, without doubt?" "Yes, Yvonne, we shall spend a week there." "There are not so many stories about Meteghan, for no one lived here until after the exile." "I remember one," interposed Amy; "the story of Aubrey, who was lost in the woods. At least, some writers say that he was lost in the Meteghan woods, others that it all happened near Digby." "Tell us the story, Amy, and we can decide for ourselves where it was." "How like Martine!" thought Priscilla, "as if a girl could decide where to place an historic event!" "After all," continued Amy, "it's only a little story, but it tells of something that happened on that first expedition to St. Mary's Bay, when De Monts brought his vessels here in 1604, and Champlain named this stretch of water, as he named so many other places. One member of the expedition was Aubrey, a priest, with an intelligent love of nature. A small party went off from the vessel to look for ore along the shores of St. Mary's Bay. The priest was one of the number, but when the boat was ready to return he could not be found. He had left his sword in the woods, and had gone back to look for it. For four days the others searched for him without success, and suspicion fell on one or two Huguenots in the party, in whose company he was last seen. With one of them he had had some rather violent discussions on religious matters. To the credit of all, however, no harm was done to the Huguenots in spite of the suspicion. After sailing without Aubrey, the party went farther north, and it was nearly three weeks before they returned to the neighborhood where he had disappeared." "Did they find him?" asked Martine, somewhat impatiently. Amy was to learn that Martine's temperament led her always to desire the climax almost before she had heard the story itself. "Yes, they found him; for when they were some distance from shore they saw something that looked like a flag waving. A boat was sent out, and to the delight of those who went in it, they saw that the flag was a handkerchief tied to a hat on a stick, that the missing Aubrey was holding to attract their attention. Looking for his sword, the good priest had missed his way, and for seventeen days he had wandered in the woods, living on berries and roots." "How delighted he must have been to see his friends!" "Not more delighted than they to see him; for had he not been found, the consequences for the suspected Huguenots might have been serious." "It is Yvonne's turn to tell us a story," said Martine, "but we all need to rest before tea, and I want to tell your mother about the quilts. If she disapproves of my buying so many--" "I suppose that you will send them back;" Amy's tone contradicted her words. "Oh, no; I will not send them back. But I do wonder what I shall do with them." Yvonne and Martine went indoors, and Amy and Priscilla soon followed. Amy prepared her mother for Yvonne by telling her all that they had learned about the little girl. "I won't discourage Martine's altruism," said Mrs. Redmond. "Her impulsiveness in the past has sometimes led her into trouble, but Martine herself will be benefited by having this warm interest in another. As to the quilts, though we cannot carry them about with us, they can be easily expressed home, and the duty will not be large." After tea the whole party sat in the little parlor, to listen to Yvonne. Her first two or three songs were without accompaniment. They were plaintive songs with French words, and unfamiliar to the Americans who were listening. But a chance question revealed the fact that Yvonne was also familiar with much music that Amy knew well. Thereupon Martine suggested that if Amy would improvise some accompaniments Yvonne might be heard to even better advantage. So Amy, seated there at the melodeon, played, and Yvonne continued to sing, and some of the music was rendered with a dramatic power that surprised all who listened. "Ah, she will be great some day," said the landlady, listening enraptured to the bird-like tones. "How it had pleased her poor mother to know that she was to be a singer!" While Yvonne sang, various plans were rushing through Martine's busy brain. "Yvonne shall have a parlor organ, Yvonne shall have teachers, Yvonne shall have her eyes examined by a good oculist. Evidently she is not blind,--not really blind." While she was thinking and planning, her eyes never left the face of the little French girl, held there by the wonderfully happy expression which lit it. Yvonne's wide, brown eyes, her half-parted lips, the little brown tendrils curling around her forehead, all combined to make a picture that impressed itself strongly on all in the room. Moreover, the gentle and unassuming manner of the young singer, as she received the praise showered on her, completely won the hearts of all. Or perhaps it would be more nearly true to say that if Priscilla's heart was not completely won, she at least had begun to see some reason in Martine's infatuation. "Is it not wonderful?" asked Martine of Mrs. Redmond. "She certainly sings remarkably well--for a little girl." Martine looked up quickly at Mrs. Redmond. Was the latter able to find some flaw in what she herself considered altogether perfect? She had no time just then to question her, for Yvonne herself might overhear the reply, and besides, the young girl was about to sing again, and Martine could not spare a note. When at last the tall figure of Alexandre Babet appeared in the doorway, they knew that the music must end, and with a protracted farewell from Martine, Yvonne and her adopted father started for home before nine o'clock. "Yvonne did not seem as much overcome by the grandeur of the hotel as Alexandre prophesied," remarked Amy, as the girls went upstairs. "Yvonne would never be overpowered by anything," responded Martine; "I don't believe she'd be surprised by the Auditorium." Whereat both Amy and Priscilla laughed loudly. "To compare small things with great," said Priscilla, "of course she wouldn't be impressed by this hotel. Why, it's smaller than a summer boarding-house." "I wonder what Alexandre meant?" mused Martine. "Oh, it was only his way of trying to make you think that you were doing Yvonne a great favor by asking her here," responded Amy. "Yes, the French way of pretending that things are what they are not," added Priscilla, as if the word "French" comprised the very essence of deceit. "Take care," retorted Martine. "I never dared tell you before, but I had a French great-great-grandmother." Although Priscilla made no reply to this, her inward comment was, "That accounts for many things that have made me wonder." At breakfast the next morning, before Martine had come down to the table, Amy asked her mother what she really thought of Yvonne's singing. "I do not profess to be a judge of that kind of thing, but the child seems to have a fine natural voice, as well as a musical nature. Yet, like all other singers, she must have her tones properly placed, and she is still too young to profit by expensive musical instruction. It is my own opinion that it would be better for her to sing little for the next few years. Some of the things that she sang last evening were beyond her, and there is danger of her forcing her voice, and so injuring it." "Have you said this to Martine?" "No, for Martine is the type of girl who profits most by finding out things for herself. She will learn gradually that everything cannot be done at once for Yvonne." CHAPTER V NEW PEOPLE "I don't like to." "Why not?" "It seems strange. They may not care to have us visit them." "We can only try. If they turn us away why, that is the worst we need expect." So, drawing Priscilla's arm within hers, Amy led her up the narrow flagged walk toward the Convent School. A sister wearing a glazed bonnet with a long veil was trimming rosebushes in the garden bed close to the house. "Yes, surely, we are glad to have visitors. The school itself is closed now, for the girls have their holidays, but you can see all there is. Excuse me for a moment and I will be with you." In a short time she had joined them in the little hallway to which they had been admitted by another sister. "Would the ladies care to see the chapel?" "Ladies" had a pleasant sound to Priscilla, and she put aside her prejudice against entering churches not of her own faith. The chapel was simply a large room suitably fitted with altar and seats. It had no color, but everything was daintily white, with here and there a touch of gold. The neat dormitory, the pleasant schoolroom, and the spotless cleanliness of the whole house appealed to Priscilla, and to her surprise she found herself asking the sister questions about her work. "We are Sisters of Charity, and our headquarters are in Halifax," the good sister said gently. "The school is but a little part of our work. We go in and out among the sick and the troubled. The Acadians are good to their own, and no one need suffer here; but some will make mistakes, and some suffer through the fault of others, and often the priest and the sisters alone can set things right." Soon they had seen all that there was to see, and when the sister, looking at the clock, regretted that she must leave them to visit a sick woman, both girls asked if they might not walk with her. "With pleasure," she replied. "Indeed, I would take you to the house where I am going, were it not that this woman is too sick to see visitors." "We should like to see another Acadian house," said Amy; "we have visited only that of Alexandre Babet, and that was so plain." "Ah, you have been at Alexandre Babet's. Then you have seen the little Yvonne. Is she not charming?" "Yes, charming and talented. We have heard her sing." "Yvonne sings sweetly. We have taught her some music here, but nature has done the most for her, and she is so patient about her eyes." "Do you think that she will be blind?" asked Amy, anxiously. "Oh, no, not wholly blind, though it is largely a question of doctors. This came to her through an illness a few years ago. She did not have the right care. They did not understand. But there is always hope, and I think that she is no worse this year or two." "We have a friend who has taken a great fancy to Yvonne. She preferred to go up to Alexandre Babet's this morning rather than to come sightseeing with us." "Yvonne wins the heart of all so quickly, and her good father and mother, though adopted, would do everything for her if they could. Poor Alexandre looks for a gold-mine." "Yes, we know," and Amy smiled; "but I am glad to know that there is hope for Yvonne's eyes." "Ah, yes, there is hope. Poor child! She has had a strange history." At that moment two small girls crossed their path. They looked like little old women, with their shawls and _couvre-chefs_. The sister laid her hand on the shoulder of one of them. "Where are you going?" The girls hung their heads shamefaced, and would not meet the sister's gaze. "Ah, you know; go home and get your hats." The children ran off without looking back, and the sister turned with a smile to Amy and Priscilla. "You see they are foolish. When they are at school I tell them they must wear hats every day; but in holidays they will put on _couvre-chefs_. It is an old fashion that I think not good. When they are married--ah! it is too bad--at once they put on the _couvre-chef_, the very girls that I took such trouble with. It takes long to get the Acadians away from the old fashions. But they are good people." "We should like to see more of them," said Amy. "We should like to see another Acadian house. That of Alexandre Babet did not seem typical." "Then I should be glad to take you to see one. Why, here we are, just opposite the house of Madame Doucet, who speaks some English, and with her daughter you would see two excellent Acadians. Would you care to call there? I will introduce you, though I must go on farther." Priscilla looked up in protest, but when Amy expressed pleasure at the prospect of making the visit, she said nothing in opposition. The sister, saying a word or two more in praise of Madame Doucet, and leading them across the street, knocked briskly on the door of a small pink cottage. This was one of the brightest of the brightly painted dwellings that Amy had noticed when on her wheel the day before,--a pink with pale-green trimmings. When the sister had introduced them to the heavy-browed young woman who came to the door, she left them, to go farther on her errand of mercy. The young woman, after welcoming the girls heartily, led them to the kitchen in the rear, into which the bright morning sunshine was pouring, while a tiny canary in its cage sang cheerfully. In the rocking-chair near a window sat an elderly woman, whom the daughter introduced as her mother. She was stouter and stronger looking than Madame Babet, and although she could hardly be called of ruddy complexion, she was far less sallow. Her face showed signs of age, but her hair had hardly begun to turn gray, and she welcomed the two girls so cordially that they were at once at their ease. Amy, while the daughter exchanged a few words with her mother, glanced around the room. Its floor was partially covered with a square of oilcloth, and the most conspicuous article of furniture was the large, highly polished range, on which were several bright pans and kettles of tin. There were religious pictures on the wall, and one or two rocking-chairs. Evidently it was sitting-room as well as kitchen. A set of shelves in the corner laden with dishes attracted Amy's attention. Madame Doucet, observing Amy's interest, for she had stepped toward the shelves, said to her kindly,-- "Ah, go close, eef you please; you may touch them." Amy gave an exclamation of delight as she took down a pitcher of copper lustre shining like burnished gold. "How beautiful! I wish I had one like it." "Ah, that is not to sell; it is family what you call it?" "Heirloom," suggested Priscilla. "But yes, that is so, for my grandmère had it long ago. She was daughter to an exile." Amy handled the pitcher carefully as she set it back on the shelf. Few of the other dishes were china, though one delicate cup and saucer Amy pronounced older even than the pitcher. When Priscilla complimented the two women on their English, they beamed with pride, and explained that they had made a great effort to learn it while living in Yarmouth, where the older woman's husband had worked in a mill. "But we see not many English, so we have not much chance to practise. That how the sister send you here." "As a language-lesson," murmured Amy; and even Priscilla smiled in spite of herself. The younger woman was talkative. She took them into her neat bedroom, with its floor in two colors,--a yellow geometrical design painted on a brown ground,--and showed them with especial pride her dressing-table, the frame of which she had fashioned with her own hands and draped with white muslin. From the window she pointed out her little garden, with its vegetable patch and tiny strawberry-bed, which she worked herself. "I sell some every year," she said. "That helps keep house. We don't need much, we Acadians; we very lazy." "You don't seem lazy to me," remarked Amy; "certainly you are hard-working." "P'raps lazy is not the word--no, it is content. We Acadians are too content with what we have. We want not too much, and so we make not money as the Americans." With some difficulty Amy brought to a close the visit to the cheerful mother and daughter. She on her part, and they on theirs, had so many questions to ask and to answer. On their way back to the hotel they stopped for a moment at the graveyard in front of the great brick church. "Let us not go in," urged Priscilla. "It may not be open," returned Amy, "though this Stella Maris interests me because our landlady told me that the whole parish helped build it. All saved and saved, and gave what they could, and the men, when they came home tired from fishing, would go some distance where the bricks were and haul them to the building. But if you don't care to go into the church, do spend a few minutes in the churchyard,--I have a weakness for studying old gravestones;" and as she spoke Amy's mind went back to a day long ago when she and Brenda and Nora and Julia had poked among the stones in that old burying-ground overlooking Marblehead Harbor. This thought reminded her of Fritz, who had teased her that day in his boyish way, and strangely enough these memories took such possession of her that she could not put her mind on this little churchyard of the Acadians. Moreover there was less of interest here than she had expected. Inscriptions were few, and these were modern and practical. There was something pathetic in the general tangle of grass and shrubbery, and in the plain little wooden crosses that marked the majority of the graves. As they approached the hotel a shout greeted them,--"Amy, Amy, Prissie, Prissie! Where have you been?" "How silly Martine is!" Priscilla had barely time to say, when Martine herself rushed out of a little building near the house. "Oh, do come in, Yvonne is with me; I've been buying her a hat." "A hat!" "Yes, do come and see. There's a man here from Halifax,--a drummer, I suppose,--and he has the loveliest fall styles. I would get one for myself if I knew how to carry it." "An autumn hat in July! Will you make poor Yvonne wear it now?" When they entered the room where the millinery was displayed, they saw Yvonne standing in rapt admiration before the long double row of hats that the milliner's man had taken out of his boxes. In her hand she held a large shaggy felt, trimmed with rosettes of velvet. The little girl was fingering it lovingly. "I have never had a hat," she explained, "only hoods and sunbonnets, but my new friend, she desires that I have one for the winter, and it will indeed be a pleasure. I could never wear a _couvre-chef_ like an old woman. I do not see these plain, but they feel so soft." "Put it on, Yvonne, you look so sweet." So Yvonne put it on, and after trying one or two others, Martine still preferred the first one. Accordingly it was packed in a large box, and Martine carried it to the hotel, where Yvonne was to stay until Mrs. Redmond and her party should start for Little Brook. The afternoon was warm. Mrs. Redmond went down to the edge of the Bay to finish a sketch that she had begun in the morning. Amy and Priscilla sat on the piazza, lazily watching the passers-by, and commiserating the men mowing grass in the meadow across the road that lay between them and the sea. Martine roamed about the house with Yvonne clinging closely to her, and at last sat down for an hour in the parlor, to hear Yvonne sing some of her plaintive songs. After their early tea Alexandre came to claim Yvonne, and the two girls fell on each other's necks in a farewell embrace. Though they were less demonstrative in their expression, Amy and Mrs. Redmond, and Priscilla too, felt some emotion at parting with their new friend. "It isn't a real good-bye," whispered Martine to Yvonne; "I know that Mrs. Redmond will help me carry out those plans I spoke of. So _au revoir_." From Meteghan to Little Brook they were to drive eight miles,--at least, all but Amy were to drive, while she, as before, was to wheel beside the carriage. "You will stay in Little Brook a week," said the two Connecticut teachers, bidding them good-bye. "Don't forget the Hotel Paris. It's smaller than this," they added, smiling, "but you will find it entertaining in every way." "We can't stay a week," Mrs. Redmond had replied; "already we need our trunks." "And our letters," added Priscilla. "Yes, they are waiting for us in Digby. You see this side trip to Clare was as unexpected as it has been pleasant." But the farewells were at last all said, and with only one backward glance at the landlady and her children, the teachers, and the commercial traveller, the four turned their faces toward Petit Ruisseau, ... "'when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street.'" sang Amy as they rode along. "Don't you remember that in 'Evangeline,' Priscilla?" she asked, for she was riding close to the carriage. "It sounds familiar. We must find time to read Longfellow while we are at Little Brook." "Yes, indeed; but now--" Amy did not finish the sentence, for the driver started up his horse, and to show that she did not intend to be outridden she increased her own speed, and soon was out of hearing of the others. It was a beautiful evening. The gaily painted houses of Meteghan, and even those that were dazzling white, all suggested the toy dwellings of the Christmas shops. Amy greatly enjoyed the scene as she pedalled along. A girl standing in one doorway, knitting busily, called out a cheerful salutation, which Amy returned. At one corner was a little shop, where a few men in blue jeans had gathered to talk after their day's work. Soon Meteghan was far behind, and Amy had passed the great white church of Saulnierville. As she was still some distance ahead of the carriage, she dismounted to speak to a group of children playing some kind of a dancing game, to which they sang an accompaniment. Making an effort to understand the words that they sang to the merry air, she discovered that their French was unlike hers. A little farther on she noticed a boy walking along with the help of a crutch. Her first glance made her think of Fritz, whom a slight accident had once obliged to limp about in this same way. Something in the boy's face when she looked at him a second time rather startled her. He certainly resembled Fritz. "I wonder if he is really lame, or if this crutch means only that he has had some slight accident." This was her thought. Dismounting, she turned back to the little boy. "How far is it to Little Brook?" "Oh, not very far on a wheel." "A mile?" again ventured Amy. "About a mile--perhaps." Amy looked back. The carriage was so far behind that it was hardly worth while for her to hurry on toward the Hotel Paris. Moreover, if she knew just where the house was, she would not care to reach it ahead of her mother and the others; so she walked along with the boy. Although less talkative than some of the older Acadians whom she had met, he was not at all shy, this little Pierre, who, after telling her his name, confidently asked her hers. "You speak good English," Amy said in compliment. "Yes, Mademoiselle, we are taught English in school; we must learn it, we Acadians. One often meets the English." The last was said with a condescending air, amusing enough in one who was born a subject of the Queen of England. "But you," continued Pierre, "are not English. You are American,--is it not so?" "Yes, Americans from the United States." "Ah! they are strange, the Americans; you are going, perhaps, to the Hotel Paris?" "Yes, but how did you know?" "Because it is the only place where Americans stay. So late, you would be going somewhere. It is a good house, but Madame who keeps it has had a death there to-day." This piece of news disturbed Amy. "A death! I must tell my mother. She is behind, in the carriage." "You need not wait for it. It will soon overtake you if you walk with me," said Pierre, sadly, glancing down at his crutch. When, however, the carriage did overtake the two, they were not far from the Hotel Paris. Mrs. Redmond heard what Pierre had to say about the death of the landlady's sister, and when she learned that it was the result of an accident received some years before, she felt less concern than at first about approaching the house. "It is unlikely, however, that Madame will wish us to stay there." "Oh, she is not so," interposed Pierre; "she will always take money when it comes to her." "But I do not like to stay where there is a death," interrupted Martine. Priscilla made no comment. But Mrs. Redmond was undisturbed. It was now almost dark, and to return to Meteghan would mean a tiresome and probably cold ride. Pierre asserted that there was no other house where they could stay in Little Brook, and it was doubtful if there was any room at Church Point. "We must at least see Madame Bourque at the hotel. A message was sent her last night, asking her to reserve rooms for us, and perhaps she can help us out of our difficulty," said Mrs. Redmond. To the great surprise of all, the Hotel Paris, when they reached it, proved to be but a small dwelling-house, larger than its neighbors, but even smaller than the inn at Meteghan, for which "hotel" seemed a misnomer. As the four sat in the little parlor, Madame Bourque, a dignified and even elegant appearing woman, in her black gown and black _couvre-chef_, tried to make them feel comfortable. "Ah, but the death, it makes no difference," she said, after assuring Mrs. Redmond that the rooms were in readiness. "It is my sister who has been long sick, and was glad to go. Indeed I am sorry that you heard of it, for the funeral will be before you wake in the morning, and had I thought it would disturb Madame, why, we might indeed have had it to-day." "Business before pleasure," whispered Martine to Amy, who was trying valiantly to keep from smiling,--a difficult task, indeed, for any of the four. As they seemed to have no choice in the matter, the girls agreed with Mrs. Redmond that they could hardly do better than take possession of the large, pleasant rooms that Madame Bourque showed them. In the early morning, a gray morning, before the others were awake, Amy looked from the window. A sad little procession was setting out from the door. The plain deal coffin was in an open wagon. Behind it were a dozen shabby carriages, with mourners, men and women. They were to drive to the churchyard at Point à l'Église, three miles away. She did not waken the others, but she watched the little procession until it was out of sight. [Illustration: "'Madame Bourque,' she cried, 'I asked him to come to see me.'"] Chapter VI PIERRE AND POINT À L'ÉGLISE "Ah, why should she wish to see you, the American young lady? You have much conceit, Pierre." The words were French, the voice was Madame Bourque's, and Amy, quickly translating what she overheard, perceived that Madame Bourque was throwing obstacles in the way of the little boy's seeing her. "Madame Bourque," she cried, stepping out into the hall, "I asked him to come to see me. It is as he says." "Oh, then excuse me, Mademoiselle. I did not understand. I did not know that you had seen Pierre." "Ah, yes, he helped me find my way last evening. He may come in, may he not?" "Ah, surely, since you wish it. Pierre talks much, and I have known those whom he tired. But enter, Pierre, since you have been invited." Then Pierre followed Amy into the little sitting-room, where Priscilla and Martine were already seated near an open fire; for the gray and damp early morning had introduced a foggy day, and at present sightseeing was out of the question. Priscilla had been writing letters, Amy had been reading a history of the Acadians, and Martine, before Pierre's arrival, had been looking through "Evangeline." "Pierre," Amy asked, not knowing just what to say to the old-fashioned boy, "do you care for 'Evangeline'?" "Surely, yes," he replied, his face lighting up. "Your Longfellow has sympathy for the Acadians. A lady who stayed here last summer lent me his poems, but best I understand the 'Evangeline.' "'Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!'" Pierre recited with much expression. "Ah," he continued, "I can say much of that beautiful poem, and indeed it makes me weep to think how they were treated, those poor Acadians, my ancestors. The English were most cruel." "Amy," half-whispered Martine, "my history is a little rusty, so please tell me if the Acadians were driven out from Little Brook." "No, my dear, Little Brook was founded by some who made their way back from exile. Pierre," she added in a louder tone, "you are so interested in your people, can you tell us about those who founded Little Brook?" "Yes, Pierre can tell you all the story," interposed Madame Bourque, who had entered the room to put wood on the fire. "He knows it all from his grandmother, and he remembers." Pierre, thus commended, flushed even more deeply than he had when Amy made her request; but he remained silent until she spoke again. "Perhaps it is not everything that you would wish to hear," he said, "that I shall tell; but my grandmother told me that it was all forest in Clare when the Acadians were driven from their homes by the cruel English. There were no farms here then, and so Petit Ruisseau has no sad memories of poor people driven from their homes. But you know that Acadians from Annapolis and Grand Pré and other places farther north were carried off to the English settlements that are now the States, and were treated like beggars; for they had no money, and spoke but a strange tongue. Fathers were separated from children, and brothers and sisters were not often in the same ship. But all were strong in their hearts, and determined to come back to their beautiful Acadia. Some began to come back before the Peace, and walked all the way--hundreds and hundreds of miles--from Boston and New York, until they reached the coast of the Bay. When the war was over, and there was a great Peace, many, many more came, and walked all the way around from New Brunswick to Nova Scotia to find their homes again." "But I thought that all their houses were burned and that they had no homes to return to." "That is true; but some knew not this, and even those who had seen the fires from the ships did not believe that everything of theirs was destroyed. So they were very sad when they could find no signs of their old homes, and saw that everything belonged to the English settlers. It was a great crime, sending them away, oh, so many; I am proud my great-great-grandparents were exiles and my great-grandmother was born in Salem; so perhaps I am half Yankee; that's why I speak some English." At that moment Madame Bourque took part in the conversation. "Ah, it is terrible to think of their sufferings, people of such worth,--it is the crime of history. Just think of Belliveau; you tell about him, Pierre." "Oh, he was very brave, and the first exile to land in Clare. He and his wife came across the bay in a little boat, bringing their baby too, and they landed safely on the shore that you can see from the window. They had a terrible passage--and to think to-day that some people fear to cross the bay to St. John, even in a steamboat! At first they did have nothing, but they cut wood, and soon other Acadians joined them who had walked all the way around on land." "Pierre," interposed Amy, "you describe things very well; what do you intend to be when you grow up?" A shadow crossed Pierre's face. "I should like to be a sailor, and then a great captain, but I am not strong enough, and I shall never grow big; so I think I may be a teacher, and that is why I take trouble to speak and write English." "You should be here," interrupted Madame Bourque, whose mind still dwelt on the Acadians, "on the fifteenth of August; that is the day of the return from exile that all the people in Clare celebrate." "We shall hardly be in this part of the country then, Madame Bourque," responded Amy, "but we shall try to know all we can about the early Acadians before we leave Little Brook. But, Pierre," added Amy, "you haven't told us all that you know, have you? Haven't you some stories that your mother or grandmother has told you?" "One about the cane I like much." "Then tell it to us." "Well, there was one of our family, a great-grand-uncle, I think, who lived down near Cape Sable before the exile; one time he was very kind to a shipwrecked captain and took him into his house and gave him clothes and food; then when my relative was driven from home they took him to Boston, and he had to wander about, begging his bread, for he could not speak English. And then he and his three sons with him were put in jail; then the captain whom he had been kind to heard that these Frenchmen were in jail, and, remembering the kindness he had had, went to visit the prisoners. How surprised he was to find his old acquaintance who had helped him after the shipwreck! My relative was glad to see him too. Then the captain went to the governor and told him about the kind Frenchman who was in jail, and the governor said to bring him before him and perhaps he would pardon him. As my relative had no clothes fit to wear before the governor, the captain bought him a beautiful suit and a cane with a large head. Then the governor, when he saw my grandfather, pardoned him and his three sons, and they stayed in Boston several years, until the Peace, when they all came back to Nova Scotia. I know this story is true, because I have seen the cane, which one of my cousins owns in Pubnico." "Do you think that is true?" whispered Priscilla to Martine. "Oh, true enough; it certainly is not very exciting. It has been handed down so long that the point is evidently lost." Pierre, once started, continued to tell many stories of the hardships borne by the early Acadians, beside which the tale of Evangeline seemed almost cheerful. "Now, Priscilla," said Martine, when Pierre paused, "you must admit that the English don't show themselves in a very good light compared with the Acadians. Did you ever hear of such cruelty?" "There must have been some cause for it," rejoined Priscilla, stoutly; "we have heard only one side thus far. Perhaps the Acadians themselves were a little in the wrong." "They certainly were not perfect," interposed Amy, taking part in the discussion, "as you will admit when you have read their history more carefully. We have not time to go into things more fully now, and I have thought that Grand Pré would be the best place for our study of the causes leading to the exile. It's putting the cart before the horse to talk too much of the effects before we know the causes." Had Pierre exactly understood Amy he might have entered into a discussion with her, but for the moment he had run to the front door to admit Madame Bourque's little daughters, whom he had seen entering the yard. When he was again in the room Madame Bourque once more joined the group. "How does it happen, Madame Bourque," asked Martine, mischievously, "that your hotel is the Hotel Paris? You should have named it 'Acadia' or 'Evangeline,' or something like that." "Ah," responded Madame Bourque, "it is that my husband is a Frenchman, from Paris, and I like my children not to forget that. Some day, when they grow up, they shall go to Paris." "Have Acadians any real love for France?" asked Amy. "It is certainly a long, long time since their ancestors left it." "Yes, indeed," replied Madame Bourque, "just as the Englishman always loves England, or the Irishman Ireland; they are still strangers in a strange land, though they must call the English Queen their queen," she concluded sentimentally. "Some Acadians go back to France to study, and some French boys come out to the college at Church Point, and one of them--ah, it is so romantic!--married an Acadienne a few years ago." "Oh, tell us about it," exclaimed Martine; "I love anything romantic." "Well, then," said Madame Bourque, "there was such a pretty girl at Church Point in the convent, and this youth was sent by his parents to study at the College of St. Anne. He fell in love with the pretty girl and would marry her, and oh, his father and mother they felt so bad, for they thought Acadians were something like Indians; and so they hurried out to Nova Scotia, and when they saw the girl they fell in love with her too, and knew she was no savage, and say their son can marry her. But the girl would not leave her people, and as the son would not give up the girl, the parents decided to come to Acadia to live, for he was an only son and they were rich. So they have bought much land up beyond Weymouth, and they call it New France. They have a great mill where they cut timber, and a railroad of their own twenty miles long, by which they send it to the sea, and good houses and electric lights--all on account of a pretty Acadienne." "That's just the kind of story I like," cried Martine. "I suppose history is just as true, but someway I have more interest in things that are happening to-day." Madame Bourque now left the room to make arrangements for the early dinner. She had foretold that the fog would lift before noon, and accordingly Priscilla, looking out the window, was not surprised to catch a fleeting glimpse of the sun through an opening in the veil of mist. "We'll take your word that the sun will shine," exclaimed Amy, "and I'll run upstairs and ask mamma if she will drive this afternoon. I imagine that the most there is to be seen is at Church Point, and the sooner we go there the better." Madame Bourque, when asked, promised to have two carriages ready early in the afternoon, for Amy had not only invited Pierre to dinner, but intended to take him to drive with her. "Mamma," said Amy, as she gave her mother an account of the morning, "you will find Madame Bourque very amusing. She evidently believes the Acadians to be the salt of the earth; but though I sympathize with their sufferings, I do not believe they were quite the superior beings that she paints them." "It might be unkind," replied Mrs. Redmond, "to suggest that this is part of her stock in trade; the more remarkable she can represent the old Acadians to have been, the more interested will her guests be in the places associated with them. They were a good, honest people." "But they were peasants, were they not, mamma? You would think to hear her talk that they were very near nobility." "Oh, among the Acadians of to-day are doubtless many descendants of men of good family in France. Indeed, some of them can claim for ancestors Charles de la Tour and Baron D'Entremont; but the peasant blood is in the ascendant, and the strain of nobility must be very slight." At the dinner-table Pierre won Mrs. Redmond's heart by the gentleness of his manner, and she told Martine that Amy's protégé would be a close rival of hers. "No, indeed," replied Martine; "no one can rival Yvonne. Just think of her voice and her little curls and her pink cheeks." "I'll admit that Pierre lacks these characteristics, though all in all they would hardly enhance his value. From what Amy says, however, I should judge that Pierre, even if he has neither curls nor pink cheeks, has a voice that is very effective when he uses it in telling stories." Fearing that Pierre might overhear these personalities, Mrs. Redmond changed the conversation. "Amy," she said in a somewhat louder voice, "where do you suppose Fritz is now?" "Oh, if Pubnico is as fascinatingly French as he expected it to be, he is probably there still. I doubt if he will be better entertained than we have been." "I almost wish he were with us," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "for he is always a fund of entertainment in himself; I have thought of him many times this dull morning, and I hope that we shall find a letter from him awaiting us at Digby." If Amy agreed with her mother, she did not so express herself at this moment; yet if the truth were known, it must be said that more than once since their parting at Yarmouth she had regretted that she had not at least given Fritz a chance to join their party. When the carriages came to the door in the afternoon Amy recognized them as having formed part of the funeral procession; they were shabby, with hard seats, and the horses, as well as the vehicles, looked as if they had seen better days. It was arranged that Amy and Pierre should go in the small carriage, as Madame Bourque's husband assured them that the horse was perfectly safe for a lady to drive. "Ah, he could not run away!" "I should think not," said Amy. "If he manages to carry us even the three miles to Church Point I shall be surprised; he seems so dispirited that I imagine the funeral has made more impression on him than on Madame Bourque herself." Mrs. Redmond, Priscilla, and Martine were in the second carriage, and Madame Bourque was the driver. Amy noticed in gardens and windows fewer hollyhocks, oleanders, and other bright flowers than she had seen at Meteghan. The houses, too, were painted in less bright colors, and the village street had a less stirring appearance. Pierre was a good cicerone; he pointed out near the edge of the sea the spot where the first of the returning exiles had landed. He also showed Amy a little one-story house on a slight elevation, said to be the oldest in the town, and to date but little later than the landing. "It is hard," he said in his precise way, "to imagine that it was all forest here in those first years, since now there is hardly a tree in sight except the fruit trees in the orchards. The first comers had large grants of land from the government; thus the English tried to make up for the wrong they had done." "But the farms are very small now," ventured Amy. "The yards are so close together." "Ah, yes, that is it; each father had many children and divided his land among his sons, and as every one wanted his house to be on the village street, they have kept it up, cutting it up into long narrow strips, some of them running back one or two miles; and away at the end of the strips there are still forests that are worth money." Some time before they reached Church Point, the lighthouse and the college buildings were seen in imposing outline in the distance. Their horse justified Amy's forebodings, and when they overtook Madame Bourque and her party the latter were standing near a monument before the large building that Pierre had said was the College of St. Anne. Amy, though undisturbed by Martine's gibes at the slowness of her steed, was glad enough to get out of the carriage. Both horses were left in charge of a boy whom Madame Bourque knew, while the sight-seers started to walk to the shrines of the Acadians--for by this term did Madame Bourque describe the burying-ground and site of the early houses. "It is not a long walk," the voluble Frenchwoman had explained, "unless you go out to the lighthouse, for which we have not time to-day." Priscilla lingered behind the others to copy the inscription on the monument. It was in honor of the Abbé Sigogne, to whom the Acadians of Clare owe more than to any other one person. Priscilla, reading the inscription, wondered why she had never before heard of this man, who evidently had been so much to his own people. Acadia is not far from Massachusetts, and yet already she realized that this was a corner of the world of which she knew far too little. Amy, however, could tell her what she wished to know, and she hurried on to join the others, who were now far ahead. "Amy," she cried, overtaking her friend, "tell me something about the Abbé Sigogne; I am ashamed to say that I never heard of him before." Pierre glanced at the American girl with an expression of absolute amazement at her ignorance. "There is so much to tell," said Amy, "that it would be too long a story for the time that we have now; yet as we walk along I can give you a little idea of his work. He was a French priest of good family, who barely escaped losing his head during the French Revolution. After fleeing from France he lived a few years in England. When he heard that the poor Acadians of Clare were without a clergyman, he decided to go to them, and from that time he made their lot his. This was in 1799, about thirty years after their return from exile, and though they had cleared the forest and built houses, they had made little progress in other ways; they were without schools and almost without religion, but the good Abbé built them a church, established schools, and made frequent visits to all the little settlements along St. Mary's Bay, often travelling along the coast in a small, open boat. He taught them many things besides religion. He made them firm in their allegiance to Great Britain, and when he died, in 1844, he was bitterly mourned by all who knew him, whether English or French." When Amy and Priscilla and Pierre caught up with the others, they were in a large field, looking at a spot of ground on which Madame Bourque said had stood the very first house at Point à l'Église, built after the exile. Near by was a little old graveyard, where the first generation of returning exiles had been buried. Only a few graves were marked, and these with rough stones without inscriptions. A rude arch of whalebone formed the entrance to this little enclosure. It was not very far from the point of land on which stood the lighthouse, near which, along the edge of the sea, a file of black-coated priests was walking. Though they were indistinctly seen in the distance, their large caps and flapping surtouts gave them a picturesque appearance. A strange structure like a shrine of open slats decorated with spruce boughs attracted Martine's attention, and she insisted on making a sketch of it. "It is a repository," explained Pierre, politely, "where the priest stands, as a station for the procession, on festival days." When they returned to the College of St. Anne, Madame Bourque grew more and more eloquent. "Is it not wonderful," she said, "that all this great building is restored since the fire of two years ago? You will come inside, ladies, and see how pleasant the rooms are." "I will stay outside," replied Priscilla, "and watch the horses," she concluded rather lamely. "Nonsense," began Amy, but looking at Priscilla, she saw that the young girl was in earnest, and so insisted no further. "Amy," whispered Priscilla, as her friend drew near her, "I was sorry afterwards that I went into the convent yesterday, and so I would much rather not go into a priest's house." "I had no idea that you would be so narrow," rejoined Amy. "I don't mean to be narrow," responded Priscilla, "but I really don't feel like going inside." So Priscilla sat down on the grass near the monument and all the others went inside the main building of the College of St. Anne. Not very long afterwards Mrs. Redmond came out again, with her sketch-book in her hand. "I thought it a good time now to make a sketch of the church. I have seen many other schools like this one, for, after all, it's only a boys' boarding-school. The girls enjoy practising their French with the Eudist Father, who is taking them about, and it will probably be some time before they are ready to leave. I think you make a mistake, Priscilla, in not joining them." "It isn't a very old building," said Priscilla, implying that this was sufficient reason for her staying away from the party. "It is certainly not very old," rejoined Mrs. Redmond; "the college has been established less than ten years. It is a great thing to have founded it here in the midst of the Acadians, and it has made the boys of Clare much more ambitious." "What good is a college education to them?" asked Priscilla; "fishing and farming seem to be their chief occupations." "This is really only a preparatory school," replied Mrs. Redmond, "and the boys who are going into the Church or into the professions enter other colleges in Canada or in France. The Father told us with pride of the high standing of some of the graduates in their work in other colleges." "If I do not care for the college," said Priscilla, "I love this church of Abbé Sigogne's; it makes me think of a New England meeting-house, with its white walls and steeple." Mrs. Redmond's sketch was hardly finished when the others came out from the college. Madame Bourque was in her most talkative mood, as she led them across the road into the white church. This time Priscilla went with them and looked with some interest at the paintings on the wall, and the sacred emblems, and the tablet inscribed to the memory of Abbé Sigogne. Martine, it must be admitted, found something amusing even in this church, for inside the gallery where the choir boys sat were many pictures of little boats, and even of full-rigged ships scratched in deeply with a penknife, presumably by the fingers of mischievous young singers. Pierre, who happened to be with Martine when she made this discovery, did not laugh with her, but shaking his head solemnly, said, "Ah, those pictures show what really fills the heart of the Acadian boy." Madame Bourque was disappointed that her party of Americans did not care to visit the girls' school near by, but the hour was late, and the tired-looking horses were not likely to make speed on the way home. "We have really seen so much," said Mrs. Redmond, "that we shall need to think it all over before seeing more, and you have been so good a guide that in our one visit to Church Point we have learned as much as most persons do in two." "We have learned a great deal," murmured Priscilla to Amy, "but I always feel that Madame Bourque paints the Acadians as much more remarkable than they are. But I should like to have seen Father Sigogne baptizing Indian pappooses; they say that he used to wipe their faces with his gown to find a spot where he could kiss them." "Yes, and Madame Bourque says that there are people still living who can remember great crowds of Indians filing through the woods to Church Point that they might receive Abbé Sigogne's blessing on St Anne's Day." CHAPTER VII DIGBY DAYS On the way back to Little Brook Amy had a good chance to talk with little Pierre about his hopes and ambitions. She found that he was extremely fond of reading, and it was almost impossible for him to get books such as a boy loves to read. About half a mile from Madame Bourque's, Pierre pointed out a small cottage which he said was his home. "My mother will be there now," he said, "and I hope you will come in with me to see her. She does not speak so very good English," he added apologetically, "but she can understand it." Though Madame Robichaud greeted Amy warmly and thanked her for her kindness to Pierre, there was something pathetic in her manner and appearance. She was a tall, thin woman, with a delicate, pale face that was made all the paler by her plain black gown and the _couvre-chef_ that covered her hair. Her husband, Pierre explained, was lost at sea when Pierre was five years old, and since that time she had supported them both wholly by her own labor. Madame Robichaud showed Amy with great pride some drawings nailed to the wall that Pierre himself had made,--simple drawings of ships and houses that showed draughtsmanship rather than imagination. These suggested to Amy that Pierre had a talent that might be cultivated to greater advantage than his ambition for school-teaching. She and Pierre parted reluctantly, and Madame Robichaud promised that the little boy should be at the hotel in the morning before Amy left Little Brook. All the travellers slept soundly that night despite the huge feather-beds that Madame Bourque had provided, as she thought, for their comfort. In the morning they wrote their names in her visitors' book, on whose pages were inscribed the names of a number of Americans, some of them fairly well known, who at one time or another had been guests at the Hotel Paris. Pierre arrived very soon after breakfast with a great bunch of hollyhocks or _passe-rose_ for Amy. He had evidently taken a great fancy to his new friend. "She is more beautiful even than my school-teacher," he had said to Madame Bourque; a compliment which the latter repeated as of especial value, because hitherto Pierre had considered his teacher the model of womanly perfection. "Martine," said Mrs. Redmond, before the carriage arrived, "have you written to Yvonne?" "Oh, no; I meant to, but now I'll wait till we reach Digby." "I fear that Yvonne will be disappointed. She probably expected a letter to-day." "I know it; I am ashamed of myself." Martine's tone was penitent, but no one who knew Martine ever expected her to do promptly what she had promised. It was always a little easier to put off things to another day. Priscilla looked at her scornfully, as if to say "How fickle!" When at last they were ready to start, all felt sad at parting with Madame Bourque and her family, for in two days they had come to seem almost like old friends. The two little Bourque girls, as the carriage drove off, looked with astonishment at the dollar bill that Mrs. Redmond had put in the hands of the elder to divide with her younger sister. Pierre walked on a little way with Amy before she mounted her wheel, and on saying good-bye at last he knew that the American lady would really send him the books that she had promised. Their train to Digby was not the famous "Flying Bluenose," but a local that made no pretence of hurrying; it instead gave them ample opportunity to study the scenery from the windows. When at last they reached Digby, they were warm and dust-covered, and glad enough, too, when they found carriages waiting for them at the station. "It's nothing but a summer resort, this Digby that we have heard so much about," complained Martine, as they drove along the main street. "Just look at those boys in golf suits, and that crowd carrying shawls and wraps as if bound for a sailboat. Why, the town doesn't even look English. It makes me think of Blue Harbor in Maine, where we spent one summer." "I noticed a great deal of Philadelphia accent while we were waiting for our trunks at the station." "Oh, don't mention it," replied Martine; "Philadelphians flock everywhere, and they are so cliquey that they just spoil a place for me, though I'll admit that they know a good thing when they see it." "Be careful, Martine," cautioned Amy; "no more slang than you can help on this trip." "'On this trip!' If that isn't slang I'd like to know what is." "No matter now; here's the hotel; mail first and rooms afterwards." In an instant Amy had hurried to the hotel office, returning to the others with a bundle of letters, which she gave to Priscilla to distribute while she went ahead with her mother to look at the rooms they had engaged. The hotel was like most small summer hotels, and in spite of their pleasant remembrance of Clare, Mrs. Redmond and the girls had to admit that it was more comfortable than the little French houses. "'Pubnico!' why, of course;" here Amy stopped as she held the letter in her hand, turning it over once or twice as people will before opening a letter. "Of course; don't hesitate to tell us that it's from Fritz. It would be very strange indeed if he had not written," cried Martine, mischievously. "'Pubnico,'" said Priscilla, as if the word had just penetrated her brain; "why, there were two letters with that postmark, were there not?" "Oh, no, only one," replied Amy, promptly, "and, as Martine surmises, it was from Fritz." But while Amy was speaking Priscilla looked sharply at Martine, and Martine, as if uncomfortable under her gaze, suddenly left the room. After dinner, as they all sat on the piazza, "Amy," said Mrs. Redmond, "you haven't told us yet how Fritz is enjoying his journey." "Oh, he thinks he has found the only French in Nova Scotia. He describes their dress and their houses and their great fat oxen, and speaks of the misfortunes of the exiled Acadians as if he were an original discoverer. How foolish he will feel when he finds that what he has seen is old news to us, for his description reads just like a description of Clare." "Only I'll warrant that he didn't find any Madame Bourque," and Priscilla smiled. "No, nor an Yvonne," added Martine. "Not to speak of Pierre," concluded Amy. "My letter from home," said Priscilla, "mentions that this was the hottest week of the season. Just think, only yesterday we were half frozen driving home in the fog from Church Point." After breakfast, on their second morning at Digby, Mrs. Redmond and the girls walked the whole length of the tree-lined main street. As Martine had surmised, they had indeed arrived at a regulation summer resort. The holiday spirit prevailed on all sides; every one was going somewhere, or had just been somewhere, on pleasure bent. In spite of her professed prejudice against Philadelphians, Martine almost fell into the arms of a former schoolmate from the Quaker City, who rushed out to greet her from the garden of a small hotel near the top of the hill. "Isn't the view fine, and the air just perfect? I'm so glad you're here; there's something to do every hour of the day, and we shall be so glad to have you join us, you and your friends." And she glanced dubiously at Priscilla's mourning dress and serious face. "Thank you, but I can't make plans just now. There are four in our party; the other two have walked ahead. We arrived only on Saturday, and yesterday was so rainy that we stayed indoors until evening, when we all went to church. Until we really have our bearings I don't think that I can make any plans. But you must come to see us. There, I haven't introduced you to Priscilla; you must excuse me. Priscilla, the Rose of Plymouth, let me introduce you to Peggy Pratt from the quiet city of Philadelphia." "You are the same old Martine," cried Peggy, as they turned away, while Priscilla, reddening, added as the two walked on, "Oh, Martine, how silly you can be!" Amy was delighted with everything that they saw in the course of that morning walk, from the beautiful view of the Basin, surrounded by hills that looked mountains, to the little fish-houses, the quintessence of neatness, in front of which quantities of cod were drying. As to the Basin, when she said she felt as though she had seen it before, Mrs. Redmond reminded her that it resembled closely the harbor of Santiago, with which she was familiar through pictures. "Ah, yes," rejoined Amy, "and that little opening into the Bay of Fundy that they call 'The Gut' is like the passage where Hobson tried to sink the Merrimac." "It isn't such a very little passage; somebody told me that it is nearly a mile wide; it was there that the ships of De Monts entered the Basin in 1604, when they discovered Acadia," Mrs. Redmond added. "Sixteen hundred and four!" cried Martine. "Oh, dear, we're going backwards in our history. It was seventeen hundred and something when the Acadians were expelled, and I shall never be able to remember earlier dates." "At present we may put dates aside. For a day or two we can merely enjoy ourselves." "I hope we are coming to some English history," said Priscilla; "I am tired of the French. I always supposed Nova Scotia was a British province, but this whole week we have heard very little about the English." "I tell you what we'll do, Priscilla," cried Amy; "while mamma and Martine sit here to make a sketch of something or other, you and I can set out in search of some English history. Undoubtedly there's an historic house or two to discover. That's the kind of thing I never let escape me." At first it seemed as if Amy's search would be unsuccessful. One person after another whom she asked said that there were no historic houses in Digby. "There's an old shop over across the way," one added, "the frame of which, they say, was brought out from England; I'll point it out to you, though it doesn't look very old." This last statement was true enough, for the old house had been reshingled and reclapboarded and repainted, so that it retained hardly a vestige of antiquity in its appearance. To compensate Amy for her disappointment, the obliging native made a suggestion that in the end proved valuable. "What you ought to do is to see Mrs. Sally Tatem; her house isn't much to look at, but it's old enough, and she knows more about the history of Digby than any one else here." "Where does she live?" "Oh, just a little way up that street and round the next corner and up the hill and you will see a little cottage at the end of the lane; just knock at the door, and if she's at home she'll be very obliging." So Amy and Priscilla went "up the street and round the next corner and up the hill," and at "the end of the lane" they saw a small white cottage almost covered with vines. Amy's knock brought to the door a little old lady with silvery hair and a tiny ruffled cap, wearing a gray gown and, most important of all, a pleasant smile. The hesitation that Amy had felt in explaining the object of their visit disappeared under the old lady's greeting. "Dear child, come right in; I'll tell you all the Digby history I know; but it isn't so very much." As Amy sat down in the little sitting-room, she could not help looking about, and she was quick to recognize that the two chairs were Chippendale. "They were brought by my grandfather," said Mrs. Tatem, noting the direction of Amy's glance. "He was a captain in the Queen's Rangers; you know many Americans were on the King's side in the Revolution." A look of surprise crossed Priscilla's face, but she did not venture to raise a question. "Yes," responded Amy, "I know about the Loyalists." "Well, my grandfather was a farmer in Westchester County, rich and prosperous, but he would not take arms against the King. A friend and neighbor of his was tarred and feathered, and he was in some danger himself. So he went into the war, and when it was over he couldn't stay in New York. With other Loyalists he came down here. Of course it was very hard for him to have all his property taken away, but his wife was brave and she was willing to suffer." "Who sent them away?" asked Priscilla, eagerly. "Why, the Yankees,--the Americans, I mean," said Mrs. Tatem. "The Patriots," whispered Priscilla. "Yes, yes," interposed Amy. "But," continued Priscilla, "I didn't know that there were two sides to the story." And as she said this the old lady smiled. "We have no bitterness now. I ought not to have said 'Yankees.' I have many friends in the States, but it was hard for my mother and aunts to have to grow up in the wilderness. I used to hear my aunt talk. She was an older daughter." "But how did they live here in those days?" "Oh, the King gave a large grant of land and provisions for three years and some building material. Many who came to settle would not stay, and it was harder for those who did remain. There was no church even, for a long time, until good Mr. Viets came; he did everything for the white settlers, and even held a school for the Blacks." "The Blacks?" "Oh, yes; you see many people brought their slaves with them." "Southerners?" "No, New Yorkers. Many Northern people had slaves in those days. I know that my grandfather had two, but when he died he left them their freedom in his will. Out at the Joggins' there are still living many descendants of these slaves, and of the Black Pioneers, a regiment of Blacks that fought on the English side in the war." "What you've told us is almost as romantic as the French Revolution," said Priscilla. "Maybe so," replied the old lady, hesitatingly, "though things probably did not seem romantic to the first settlers here; but perhaps it's just as well that our lot was cast in this healthy climate. I hear there's a great deal of sickness in New York, and it's a great big city where people care only for money. I'm sorry our young people go off so much to the States; they could all make a comfortable living if they would only stay at home." Amy could not refrain from admiring the china and all the daintiness of the little house, plain and unpretending though it was. But the most interesting thing of all was the old lady with her charming manner and fund of history. "I've heard my mother say," she remarked before they went, "that the first name of Digby was Conway, and it was only after Admiral Digby had been here that it was named in his honor." "Why didn't the French settle Digby?" asked Priscilla; "they seem to be everywhere else in Nova Scotia." "Probably because there are no marshes; they were attracted by the dyke lands at Annapolis and Grand Pré." The girls bade good-bye to Mrs. Tatem with real regret. Before she returned to the hotel Amy wandered by herself in a little old churchyard where lay many of the first settlers, and as she looked at the weather-beaten stones she saw that many of those who lay buried there were natives of New York or its neighborhood; closing her eyes for a moment to shut out the present, she pictured to herself what life in the wilderness must have been to these refugees who had suffered everything in a losing cause. That afternoon Martine's friend, Peggy, from Philadelphia, invited them all to join a sailing party; though at first disinclined to go, Amy at last accepted the invitation. It was a delightful afternoon, with wind and sea in their favor, and the charm of the surrounding scenery was increased by a delicate mist that hovered over the North Mountain, as a reminder of the Bay of Fundy outside. For some reason this sail around Digby reminded Amy of some of her excursions in Marblehead Harbor, especially of a certain day on the "Balloon," and this in spite of the fact that the "Mary Jane" in no way compared in equipment with Philip's yacht. No picture of Marblehead could of course be complete unless Fritz were in it, and almost to her annoyance Amy now found Fritz occupying a large corner of her mind. Nevertheless, she was interested in all that was going on around her, and once or twice lent a hand to the skipper, when a sudden change of wind occasioned a quick shifting of the sails. Then the Bluenose skipper complimented the Yankee girl on her skill in handling the ropes, and Martine and Priscilla and Peggy expressed their astonishment that she should know so much about a boat. For almost the first time since their departure from Boston Priscilla was now in good spirits; she had overcome her original homesickness, and her letters from Plymouth had been so cheerful that she was almost ready to find enjoyment in the new scenes and faces. Between her and Martine there was less intimacy than between her and Amy. Mrs. Redmond was sorry to see that, for some reason, Priscilla lacked confidence in Martine. This was to be accounted for, perhaps, by the fact that the two girls were so unlike in temperament and education. Though reserved in speech, Priscilla was uncompromisingly accurate in statement; Martine, on the other hand, while apparently unreserved, occasionally lacked frankness. No one could accuse her of being untruthful, and yet her exaggerations and her occasional concealments were a constant annoyance to the literal Priscilla. On the second day of their stay at Digby, Martine had written a long letter to Yvonne, and at the same time had sent her a roll of new music, which she had happened to find in a Digby shop. "If I knew just how long we should be here, I really think I would send for Yvonne to spend a week with us." "We shall not be here a week," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "and I am afraid that Yvonne would rather handicap us if we tried to have her travel farther." On their last morning at Digby, Amy and Martine had a parting walk around the wharf. The wharf had been a source of much amusement to Martine, and she had sketched it at high tide when it looked just like any other wharf, and at low tide when it rose high above the water, its sides covered with seaweed and barnacles. Indeed the vagaries of the Bay of Fundy tides were an endless amusement to the party, exposing, as they did, long, long stretches of reddish mud, and apparently casting up all kinds of craft high and dry on the land. "Now, around by the fish-houses," cried Martine; "how I shall miss the cod which we meet here at every turn! Fish flakes, in my mind, will always be the emblem of Digby. Priscilla says that she has seen more on Cape Cod, but I can hardly believe her. It's strange that no one has given us a Digby chicken since we came here. Any one would suppose that the Digby chicken is the only fish that grows here; yet really and truly we haven't seen one, have we, since our arrival? For it's the cod that's everywhere, and it's funny to think that they send so much codfish to the West Indies. People there must be thirsty enough without having cod sent to tantalize them." On their way back to the hotel they did an errand in a corner shop. The clerk addressed them in rather broken English, and in answer to Amy's question said that he was a descendant of an Acadian exile. He told them one or two anecdotes, and when he had to turn to other customers Amy waited until they were served, hoping to hear more from him. "That negro," he explained, as a tall Black went out of the shop, "is a descendant of one of the slaves of the Revolution." "Was that other man a negro, too, who went out with him?" "Oh, no, he's an Indian from the Bear River Reservation. If you go that way, you must be sure to visit it." "I hope that we are going there, for I hear that Bear River is a beautiful place. Though I am not particularly anxious to see the Micmac on his native heath, it certainly is interesting to have met representatives of the four race elements in this little shop," said Amy, as they turned away. "Four race elements?" asked Martine, not quite understanding her. "Yes, of Nova Scotia Loyalists, Acadians, Indians, and negroes. To be sure Pre-Loyalists would be more representative than negroes--but the former did not settle Digby." "Let's go up on Cannon Hill for a last look. Your mother just loves it. We have made some fine sketches of those crooked apple-trees and that old house." "And the cannon? They are certainly unlike any others you will come across." "I have photographed the cannon," replied Martine, with dignity, "and if I had time, I might sketch them." "I love it here," cried Martine, as they stood on the hill. "One gets such a splendid view of the entrance to the Basin,--I can't bring myself to say Gut. When I stand here, I just close my eyes, and then fancy how these steep shores must have looked to the Frenchmen, Champlain and the others, who came sailing in through the passage that June morning so long ago. Then when I open my eyes I can actually see them out there--and if I were a poet, like you, Amy, I would write something worth while." "I a poet! what nonsense! What put that into your head?" "As if I didn't know all about you, Miss Amy Redmond," and Martine quoted a line or two of verse that brought the color to Amy's cheeks. "That isn't poetry," she said with a smile. "But you are in a mood that shows me we ought to go home." CHAPTER VIII TWO ADVENTURES "Oh dear," sighed Priscilla three hours later, as she strapped her valise, "I believe I'd rather stay in one place all summer than move so often. I shall miss the pier and the barnacles. When we came in from the boat at low tide the other day, it seemed like one of the caverns of fairyland--so dark and mysterious." "Yes, and you'll miss the codfish, too. Amy and I have been going through the missing agony this morning. But I have a fish story that will please you, Puritan Prissie. Though curing codfish is a leading occupation here six days of the week, on Sunday that man is fined who even sticks a pitchfork into a helpless cod--except,--and here I am afraid that this covers a quantity,--that if there has been a week of wet weather, if Sunday is sunny, then the gentle codfish may be turned over. This is merely a humane provision for the comfort of the cod, who otherwise would become unduly weary lying so long on one side." "We shall become unduly weary waiting for you," cried Amy, who had entered the room during the latter part of Martine's speech. "I hope that you are both ready, for it is almost train time." "All aboard then," cried Martine. "If my hat is on straight, nothing need delay us. Let me help you with your valise, Priscilla. My luggage has gone on." When they reached the station Mrs. Redmond and her party found that after all they had some time to spare. At five minutes past the hour they took their seats. "Standard time, Halifax time, hotel time, local time," hummed Martine. "I wonder which we're starting by." Presently the conductor walked along the station platform to the little waiting-room, and from the open window they heard him speak to some one inside. "Have you made up your minds yet, ladies, about going?" he asked in a polite tone. "Oh, gracious, yes," exclaimed a shrill voice. "We were waiting for the bell;" and two elderly women hurried toward the train with their knitting in their hands. Amy had noticed them busily knitting there, in a corner, when she passed. It seemed, by the conductor's subsequent explanation, that knowing they were uncertain whether to go by that train or the next, he had patiently waited for them to decide. Bear River was one of the places where Mrs. Redmond had planned to stay. After a short railroad journey that included a passage over some wonderful bridges, beyond which was a great extent of water, and after a drive of five or six miles, they found themselves gazing down at picturesque Bear River. The beautiful town sloped to a broad stream, its white houses and spires half hidden by trees. "It reminds me of Switzerland," cried Martine. "It's a dream," exclaimed Priscilla. "I don't believe Fritz has seen anything more beautiful," added Amy. "It deserves a more beautiful name," said Mrs. Redmond. "But, really, mamma, it's named for Imbert, the explorer, and the name doesn't seem so bad when we think of that." Their day in Bear River proved to be a gala day of the town. They had arrived at the height of the Cherry Carnival, and games and boat-races and other festivities had been arranged as part of the celebration. The girls were up very early that first morning, and soon after breakfast Martine was out with her camera, taking snapshots in every direction. A fat old squaw in a red jersey pretended to be afraid of the kodak, and turned her head; but there was a grin on her face as she looked around, which Martine quickly caught. Another squaw, also fat, with a little pappoose in her arms and another clinging to her skirts, begged Martine to take her. "Where you live?" asked Martine, as if talking to a child. "Up there," pointing vaguely in the distance. "Where?" "Reservation; you come see." Martine was interested. "Is it far?" "Oh, no." "What's your name?" asked Martine. "Marie Brown. You find my house." Though the name didn't seem to fit the Indian, Martine was glad that it was one that she could remember; for all in a moment she had made up her mind to visit the Reservation. During the morning, while she watched the sports and chatted with the bystanders and ate dozens and dozens of the famous Bear River cherries, Martine said nothing to the others of her intention of visiting the Reservation. It would be easy enough to borrow Amy's bicycle and say that she did not care to drive with the others. Everything happened as she planned. "Bear River is so hilly," said Mrs. Redmond, "that you will hardly wheel very far. But yet it's a quiet little place, and there is no risk in your doing some sight-seeing by yourself." Martine soon found herself on a road leading toward the Micmac Reservation; she had asked her way once or twice, and felt lonely as houses and shops were left behind; but though she was going in the direction of the Reservation, she saw nothing to remind her of Indians. "Where are the wigwams? Surely with so many Indians around there must be wigwams somewhere." Martine looked about anxiously at trees, bushes, and at one or two small wooden houses. She had been riding for half an hour, and she felt that she had not taken the wrong way. There was nothing to do but to inquire at one of the little houses. As she approached it, she realized that it was an Indian dwelling; three pappooses were playing in front of it, and a tall, thin squaw, in a purple calico gown, came out to the door as she entered the gate. "Marie Brown," said the woman; "oh, that far away. Too far for you; you better go home; it's late." Martine knew that this was intended as advice, not as discourtesy, but Martine was not fond of advice, and she decided that if she could not see Marie Brown she would visit the chapel, of which she had heard some one speak at dinner that day. When she asked the way, the woman drew her one side to an open space behind the house, where, on a hill that did not look too remote, she saw a small, square building with a cross on top for a steeple; so after a little conversation with the squaw about her people and their way of living, Martine pushed on toward the hill. She soon found that she must leave her bicycle behind, as there was no good road and the path was steep, and finding a spot that was screened by bushes, she left her wheel there; so on she went on foot until she had come to the enclosure, in the centre of which stood the Micmac Chapel. Seen at close range, it looked like a toy church, built plainly of wood, absolutely simple and bare on the outside. Martine raised herself on a ledge of wood so that she could look in through the windows. There was something almost pathetic in the tawdry attempts at decoration--the little altar draped with old lace curtains and gold lace and some faded flowers. On top there was a silver cross within a white canopy, and a small altar with a canopy in the corner. Walking around the graveyard, Martine noticed that there were French names on almost all the stones. Suddenly she was disturbed by the barking of a dog, and, following the direction of the sound, she saw a house on a hill high above the chapel. The dog was running up and down in front of the house, and barking loudly, as if he detected the presence of a stranger near the church. Martine remembered that the Indian woman in the cabin below had spoken of the chief's house near the church, but this did not reassure her. Perhaps the chief, himself, would object to the presence of a young American girl, and she began to wonder how she should make her peace with him if he should interfere; she was less afraid of the possible chief, however, than of the very real dog, whose barking still continued. To leave the enclosure by the way she had come would bring her out in full view of the creature. To avoid this, therefore, with some difficulty she climbed a fence at the other side, believing that she was going straight in the direction of the bicycle. But alas for her miscalculations! She was in a tangled thicket of shrubbery; she tore her dress and scratched her ankles, and she could not get back to the bicycle nor even find the cabin from which she had been directed to the chapel. When at last she reached the broad road, she sat down disconsolately by the side of a fence. "Why was I so foolish as to borrow Amy's bicycle?" Had it been her own wheel, so reckless was Martine's disposition, she would have left it behind without a qualm. Yet though it was quite possible for her to buy a new one for Amy, it did not seem quite right to return to the hotel without it. While she was pondering, without seeing any way out of the difficulty, she heard a shrill voice crying,-- "Hi, lady, hi!" Turning about, she saw the tall, thin Indian woman in the purple gown walking down the hill and guiding the bicycle beside her. "Why, how did you know I was here?" asked Martine, after she had thanked her profusely. "Oh, I could see the way you start from the chapel, and I thought you not find your wheel, so I thought I bring him." Martine, thanking the woman warmly, gave her all the silver that she happened to have in her purse,--not a very large sum from her point of view, but magnificent from that of the Indian. The squaw then walked with her down the hill and into the village, saying that young ladies should not go so far alone. As they walked, Martine asked several questions about Indian life, and was told that, in the summer, many were away selling baskets or fishing; they would be coming back soon, she said, and even as she spoke Martine looked toward the river on which two canoes were gliding, each containing two or three Indians and their numerous belongings. "They are coming back for St. Anne's Day," said the woman; "great time then at the chapel." They had not gone very far together when, turning a corner, the two came suddenly on Priscilla and Amy. "Oh, Martine," cried the latter, "where have you been? We have had our tea, and mother is so worried about you." "I hope it was a good tea and that you saved me some," rejoined Martine; "for now that you mention it, though I hadn't thought of it before, I realize that I'm half starved." "But where have you been?" "Oh, I've been a kind of babe in the woods, only there weren't any berries for me to feed on, and all that I have to show for my adventure are these tears in my gown." "Good-bye, ladies," said the Indian woman, while Martine was talking, "and I thank you much," she concluded, holding out her hand to Martine. In a moment she had disappeared. "Is that another protégée?" asked Priscilla, a little sharply. Martine did not answer. She had already plunged into a lively account of her afternoon, omitting nothing, not even her own carelessness in relation to the bicycle. At the hotel Mrs. Redmond spoke to Martine more seriously about the danger in expeditions by herself. "I had no idea that you thought of doing anything beyond wheeling around the town," she said; "and if you had met any real mishap, it would have been very hard for Amy and me, in whose care your father and mother put you." So Martine promised that in the future she would be less thoughtless. "Although to be honest," she added, "my thoughts are so apt to come afterwards that it is almost dangerous to promise anything." That evening, in the little hotel parlor, when Martine narrated her adventure, an old gentleman who was a permanent boarder there told her many anecdotes of the Micmacs. "In the early days, as you know, they were very friendly to the French. They were early baptized and became Roman Catholics, and as they began to be civilized, they liked to be known by French names, and many married with the French. The Canadian Government is very good to them, and provides for them on reservations or encourages them to own land for themselves. The children all go to school, some in reservation schools, and some attend the ordinary day schools with white children. While some of them still prefer to live by hunting, fishing, and Indian handicrafts, others work in mills and on railroads; and, on the whole, they compare well with the lower class of white citizens, for they _are_ citizens with certain voting rights." "I thought they'd be more picturesque and like real savages," said Martine. "I was so disappointed. There's something attractive in the name 'Micmac,' and I supposed that at least they'd live in wigwams." "Considering the way in which you rushed in among them," interposed Mrs. Redmond, "I should think you would be glad that you met only tame Indians to-day." "Very tame," rejoined Martine. "Only a tall, thin Indian woman in a purple calico gown." "There are certainly not many of the original red men left in Nova Scotia," said Mr. Dolph, the gentleman who had been talking to them. "There are some collections of their legends that are interesting to read, and the names of many Nova Scotia places are of Indian origin." "Oh, yes," said Amy; "I came across some lines to-day that I copied," and she began to recite: "'The memory of the Red Man, How can it pass away? While their names of music linger, On each mount and stream and bay? While Musquodoboit's waters Roll sparkling to the main, While falls the laughing sunbeam On Chegoggin's fields of grain?'" The next morning, when they were ready to leave Bear River, Amy decided to wheel rather than drive to the station. It was hardly five miles, over a main road, and she felt that she needed exercise. "Keep us in sight, Amy." "Oh, yes, if I don't pass you," she replied. But Amy at first lagged behind,--there were so many lovely points of view, and she stopped several times to enjoy them to the utmost. What a curious effect, to look down on the river, or rather to look down from a hill, and see a ship apparently moored among trees! Of course the explanation was that the beautiful Bear River lay in a narrow valley, surrounded by hills that descended sharply to its very margin, with trees so close together on its banks as to produce the strange effect that Amy had noted. The carriage was out of sight when Amy finally pushed on. Shortly she realized that pedalling required great effort. At first she ascribed her difficulty to the hills, but a slight grating of the wheel made her look at her tires, and, to her dismay, she found a small puncture. What should she do? She glanced at her watch, and was surprised to see how much time she had lost. One or two wagons had already passed her on their way to the train, and she regretted that she had not called for help. It might have been ignominious--it certainly would have been more discreet--to make her appearance at the station carried in a wagon rather than to lose her train altogether, as now appeared probable. She stopped a boy whom she met walking toward her. "How far is it to the station?" she asked. "Only a little way," he replied, after the fashion of boys, and she pushed on hopefully. She heard wheels in the distance, and made up her mind to humiliate herself to the extent of asking the new-comer to assist her; but when the vehicle came in sight it proved to be a narrow, one-seated buggy, and its three passengers seemed more than enough for it. A little farther on she heard an ominous whistle. The train was nearing the station. She felt indignant. "Why should this particular train be on time on this particular day? Nova Scotia trains are not noted for hurrying." Now she was walking and dragging her bicycle along. She met a number of persons who evidently had left the train at the Bear River station and were walking up to their homes. Then she heard the engine whistle again as the signal for starting on, and she knew that it was useless to go down to the station itself. She stood still for a moment, half paralyzed. Of course there was no special danger; her mother and the others might go on to Annapolis without her, and she could return to Bear River for the night; but it was all very mortifying. Then a sudden thought came to her; in fact, it had occurred to her when she first discovered the punctured wheel. "If Fritz were with me, he would have found some way of mending the puncture; in fact, one man is almost necessary on an excursion." That was what Fritz himself had said to her. She recalled his very words, and the remark with which he had ended,--"Then you'll remember me." But there was no time for reflection now. The train was coming slowly along the bridges; Amy could see the smoke from the engine. Between her and the track lay an open space--a slight decline from the point where she stood on the road--covered with long grass and bushes. A quick impulse urged her on; at the worst she could only fail; Nova Scotia conductors were very obliging, and there was more than half a chance that she might succeed. She lifted her bicycle across her arm, managed to climb over the low fence, and was pushing her way down the hill as the train drew near. A man, probably the conductor, was standing on the platform of a car; she waved her hand violently. The train seemed to move more slowly; a man thrust his head out of the engine cab; he, too, had seen her. She was now not far from the track; the train stood still; the conductor leaped down from his post, plunged into the shrubbery, relieved her of her wheel, and she followed him without a word; then one or two passengers pulled her on board the train, the signal was given, and the engine started on. "Lucky it wasn't a flying express," said one of the passengers. "I guess they wouldn't do that in the States," said another. Red-faced and crestfallen, Amy found herself a moment later in the bosom of her family. "A punctured tire," she began. "Yes, yes; don't try to talk." Amy sat still. Martine fanned her. Priscilla brought her a glass of water. Her mother asked for no explanation. The passengers stared at her; the majority as if amused, though. One or two talked as if they thought their rights had been infringed. "We were sorry," Mrs. Redmond said later, "to go without you, but it was better for you to be left than for the rest of us to lose the train; we knew you could go back to Bear River, and we could have telegraphed you what to do; we knew you would be equal to the occasion." "So I was." "Well, we hardly expected you to stop a train." "Oh, the train stopped me." "'All's well that ends well'" Later in the day Martine came over to sit beside Amy. "I'm afraid, Amy, that I may have punctured your tire yesterday; the road to the chapel was so very stony." "Tires are bound to be punctured," replied Amy, "and if this hadn't happened when it did, I shouldn't have had the fun of stopping a train." CHAPTER IX OLD PORT ROYAL At Annapolis, the old Port Royal, Amy and her party were to stay longer than at any other place. They had engaged rooms at a pleasant house where there were no other boarders, and when they had unpacked their trunks, began to feel as if they were really away for the summer. "We have a fine view of the river," said Mrs. Redmond to Martine the morning after their arrival, as they looked from the windows of her room, which was at the rear of the house. "River!" sniffed Martine; "I see nothing but red mud and green marshes; I wonder where the water is." "You won't ask that question at high tide; you'll find water enough to float a small vessel," she replied, "and if you look a little beyond our immediate neighborhood, you can see the whole Basin, and far, far away there in the distance, I suppose, that land is Digby. I am going out to sketch immediately after breakfast; I've seen several photographs of the old fort, and I have special reasons for wishing to make a sketch of it; and you, Martine, will get plenty of inspiration for your water-colors." Amy was in her element at Annapolis. She had already given some time to the history of the old town, and anticipated great pleasure in retracing the steps of the brave Frenchmen who had made it famous. "More French history!" Priscilla exclaimed, when Amy began to talk about De Monts and Poutrincourt; "when shall we hear about the English?" and Priscilla, with a wry face, continued, "I'm so tired of the French." "All in good time," responded Amy; "but now we must take things in due order and not skip about as we did. Let us go with the others into the port to-day, and while they are sketching I'll talk a little about its history." So it was that, while Mrs. Redmond and Martine were making sketches of the sally-port and old officers' quarters, Amy, seated near them, played the part of historian and guide. "This fort, you know, is from Vauban's plans, with four bastions and connecting curtains." "Do you suppose there's a moat?" interrupted Priscilla; "it looks as if there should be one here." "There used to be a wet ditch in the eighteenth century, and I suppose that was much the same thing, though it's dry now." "Oh, I can tell you something more entertaining than that," interposed Martine. "They used to have logs on the top of the parapet ready to roll down on the heads of assailants. But tell me, Amy, I've forgotten; did Champlain build this fort?" "My dear Martine, where is your history? Vauban and Champlain; oh, no. Champlain's fort is six miles down the river, opposite Goat Island." "Then who first built this fort?" "Probably D'Aunay first planned it, and it was improved by Brouillan and Subercase. You must remember that it has suffered twenty attacks and ten regular sieges. There's little good in talking about it until you know the history of the times better." "Oh, dear," murmured Martine, "of course I knew this was to be an improving trip, and yet I do think it's hard to have to learn history in the summer." "I'm afraid there's no escape for it," said Amy; "the fog is rolling in, and this afternoon I will tell you once for all certain things that will give you great interest in Annapolis during your stay here." So, undisturbed by further historical information during the morning, Martine, under Mrs. Redmond's direction, completed her sketch of the officers' quarters within the fort,--a quaint old building, with its thirty-six chimneys and thirty-six fireplaces, every one of which had probably been needed in the long and cold winters of old Acadia. As Amy had prophesied, the afternoon was foggy, and she felt little compunction in insisting that Martine as well as Priscilla should join her before her open fire while she talked to them of Port Royal history. "Although some French," she said, "may have visited Acadia as early as 1504, our starting point is 1604, when De Monts, who was a nobleman of the Court of Henry Fourth, and Champlain, and Poutrincourt, and Pontgravé came out on a voyage of exploration. Poutrincourt seems to have been the one most anxious to make a permanent settlement here. Champlain was the geographer and map-maker of the expedition, and was also on the search for ores. The grant of the land known as Acadia had been given by Henry Fourth to De Monts. He, as well as Pontgravé had been on a previous expedition to the New World. At first they were delighted with Acadia. They saw fine opportunities for fur-trading as well as for a permanent settlement. But after visiting the shores of the Annapolis Basin, they made a mistake by going farther south to the St. Croix River, and they spent their first winter on an island some distance from its mouth. This proved a bad thing, for the climate was severe and many of the colonists died; so when the weather permitted they went back to the neighborhood of Port Royal and set up their houses and built a small fort on Goat Island. "They found the Indians everywhere very friendly, especially the old chief, Membertou, who was said to be nearly one hundred years old. "When their buildings were finished, De Monts sailed back for France, knowing that he could be spared until after the harvests were gathered. Pontgravé was left in charge of the colony in his absence, assisted by Champlain and Champdore. When the spring of 1606 came and De Monts had not returned, the colonists were alarmed. They needed the supplies that he had promised to bring them, and they were afraid that something had happened to him. So, late in July, Pontgravé started off to see if he could not find some fishing-vessel to take them all back to France. "In the meantime, De Monts in France had had trouble in getting people to interest themselves in the Port Royal Colony. But Poutrincourt, who had returned with him, proved his best friend, and helped in fitting out a vessel called the 'Jonas,' and promised to return to Acadia with De Monts, and take his family with him, to establish a permanent colony. "With them came Lescarbot, an advocate of Paris, who afterwards wrote a full account of his residence in Acadia, from which we learn many interesting details that, but for him, we would not know. Pontgravé fell in with a shallop from De Monts' vessel and all returned to Port Royal. De Monts wasn't perfectly satisfied with Port Royal for a permanent settlement, and he persuaded Poutrincourt to make a journey farther south to find a better place; but this expedition ended badly, and Poutrincourt returned, convinced that he could be better off at Port Royal than anywhere else in the New World. "Unluckily, the merchants in France who had supplied money for this trading colony sent word that they had decided to give it up. Without money with which to trade, the colony could not prosper, and so the majority of the colonists decided to go back to France. Poutrincourt, however, was determined to come back, and he took home with him specimens of grain grown in Acadia, and various animal, vegetable, and mineral products, to show the King what could be raised in Acadia. The King encouraged him to go back, and ratified the grant of land that De Monts had given him. "So Poutrincourt returned to Acadia, and it is greatly to the credit of the Indians he had left in charge that all the buildings were unharmed. A new crop of grain, planted by the Indians, was growing finely, and Membertou and savages welcomed him very cordially. "The King had given him a grant of money to be used for the Church and he brought with him a Jesuit priest, who baptized the savages by wholesale. "In the summer of 1610, Poutrincourt sent his son, Biencourt, back to France to report the conversion of the savages and the general prosperity of the colony. Things in France were not going to be very favorable now for Poutrincourt. When Biencourt arrived in Paris, it was not long after the assassination of Henry Fourth. The Jesuits were now anxious to get control of Acadia, and, to make a long story short, Madame De Guercheville obtained a grant from the King of the very land that De Monts had granted to Poutrincourt; Biencourt had to take certain Jesuits back with him to Acadia; and there was much dissension in the little colony. But what really proved its downfall was an attack made in 1613 by the Virginian Argall, who killed and captured many of the inhabitants and burnt all the buildings to the ground. Poutrincourt made no effort to re-establish Port Royal, but Biencourt, his son, remained in the woods, living, with a few companions, the life of an Indian." "Oh, yes, it was he, was it not," said Priscilla, "who was the friend of Charles La Tour down at Fort St. Louis?" "The very man," replied Amy. "I often think that if Biencourt had left a record of his wanderings we should have something very interesting. He and his father made a good fight for New France, but circumstances were too strong for them." "Thank you," said Priscilla. "I understand better than I did before how the French happened to settle Port Royal." "Why," asked Martine, "did that Virginian--Argall, I think you called him--wish to interfere with the French? Jamestown had been settled only six years when he came up here and attacked Port Royal, and there wasn't any Plymouth, then, Priscilla." "He had no real right to interfere, but the English, even then, claimed the whole coast of North America, basing their claims on the discoveries of the Cabots; Argall himself, however, is considered little more than a pirate, and no Englishman justifies his destruction of the prosperous and peaceful colony at Port Royal. "The next settlement here was under the auspices of Sir William Alexander, a friend of James the First. You remember that he made La Tour a Baronet of Nova Scotia. He had great plans, and his colony was near Goat Island. I am told that some people here in Annapolis still speak about the Scotch fort, some trace of which is yet to be seen. "War between France and England finally put an end to Sir William Alexander's colony, and it was Charles La Tour who did more than any one else to make Acadia of some importance to France. He claimed that Biencourt, Poutrincourt's son, when he died in 1623, had left all his claims to Acadia to him, including the position of Governor." "Amy," said Martine, yawning slightly, "this is all very interesting, but unless I have time to digest it I shall forget it entirely. Let us put history aside until another day and see if we cannot find something more amusing." "I'm going downstairs for a moment," said Priscilla; "I have an idea the mail has come." In a moment she returned with a handful of letters. "Boston, Plymouth, two from Shelburne--where's that? I suppose that I may look at the postmarks?" "Give, give," cried Martine, and Priscilla put a couple in her hand. "Only one for me," said Amy, "and it's from Fritz; he's at Shelburne. Did you have one too, mamma?" "No," replied Mrs. Redmond, who had just entered the room. "Oh, I thought there were two Shelburne postmarks." Priscilla noticed Martine's heightened color, and an idea that had come to her at Yarmouth now returned. As it was a matter in which she had no real right to meddle, she said nothing. "What does Fritz say?" asked Mrs. Redmond, turning to Amy. "That he's having the time of his life, that he and Taps have found the best fishing in the world, and like Nova Scotia so much that they may bring a party of their own here next summer. What he writes about the French of Pubnico sounds exactly like Meteghan and Church Point, so I'll skip all that; Shelburne seems more romantic, and I almost wish it had lain in our path. He says it has one of the finest harbors he ever saw, but I will read you a little in his own words. "'Shelburne, my dear Amy, is like the ghost of a city, to one who has imagination. It was planned to be the chief city of Nova Scotia, and there is something rather tragic in looking at the broad streets that were meant for a larger city. Hardly one of the fine old houses remains. They say that twelve thousand Loyalists came here just after the Revolution, and most of them were rich and influential. The frames of large houses were brought and set up here; people tried to live as they would in a great city, with servants and every luxury. With such a great harbor they expected to have a great seaport; but the trouble was, there was nothing in the country back of them. There was no farming land, and no farmers to supply produce for the ships in the harbor to carry away in exchange for other goods. After a while people found they had used up the money they had brought with them from New York and other places. Then those who could left Shelburne. Some went away leaving their houses fully furnished, and they never came back. They went to Halifax, to Annapolis, or even back to New York and Boston after the bitter feeling over the war had gone down. "'If you were here, Amy, you'd find plenty of material for poems in Shelburne, especially on moonlight nights like last night, when Taps and I wandered up and down the broad streets, trying to imagine what Shelburne must have been in the days of its greatness. I hope that you and the others are enjoying yourselves as much as you expected to, without me or any other masculine disturber of the peace. I haven't a doubt that your mother thinks we've been pretty badly treated. She always was an unusually sensible woman, and we'd have been useful to carry your bags, if nothing more; however, mark my words, before your journey is over you will sigh for me more than once, and the day will come when you'll really need me.'" "He thinks enough of himself, doesn't he?" said Martine. "Oh, he's not really conceited," replied Amy, "and I dare say that he would liven us up a little; but on the whole things are best as they are." "Aren't you quieter than usual, Martine?" asked Amy that evening. "Well, I had a letter from papa to-day," she said, "and he says that mamma is really very ill, and that they may have to stay abroad all summer. I have just written him about Yvonne; but of course it will be some time before I can get an answer." "What do you want him to do?" asked Amy,--"to let you adopt her? She's almost as tall as you are." "Well, I'm not sure what I want, but I know that if Yvonne should have her voice cultivated she'd be a great prima donna, and what a feather in my cap to have been her discoverer!" "I fear that your father would need more than your opinion to enable him to decide a matter like that. In fact, only an expert musician could make a safe prophecy about Yvonne." "Well, at least, I hope that he will consent to letting her go to Boston to study next winter. We could find a doctor to help her eyesight." "Why not ask your father to invest in Alexander's gold mine?" asked Amy, with a smile; "then he could do everything for Yvonne himself." "That isn't the point. I've really taken a great fancy to Yvonne, and I want to have her near me. Have you written to Pierre yet?" "Oh, yes; I went out this morning and bought him a copy of Longfellow. He had never owned one himself, and was anxious to have it. I have asked him to write us so that we shall get the letter at Grand Pré." "It's time Priscilla had a protégée," said Martine, "though she doesn't seem the kind of person to adopt anything very warmly except her own opinions." This was a rather sharp remark for Martine to make, and it convinced Amy of something that she had tried to doubt--that the two girls were really rather far apart, "and both such charming girls," she said to herself. Martine's letters with the Pubnico and Shelburne postmarks had given Priscilla considerable concern. Though not a meddler, she yet saw Martine's lack of frankness about those letters. Priscilla knew that neither was in the handwriting of Fritz Tomkins, and she was sure that they were written by the Freshman with him whom she knew only by the name of "Taps." She was now quite convinced, also, that it really was Martine whom Amy had seen wheeling through the streets of Yarmouth with this same youth. That it was no concern of hers she realized perfectly; and yet, she wondered if it might not be her duty to tell Mrs. Redmond what she knew. Priscilla was over-conscientious; she was always more ready to disclose her own faults than to conceal them,--to disclose, at least, faults that she herself recognized. She did not altogether realize that a certain form of censoriousness was growing upon her; that she was too much inclined to measure all people by her own standard. Thus many little things that Martine did quite innocently and naturally seemed to Priscilla bits of affectation. Martine's hand was ever in her pocket. When it was a question of buying books or fruit or some other little thing for the traveller, Martine always managed to pay for it, and Priscilla thought that her readiness to do this came from a desire to display the size of her allowance. Priscilla herself, on the other hand, had to be careful about little expenses, and while their present trip called for no great expenditure, she hated to be obliged so often to thank Martine for small luxuries. Then, too, Martine had an extravagant way of talking that disturbed the serious Priscilla. She could not say that she had ever found Martine in a real untruth. Still, Martine's way was not her way, and instead of drawing nearer together as the journey progressed, the two girls were farther apart. Martine, on her part, thought Priscilla rather old-fashioned, but accounted for the seriousness of her dress and her manner by the fact that she was still in mourning for her father, who had died of fever contracted in Cuba at the beginning of the late war. Perhaps it was because she realized that her prejudices were a little unreasonable, that Priscilla hesitated about speaking to Amy or Mrs. Redmond regarding the suspicious postmarks. The long "historical disquisition," as Martine called it, that Amy had given them on their first day at Annapolis, was not immediately followed by another. Their mornings were spent in sketching in the neighborhood, and their afternoons in driving. One day they crossed the Grandville Ferry and went down to the old fort near Goat Island. But though they all professed to see slight traces of the earthworks, it required imagination rather than eyesight to discern even a slight trace of Poutrincourt's fort. "It's one of the ironies of history," said Amy, "that tradition should speak of this as a Scotch fort, for the Scotch were here so short a time before the French were again in power." "What became of the Scotch?" asked Priscilla. "It is supposed that most of them went back home, and that the few who stayed intermarried with the conquering French. Sir William Alexander and his Baronets of Nova Scotia made little impression on Acadia." "Amy," said Martine, "of all the people you've told us about the most interesting to me is young Biencourt, wandering about in the woods and living like an Indian; I even dreamt about him the other night. How did he happen to escape when Argall destroyed the fort?" "Oh, he and some of his companions were up there where Annapolis now is, working in their grain fields; you know they had a mill up there, and rich fields of grain. The fort itself was not in a good location,--at least for farming. It is said that Argall and the other Virginians were not aware of the existence of the mill and the fields, and when they had destroyed the fort, thought that there was nothing left for the French." "You may be pretty sure," said Martine, "they wouldn't have let anything escape if they'd known; the English are always greedy." "They are not a bit worse than the French," retorted Priscilla. "Just think how cruel the French were during the Reign of Terror." "Oh, that's an entirely different kind of thing; the French are never half as anxious to grab other people's land as the English are." "There, there," interposed Amy, "I'll have to be a Board of International Arbitration; in other words, let us have peace. There's one thing," she continued, "I feel as if young Biencourt kept alive the love of the French for Port Royal. Charles La Tour was himself only a boy like Biencourt when he first came to the New World. The King had certainly given Poutrincourt rights in Acadia, and he had passed them on to his son. Poutrincourt was killed at the Siege of Marye in 1610, scarcely three years before Argall's destruction of Port Royal." CHAPTER X EXPLORATIONS "How very gay your attire, Martine! Do you think of paying afternoon visits?" "No, my dear Amy, I do not, because I know no one to visit; but I'm tired of cloth skirts and a shirt-waist, and I thought I would like to see how it would feel to wear something decent." Martine's gown was a pale blue voile, made up over a bright blue lining, with a delicate white insertion on the waist; her hat, a blue chip, trimmed with white flowers, and she carried a parasol to match. "Is your gown quite suitable for a walk on a dusty road?" "Perhaps it isn't," responded Martine, "but sometimes one must live up to her feelings, and this is how I feel to-day,--like wearing my very best; besides, this is nothing remarkable, this dress, but it happens to be the best I have with me." "Very well," and Amy sighed; "it's no use to argue with you, and as soon as Priscilla comes downstairs we'll set off." When Priscilla appeared, she, like Amy, had a short cloth skirt and shirt-waist, but she made no comment on the elegance of Martine's appearance. There was one thing rather incongruous in Martine's aspect,--she carried a small shovel, which looked as if it had never been used; such, indeed, was the case, and as she brandished it she said cheerfully, "I hope we shall go somewhere where we can dig. I hear there's any amount of hidden treasure around Annapolis, and I am anxious to get some of it for myself." The girls walked a good while before they saw anything likely to reward an amateur antiquarian. Then, in a field quite outside the town, Martine's sharp eyes saw something that interested her. In a moment she was over the fence, with the others following. "There," she said excitedly, "you see these very old, gnarled apple-trees and this clump of willows; I'm perfectly sure that this used to be an Acadian farm." "That's a safe guess," rejoined Amy, "for all the land about here was once in the hands of the Acadians." "Yes, but I think from this little mound and that hollow beside it that there was a house on this very spot. I noticed what Dr. Gray said when he was talking to your mother last evening, and that was what decided me to do some digging for myself." "In a blue voile dress," responded Amy, in a tone of disapproval. "Ah, Martine, you are so absurd!" Even while Amy was speaking Martine had begun to dig,--aimlessly, of course, although in a few minutes she had made a fairly large hole. When her shovel struck something hard she was delighted, but, digging deeper, she brought up only a piece of broken brick. Undiscouraged, she dug one side of the first hole, and presently she held out to Amy what at first puzzled them both. It looked like a mere bit of rusty iron, but later they decided that it was probably part of an old lock. "Which I shall label 'Exhibit No. 1' in my museum of curiosities," said Martine. "Let me see what I can do," cried Amy; "you must be tired." So Martine surrendered her shovel, and in a quarter of an hour Amy brought up an old bottle, not at all remarkable in shape, but very valuable from Martine's point of view, because it was undoubtedly an Acadian trophy. Priscilla contented herself with some slips from an ancient willow-tree. "It is not the best time of year for making cuttings," she said, "but these French willows cling to life as closely as the proverbial cat. I heard of a man who had a walking-stick cut from a willow-tree. It looked as hard and dry as a bone, but one day he happened to stick it in the ground near a spring and forgot all about it. Some time afterwards, when he passed, the walking-stick was sending out little shoots, and in time it became a full-fledged willow-tree." "That's a very good story," commented Martine, "and as we know you never tell anything but the exact truth, Priscilla, neither Amy nor I would think of doubting it." As the trio were walking back toward town they met Mrs. Redmond, driving. "Come," she cried, "which two of you will drive with me? You slipped off this afternoon without my realizing that you were going away, and now I want company." "I would rather stroll along," replied Amy, "but I am sure that Martine and Priscilla would enjoy the drive. Martine is turning antiquarian, and if your driver can take you to some old grave or Indian mound, she will be delighted to use her shovel." "I don't know what I can promise in the way of graves and mounds, but if Martine comes with me I can offer her a lovely view." "If you please, Mrs. Redmond," said Priscilla, "I would rather walk back home than drive." Although Amy tried to make her change her mind, Priscilla was firm, and the discussion ended by Amy's getting into the carriage with Martine and Mrs. Redmond. As she walked along the main street, where the houses were still rather far apart, Priscilla noticed a little graveyard in a corner of a garden. As the gate was open, she felt at liberty to walk inside. The stones at which she glanced were of marble, and the inscriptions were well cut. The names on two or three of them were French, and the men who bore them had evidently been officers in the English army. This interested her, and when she saw a girl of about her own age standing at the door of a cottage near by, she felt emboldened to speak to her. "They were not really French," said the girl, in answer to her question, "but of Huguenot family, who fought for the King in the Revolution. I've heard my mother say that one of them was a cousin of her grandmother's, and they all came here together at the close of the war." Priscilla was delighted. Here, perhaps, was a person who would tell her something about the Loyalists of the Revolution. "Were your people Loyalists?" she asked. "Why, of course," was the reply, as if anything else were unsupposable. "Oh, I'm so glad!" responded Priscilla. "I've been waiting to hear more about the Loyalists." "You are an American?" questioned the girl. "Americans are not apt to care about Loyalists; they seem to think only about the Acadians; but my ancestors were all Loyalists, and if you will just come into the house my mother would love to talk to you." So Priscilla followed her new acquaintance indoors. Outside, the house looked small, but within she found many rooms opening one into another, none of them very large, and all of them with low ceilings. "My mother's great-grandfather built this house when he first came from New York. He was an officer in the Loyal American Regiment. There is his commission; we framed it to hang on the wall." "By His Excellency Sir Henry Clinton, K. B., General and Commander-in-Chief of all His Majesty's Forces within the Colonies lying on the Atlantic Ocean, from Nova Scotia to West Florida inclusive, etc., etc., etc. "By Virtue of the Power and Authority in Me vested, I DO hereby constitute and appoint You to be Captain of a Company in the Loyal American Regiment commanded by Colonel Beverly Robinson." Priscilla read the whole commission in which the duties of the newly made captain were defined, to the very end where the signature of Sir Henry Clinton still stood out clearly. While the new acquaintance went to call her mother, Priscilla looked around the pleasant sitting-room. There was a high, old-fashioned bookcase filled with books, many of them in dingy calf bindings. The young girl returned while she was looking at them, expressing her regret that her mother was not at home. "My grandfather brought many of these books from New York," she said; "he was a nephew of the rector of Trinity Church, and was himself a graduate of King's College, New York." "I don't see how they had the courage to give up everything and come down here so far away. Even if they did not like the new government, I should think they would rather have stayed where most of their friends and relatives were." "Oh, it wasn't always a matter of choice," rejoined Eunice, for this, Priscilla discovered, was her new friend's name; "some had to come, because they had been too active in the King's cause and the other side would not forgive them. Even after the Peace many were in danger of imprisonment; and then a great many had had all their property confiscated, and thought it would be easier to start over again down here than to live in poverty among their old friends and neighbors." Priscilla looked in amazement at Eunice. She expressed herself so much more carefully than most girls of her age. "Martine would call her quaint," thought Priscilla, looking at her, "and if she knows as much about other things as she does about history, she must be a wonder." "I wish my mother were here," said Eunice, politely. "She gets quite worked up when she talks about the Loyalists." "I should think she would," responded Priscilla. "They certainly had a hard time." "She thinks that we have been cut off from things that really are our own, and now, when we have so little money that I can't even afford to go away to college, she feels more and more indignant at the injustice of it all." Priscilla did not know exactly what to say. In her mind there was a struggle between her feeling of patriotism and her sense of justice. As Eunice had put it, it did not seem fair that the Loyalists should have lost everything, simply because they had had the courage to hold out for the King. But a phrase came into her mind that she had often heard, and for the moment it seemed the only sentiment that she could express. "After all," she said gently, "I suppose it was the 'fortune of war' that your people suffered so much." "Oh, yes," responded Eunice, "that is what I often say to my mother; and then I tell her too, that in one hundred and twenty-five years the family probably would have lost all the property they had before the Revolution." Finding that the subject was getting a little beyond her, Priscilla ventured a more general remark. "There must be many interesting historical incidents connected with Annapolis; I mean, incidents that are not French," she concluded hastily. "I am just a little tired, myself, of the Acadians." "I don't know of many very entertaining things," responded Eunice, "but I remember one story that might amuse you. During the Revolution, the people of Annapolis were awfully afraid of attacks from Privateers. You see, after the Acadians were driven out a large colony from New England came down here. They received grants of land from the government, and were very prosperous when the war began. Many were on the side of the Yankees, but in the end England was able to hold Nova Scotia. However, the small privateering vessels were constantly coming into Nova Scotia ports, and even Annapolis wasn't perfectly safe. One night two rebel schooners came up to the mouth of the river; they had about eighty men, and landed them safely, because the sentry at the fort was asleep. They entered the houses and stirred people up immensely; they seemed more bent on making mischief than in doing any real violence. There were not many citizens here in the town then, but one of them, looking from the window when he heard a noise in the street, saw two of the rebels disputing over something they had stolen; when they saw him at the window, they dashed into his house, and a minute or two afterwards another Annapolis man, only half dressed, rushed excitedly into the room to tell his friend that the Yankees were plundering the town; this was unnecessary information, because, as I have said, two rebels were already in the house. He discovered them with their bayonets pointed at him just as he had finished telling his story, and he was so surprised that he fell backward over a cradle, with his feet in the air. His comical appearance made the rebels laugh so, that he afterwards said that this saved his life, for before they had recovered he had jumped to his feet and run away. But later he and all the other able-bodied citizens were shut up in the fort, while the men from the schooners went through the houses and carried away everything movable. They allowed the ladies to keep their shoes, though they first removed the silver buckles. The schooners disappeared in the morning, when the report was spread around that the militia of the county were gathering and coming to Annapolis. That, I believe, was the only attack on Annapolis during the Revolution. It happened two or three years before the arrival of the refugees, and the accounts of it that have been handed down always represented it as a very comical affair." "Did you say 'Yankees'?" asked Priscilla. "Did you mean--" "Oh, I meant schooners from New England; I've heard they were from Cape Cod," replied Eunice. "It was pretty small business," said Priscilla, almost apologetically. "I don't believe that the men on the schooners were either soldiers or sailors. I am sure that Washington wouldn't have approved if he had known." "You don't think that all on your side were good, do you," asked Eunice, "and that all on ours were bad?" Priscilla hardly knew what to reply. She was getting again into deep water, for she saw that although the war was long over, Eunice was still a strong partisan. So, as a kind of peace-offering, she asked Eunice if she would not walk back home with her. "I should like to have you meet my friends whom I am travelling with," she said. "We are going to stay in Annapolis a week or more. Mrs. Redmond is making some beautiful sketches, and her daughter Amy is just dear; she is older than Martine and I, but she never makes us feel the difference in our ages, and she knows more than almost anybody I ever saw." "I should love to walk back with you," said Eunice, "though I cannot stay very long. What is Martine like?" she asked abruptly. "Oh, Martine,--well, Martine is different. She always sees the funny side of things, and she doesn't care what anything costs if she happens to want it. She's perfectly devoted to the French, and I'm so terribly tired of her Acadians that I want to find out what the English did in Annapolis." "I will be glad to do what I can to help you," responded Eunice, "only you mustn't be too touchy about things; for you see we're still all English down here." As Priscilla walked back to the boarding-house she congratulated herself on her new friend; for although she had known Eunice so short a time, she already regarded her as much more than an ordinary acquaintance. "I can always tell," she said to herself, "whether any one is going to wear well. Mother says that that is the only test for real friends, and I can see that Eunice and I are likely to be more than acquaintances. I feel as if I had known her a long time. Now it wasn't so with Martine, and even though we have been together so much this summer, some way I don't feel perfectly comfortable with her. I'd like to be fair, but still--" Yes, Priscilla meant to be fair, but still--what was the trouble? It is to be feared that she had not yet learned the real meaning of tolerance. Martine's point of view was often so unlike hers that Priscilla did not make enough effort to put herself in her friend's place. While believing herself just, she certainly permitted herself to be biassed little in her judgments. Nor did she realize that Martine herself often spoke in an exaggerated tone, chiefly for the purpose of seeing to what extent she could impose on Priscilla; for Martine, discovering Priscilla's attitude toward her, liked to say things to surprise her,--"Puritan Prissie," as she called her at these times. It would not be quite true, perhaps, to say that Priscilla distrusted Martine's interest in Yvonne, although she had a strong conviction that it was merely impulse that had led her to promise so much. "For the day that we spent at Meteghan, Yvonne was like a new plaything to her. Had Martine been with Yvonne a week, it would have been the same; she would have lavished things on her, and would have been ready to promise her anything. But 'out of sight, out of mind;' I believe that that is always the way with her. I am not even sure that she is as fond of Mrs. Redmond and Amy as she seems to be." Poor Priscilla! she was really borrowing trouble needlessly, and yet in more senses than one it was real trouble to her, because she was never sure just how she ought to respond to the more flippant remarks made by Martine. They were often so witty that she could not help laughing, even when she felt the greatest need of preserving her own dignity. Another grievance was Martine's way of addressing Amy. Priscilla herself had begun by trying to say "Miss Redmond;" occasionally she slipped into "Amy," but more usually "Miss Amy" was her form of address. Martine had laughed loudly at this, and one day she said, "It is what I call too servile. Amy is not greatly our superior, but still I'd rather call her Miss Redmond. I notice that Fritz Tomkins in some of his letters says 'Miss Amy Redmond.' I wonder if that would do for us?" "Oh, Amy--that is, Miss Redmond--explained that it was just his way of making fun of her when he says 'Miss Amy Redmond.'" "Probably, but when I can't think of anything else I will say that, though generally Amy is good enough for me, and here she is, looking as sweet as a rose." Whereupon, without the slightest regard for the dignity with which Priscilla would have liked to hedge Amy, Martine had thrown herself upon the older girl's neck, to the destruction of something less ideal than her dignity; to wit, the freshness of her muslin stock. Thinking of this scene, Priscilla sighed. "Eunice would never do or say anything silly." This goes to show that she did indeed regard Eunice as a kindred spirit. CHAPTER XI A TEA PARTY "Prissie, Prissie," said Martine, in a teasing tone, "you are altogether too enthusiastic; I don't believe in these perfect people, and your little Tory must be rather a prig, from what you say." When Martine called her "Prissie," Priscilla knew that she meant mischief, and though in her inmost heart she admitted that Martine's teasing carried no real sting, she never stood this teasing with very good grace. "She isn't a Tory," she replied rather sharply; "there are no Tories in these days, and Eunice Airton is not a prig." But Martine only laughed; perhaps she retained too firmly in her mind the remembrance of Priscilla's indifference to Yvonne and was now trying to pay her back. Priscilla had just given an enthusiastic account of her new acquaintance, and Mrs. Redmond and Amy had listened with great attention. Mrs. Redmond, indeed, was pleased that Priscilla had found something really to interest her. Although away from home not quite two weeks, Priscilla had begun to show the good effects of the trip in round and rosier cheeks, and in a slightly more animated manner. Yet it had seemed to Mrs. Redmond that she was not quite as pleased with things in general as the other two girls. She was sorry too to note the growing antagonism between Martine and Priscilla, though its cause was hard to discover. At first Martine's teasing had proceeded from the merest love of fun, and she thought that Priscilla took it all too seriously. Amy had already cautioned her that she could soon disarm Martine, by receiving everything she said as if said in pure fun. But Priscilla was sensitive, and she was just conscious enough of certain little foibles of her own to realize that sometimes Martine was laughing at her. "Even if Eunice were a Tory, I shouldn't care," she continued. "I never heard any one talk as well as she does." "Ah, that's just it, my dear Miss Prissie Prunes," retorted Martine; "I'll warrant that she's just as prim and precise as--" Martine did not finish the sentence, but Priscilla realized well that she meant to say "as prim and precise as you are." The day after this conversation Mrs. Airton called on Mrs. Redmond and the girls. Martine was not at home, but the others were pleased with the delicate little woman, in rather faded black, who was particularly cordial and anxious to have them see Annapolis at its best. As she talked, it was easy to understand how Eunice came by her precise manner and language, for there was a certain bookishness in her choice of words, and correctness of expression, that, although not really subject to criticism, might become tiresome. Mrs. Airton had heard more or less about Mrs. Redmond and her party from Dr. Gray, to whose family Mrs. Redmond had brought an introduction. "Now I hope," she said, toward the end of her visit, "that you will give us the pleasure of spending to-morrow afternoon with us and staying to tea. I suppose 'tea' has gone out of fashion in the States, but it's just the height of the strawberry season now, and perhaps you'll accept high tea in place of a late dinner." "We shall be delighted to accept your invitation," Mrs. Redmond replied, "and as for tea, why, we never have late dinner at home in summer. We shall enjoy your hospitality." Now it happened, unfortunately, that on the morning of Wednesday, the day for which Mrs. Airton had invited them, Martine and Priscilla had their first falling out. Like most fallings out, it began in a very trivial way. Among Martine's belongings was an elaborate toilet set of silver-mounted brushes and boxes; she had had the good sense not to carry them in her travelling bag, but at Annapolis, where they were to stay longer than at some places, she had unpacked them all from her trunk, and they were spread out in elaborate array on her bureau. Amy had planned an excursion for the morning to Granville across the Granville Ferry to a certain picturesque spot on the other side. When she and Priscilla were ready to start, they knocked at Martine's door, thinking that she too would be ready. To their surprise, they found her in a loose dressing-sack, busily engaged in polishing her silver. "There, I forgot all about going with you," cried Martine; "the damp air has blackened my brushes so that I just thought the best thing was to sit down and polish them." "Oh, dear," rejoined Priscilla, "we are late as it is; for if we miss this ferry-boat, we'll have to wait so long for another that we won't have any time on the other side." "I can't help it," retorted Martine; "you can go without me if you like, though I'll drop what I'm doing and hurry to get dressed; but if you do not want to wait, it's all the same to me." "Of course we'll wait," said Amy, gently. "I particularly wish you to be with us, Martine, and though it will shorten our time a little, we must make the best of it now." Priscilla looked at her watch. "We ought to take this next ferry-boat, and if we wait for Martine we shall lose it. Cleaning silver seems such a waste of time when we're travelling." Priscilla's manner rather than her actual words irritated Martine. "I am the best judge of what wastes my own time," she said with unwonted sharpness, "and as a matter of fact, I'd rather stay here than go with you." Amy, looking at her earnestly, realized that this was not the time for further argument. "Very well," she rejoined. "Priscilla, let us go on. Martine is certainly the best judge of what she ought to do." "I know I shouldn't have criticised Martine," apologized Priscilla, as they walked along; "but it seems so silly to me that she should carry a valuable set of silver like that on a trip of this kind. I spoke before I thought." "Martine has always been greatly indulged," said Amy. "At least, I've been told that she sets no value on money, and so what would seem a little extravagant to us does not seem so to her." "Well, good taste is good taste," rejoined Priscilla, "and if I had ten times as much money as I have, I'd never carry jewelry about with me travelling, nor expensive toilet-sets." Amy did not reply to this. Her own view was much the same as that of Priscilla, but she realized that it was not for her to criticise either girl. The trip to Granville proved less satisfactory than she had hoped. The town itself, though small, was attractively situated, and she identified one or two historical spots that she had hoped to see; but she missed the particular road for which she was looking, and on account of their engagement at Mrs. Airton's, she had to hurry back to Annapolis without accomplishing what she had set out to do. The mid-day sun was very hot, and she and Priscilla reached the house dusty and tired, to find Martine looking tantalizingly cool and comfortable, seated on a rustic bench under a tree in the orchard, busily working at a water-color sketch. After their early dinner, Mrs. Redmond took Amy aside and said rather anxiously: "I wish you could persuade Martine to go with us this afternoon." "Go with us?" returned Amy. "Why, of course. Mrs. Airton expects her." "I don't quite understand it, but she says that she does not care to go, and in fact she has engaged a horse for a ride." "On horseback! Who is going with her?" "No one. She says that it's perfectly safe for her to go alone, and though I tried to dissuade her, I can see that she is determined to have her own way." "I suppose that's what they mean by Martine's being difficult to manage. Thus far I had thought her remarkably amiable." "There's one thing about it," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "it may be better to let her have her way this time than to have her take it without our permission. I have learned that the horse she is to have is perfectly safe,--so safe in fact, that I fear she'll find it rather a bore,--and she says that she'll only go over the road where we drove the other afternoon, every step of which she knows; but I must say that I regret her discourtesy to Mrs. Airton, for her refusal of her invitation must seem very strange. Why do you suppose she is unwilling to go?" "I'm afraid it's because she and Priscilla had a little disagreement this morning. It was so slight that I wouldn't have attached any importance to it, but apparently Martine has taken it more to heart." When Priscilla learned of Martine's change of plan, she made no comment, believing in her inmost heart that Martine had taken this way to show her real distaste to those whom she called Priscilla's "Tory friends." When Mrs. Redmond and the other girls reached Mrs. Airton's early in the afternoon, they found their friend Mrs. Gray there, and one or two young girls of the neighborhood. For a while they sat in the low-studded sitting-room where Priscilla had looked at the commission signed by Sir Henry Clinton. Their conversation did not concern itself entirely with the past, but there were many questions about the present, of Nova Scotia in general and Annapolis in particular, that the Americans were anxious to ask and the others glad to answer. Later, however, they got back to the subject in which Priscilla was especially interested,--the Loyalist refugees and the hard times they experienced. Eunice had shown her, among other things, her great-great-grandfather's silver breastplate, with his monogram and a crown finely engraved upon it, and one or two of his letters, the paper yellow with age and the ink faded. "Since you are interested in such things," said Mrs. Airton, "perhaps you would like to see some other letters. You might show her, Eunice, that one that we have that is a copy of the one that my great-grand-aunt Hester wrote to Sir Guy Carlton, when she was trying to arrange to leave New York. You know, my dear," she continued in explanation, "in those days people almost always made copies of their letters, and we have a good many that are really very interesting. I believe this letter contained a request from Hester and her sister, Anne, whose husbands had both been killed toward the close of the war." So Amy, taking up the paper, read without difficulty the clear, round handwriting: "'The Memorial of Hester Danforth, widow of Benjamin Danforth, late captain of the Prince of Wales' American Regiment and Anne Dutton, widow of Josiah Dutton, Lt. in said Regt. Humbly sheweth That your Memorialist, Hester Danforth has two sons, one fourteen and the other twelve years old, and Anne Dutton three children, oldest son fourteen, youngest son seven and her daughter ten years old--That as they purpose to go to Nova Scotia with their children-- They wish to go on the ship with Dr. Peter Brown, who is about going with a company of refugees to St. Johns River. That they may be indulged with drawing the land's Government may allow them in that quarter and with the company that goes under the direction of Dr. Brown or such other company of refugees as may appear to your Memorialists more eligible. That they may be indulged with the liberty of taking with each of them a man and woman servant and allowances of provisions, clothing, etc. as to your Excellency may seem meet. That, should your Excellency graciously order six months advance upon their pensions to be paid previous to their sailing, it will be very thankfully received as indeed their circumstances are such as they cannot go with reasonable Comfort and Decency without it. As your Memorialists sufferings have been very long and great--They humbly ask as many Favours and Indulgences as to your Excellency shall appear anyways reasonable and fit, and as in duty bound they will ever pray etc. HESTER DANFORTH ANNE DUTTON NEW YORK, _June 2, 1783_.'" "I always think that an interesting letter," said Mrs. Airton, "because both of those ladies who signed it were brought up in the greatest luxury; their father had one of the large estates on the Hudson and their mother was of English birth and an heiress; but the family saved not a single shred of their fortune and it is rather touching to read behind the lines of this letter and to see that both these young women, for they were under thirty-five, had for some time been suffering for the necessities of life." "'The fortune of war,'" commented Priscilla, in the very words that she had used on her first visit to Eunice. "I hope," added Amy, "that they found life comfortable after they came here." "Ah," said Mrs. Airton, shaking her head, "at first life here could hardly be called comfortable. Imagine twenty-five hundred people crowded into this little town, which had not rooms for one tenth the number. Often a whole family had to content itself with one room, and delicately reared women and children had to spend at least a part of that first winter in tents. Several hundred, it is said, were herded together in the church. Of course, after a few months they began to distribute themselves through the country. Sometimes they had great trouble in taking possession of the land granted them, because it was already in the possession of the New Englanders who had settled on the farms of the Acadians twenty years before. Usually these pre-Loyalist settlers had a rightful title to the land they claimed; then the refugees had to apply for other lands. Many of these refugees were professional men or merchants from New York City, and they found it hard in middle life to become farmers; but, as you say, my dear, it was the fortune of war, and in time they adapted themselves to the new conditions. In the course of a few years some went back to New York, others sailed over to St. John, where, from the beginning, city life prevailed, and those who stayed here in Nova Scotia seemed to be contented with their lot; although I for one feel very bitter when I think of all that my family in its various branches lost. I feel it the more because I'm able to do so little for my children, and they are reaching an age when a little money would mean so much." "Ah, yes, mamma," interposed Eunice, "but if the money had stayed in the family after the Revolution it might all have been lost before this, and besides, Balfour and I do not care half as much for wealth as--" and here she stopped, for at this point Mrs. Gray interrupted her. "Indeed, I think it a greater privilege to have grown up in Annapolis than to have lived in the finest city of the United States. Why, I can assure you, Mrs. Redmond," turning to the latter, "that few places of its size have had so many distinguished residents. When the fort was garrisoned, it was quite like an English town, and I've heard my grandmother speak of the parties that were given here when she was young; not to mention the Duke of Kent, who was here before her day, there have been such men in the garrison as Sir Colin Campbell, afterwards Lord Clyde, while Sir Fenwick Williams, the defender of Kars, was a native of the town, and surely no literary man in America has a wider reputation than Judge Haliburton, whose house was just down there beyond the hotel. I often think of the lines by Oliver Goldsmith, who lived here,--a grand-nephew, my dear," laying her hand on Amy's, "of the great English poet, who himself wrote 'The Rising Village,' describing Annapolis." "Oh, can't you recite a part of it?" asked Amy. She had already discovered a vein of sentimentality in Mrs. Gray, and she was right in judging that the request would please her. "I'm sorry to say," replied Mrs. Gray, "that my memory is not what it used to be, and the only lines I recall do not touch on the social so much as the natural charms of Annapolis." "Oh, but please do say them." This time it was Priscilla, and Mrs. Gray began:-- "'Here the broad marsh extends its open plain, Until its limits touch the distant main; There verdant meads along the uplands spring, And grateful odours to the breezes fling. Here crops of grain in rich luxuriance rise, And wave their golden riches to the skies; There smiling orchards interrupt the scene, Or gardens, bounded by some hedge of green; The farmer's cottage bosomed 'mong the trees, Whose spreading branches shelter from the breeze; The winding stream that turns the busy mill, Whose clacking echoes o'er the distant hill; The neat, white church, beside whose walls are spread, The grass-clad hillocks of the sacred dead.'" "It sounds like 'The Deserted Village,'" said Priscilla, politely; "that was one of the poems that we studied at school last year; you recite this beautifully." "Ah, well, I'm aware that the first Oliver Goldsmith's poem is greater poetry, but here in Annapolis people were very fond of Oliver the younger, and if ever you've time to read the whole poem, you will find that he thoroughly appreciated Acadia." But all the hours of that pleasant afternoon were not spent in historical conversation. Priscilla and Eunice, arm in arm, wandered out in the pleasant orchard, and, swinging together in the hammock, talked about all kinds of things, more frivolous than serious, such as girls care to talk about. In appearance the two girls were not unlike, though Eunice was a little the taller, despite the fact that she was a few months younger; her eyes were the same gray-blue and her hair the same pale brown as Priscilla's; not quite fair enough to be called golden, and hardly dark enough to be called brown. "It is strange," Amy had said to her mother, after Eunice had first called on them, "that Eunice Airton reminds me of some one I have known; I cannot say just who, but it is one of those resemblances that worry one; you feel as if you must decide whom it is she resembles, yet try as I can I cannot think." While the girls were in the orchard, Eunice pointed out to Priscilla the various additions that had been made to the house. Little ells and rooms had been added, some of them only one story high, and the original house, built by her Loyalist ancestor, was the very smallest part of the present dwelling. "I thought it strange," said Priscilla, "when you said that this house was built just after the Revolution, that it should have been so large, but now I understand." "Oh, there's been an ell added for nearly every generation. To tell you the truth," she concluded, "although my mother speaks so despondingly now, the family have seen better days, even in Annapolis. My grandfather Balfour was a very successful lawyer, and in spite of the Revolution"--here she smiled--"we might have been rich to-day if he had not sunk his money in unlucky speculation." "Balfour?" queried Priscilla. "Where have I heard that name?" "Oh, the name itself is not so very uncommon. There must be many of the name somewhere, although our family was the only one down here." A little later the girls were looking over some of the old books on the bookshelves; they were chiefly history and poetry. There was Robertson's "Charles Fifth," a fine set of Pope's Complete Works, and Dodsley's "Miscellany," with the gilding on its calf binding not yet quite worn off. Priscilla looked at these books with less interest than Amy showed for them; she was not as ardent a lover of things ancient, although her respect for Eunice increased when the young girl told her that she had read nearly every book in the house. "We have long winter evenings," she said, "and fewer amusements, I suppose, than you have in the cities; and really I would rather read than do anything else." "But these books are so very old-fashioned, and Pope's poetry, don't you find it pretty dull? I didn't care so very much for 'The Rape of the Lock,' though some people call it amusing." "I prefer Tennyson," replied Eunice, in a judicial tone, "but I feel there are certain things one must read some time, and mother says that I might as well read them now, while I have the books. Some time," and here she sighed, "we may have to break up our home, and that might mean packing away all our books; so it's well to 'make hay while the sun shines,'" she concluded with a bright smile that was in marked contrast with the sigh of a moment before. In the meantime Amy, in looking over some of the books, gave an exclamation of surprise; she had opened a large Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was written "Audrey Balfour, Her book." "There is something very familiar in that name," she cried, "Audrey Balfour, and yet for the moment I can't recall any one to whom it belongs." "It's a family name," said Eunice, "and I've always wished that it had been given to me, for there has always been an Audrey in the family for each generation until now." At last supper was announced, and if any of the party had lacked appetite, the sight of the long table, with its delicate china and old-fashioned silver and glass, would have been an inspiration. The silver spoons, to be sure, were very, very thin, and the cups and saucers were not without cracks, and here and there showed other imperfections; but these things only emphasized the fact that silver and china were really old; and the large silver dish, heaped with great strawberries, was of a style that Mrs. Redmond said would make it almost worth its weight in gold to a collector. "I am so sorry," said Mrs. Airton, politely, "that Miss Martine is not with you. I have seen her passing two or three times, and she is a particularly attractive girl." "She is indeed very attractive," responded Mrs. Redmond, "and on this account we regret her occasional wilfulness; she had planned a ride to the Bay Shore and we could not induce her to give it up. But she wished me to thank you for her invitation, and she said that if she possibly could, she would be here in time for tea; but it seems now as if she has been unable to carry out this part of her plan." "Oh, if she really goes to the shore," interposed Mrs. Gray, "I am sure she will hardly be back in Annapolis before dark. It's a long ride, and I only hope she doesn't find the road too hard." "Martine is a good horsewoman; her father told us that we might trust her on any horse, and had I not known this, I should have hesitated to let her go." "She did not go alone, I hope," said Mrs. Airton, anxiously. "Oh, no; she consented rather reluctantly to an escort, and from the stable they sent a Mr. Frazer, an elderly man, who promised to look after her." "Mr. Frazer!" Eunice laughed as she uttered the name. "Well, if he's on his own horse and if Miss Martine keeps beside him, she'll certainly have a slow, safe ride." CHAPTER XII IN THE FOG In the meantime, where was Martine? When Mr. Frazer and his staid sorrel steed appeared in front of the hotel, Martine had smiled inwardly. "His horse certainly looks safe, and the man himself,--well, he may be a good guide, as they say, and perhaps he can tell me about everything we see in passing; but if he proves a bore, as I am perfectly sure he will, I'll contrive some way to rid myself of his company." It was a perfect afternoon for a ride, mild and windless, with just enough sun to relieve the landscape of the monotony by creating artistic effects of light and shade. Martine was in great spirits, for, like most persons from the inland cities, she loved the sea even more deeply than those who dwell beside it. "The Annapolis basin is tame," she had said the day before. "I am tired of the still, blue water and the red mud and the marshes and the meadows, and I long for a breath of the real ocean." "We're some distance still from the ocean," Amy had rejoined. "The nearest to it is the Bay of Fundy." "Well, from all I've heard, the Bay of Fundy is fiercer than the ocean itself, and I must see it; for I've been tracing our route on the map, and it seems to me that we've left out the Bay of Fundy altogether; we are curving away from it all the time." "Perhaps we can have a picnic on the Bay Shore before we leave." "Oh, no, my dear Miss Amy Redmond; we won't have many days, and 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Just as soon as I can manage it, I'm going to the Bay Shore myself." So Martine had "managed it" by giving up the afternoon at Mrs. Airton's, and now, as she rode along toward the North Mountain, she had a certain feeling of triumph. At first she and her guide kept very close together. He felt it incumbent on him to give her as much information as he could about the country and its history. Even when his tale concerned the Loyalists, Martine did not assume the air of indifference that was always hers when Priscilla touched on the same subject. "It's a pity," said Mr. Frazer, "that there is nothing to be seen now of all the wonders that old General Ruggles did in his time. He had one of the largest grants of land hereabouts, away up over the top of a mountain, and though he was past seventy when the war ended, he set to work clearing forests and laying out his grounds like a young man. He imported all kinds of trees from Massachusetts, and his place was a model for the whole county. He found a deep gulch on his land that was sheltered from the winds and yet sunny, and there he planted some rare trees,--black walnut and peach and other things that generally grow only in the far south." "Was he an English general?" asked Martine, listlessly. "Oh, I've heard," replied Mr. Frazer, "that though he was bred a lawyer in Massachusetts, he became a colonel in the wars that the Americans fought against the French, and was high in command at Ticonderoga and Crown Point; it was in that war that he got his title of Brigadier General, and so he might be called an American officer." "Then what was he doing down here in Nova Scotia?" "Oh, when the Revolutionary troubles began he wasn't in favor of breaking off from the mother country; he was a Chief Justice of Common Pleas, and he wrote and spoke against separation. So at last he and his family had to give up everything and take refuge with the British in Boston. He doesn't seem to have been a fighter against his countrymen, but he preferred exile to sacrificing his principles. I've always been interested in the old general," added Mr. Frazer, apologetically, "though I don't just know why, for he was dead long before my father even was born. But I've read a lot about him, and people here still tell many stories of him, and altogether he seems something like those heroes we hear of, working so energetically to keep his spirits up." "Yes," said Martine, "I agree with you that it does seem rather heroic, only it's a pity that he was on the wrong side." Then, lest Mr. Frazer should be inclined to argue with her, she quickly changed the subject. "This road over the mountain is pleasanter than I thought it would be; I mean, everything looks so cultivated and prosperous." "Oh, there isn't a better section anywhere than this," he replied. "The orchards and farms all pay well; why, there's a place up beyond," he continued, "that they call Paradise; and if it wasn't for winter, which I suppose they don't have in heaven, I should say that the name just fitted." Mr. Frazer was so pleased with his own wit that he chuckled softly, and so far forgot himself as to urge his horse forward. "Let's stop here," cried Martine, "for a moment; I never saw so many beehives." "I don't know," replied Mr. Frazer, timidly, "as it's hardly safe; sometimes, when they're swarming, they are apt to sting if you go too near them." But Martine was already off her horse and over the low fence, and Mr. Frazer could only follow her example. The farm was situated at the junction of two roads. Martine had taken the precaution to tether her horse to a hitching-post, but Mr. Frazer, trusting too implicitly to the sedateness of his steed, had left it unfettered to nibble the grass by the roadside. The hives that had attracted Martine's attention proved as harmless as she had prophesied, so she wandered on toward an old-fashioned garden, blazing with mid-summer blossoms. Now Jill, the sorrel that Mr. Frazer had ridden so proudly, proved less reliable than might have been expected from the character of its owner; for, in the course of its nibbling, it wandered down the road, passing back of the farm, and Mr. Frazer was so intent upon telling Martine all that he knew about bees and flowers that he quite forgot to keep his eye on his horse. Thus it happened that the animal found itself near some hives whose occupants were changing habitations. Then, at the very moment when Mr. Frazer bethought him of Jill, to his horror and great surprise he saw her starting on a run down this back road. He did not wait to explain matters to Martine; he knew by the cloud of bees in the distance that the horse had undoubtedly been stung. "Wait until I come back," he shouted, as he started in pursuit of his horse. Martine smiled as he leaped over a fence, his coat tails flying in the air. "Unseemly haste," she murmured, "for so dignified a person. I wonder how long he can keep it up." For five or ten minutes Martine continued to wait in the old-fashioned garden; then she looked at her watch. It was later than she supposed; the sun was less bright, and a slight chill in the air warned her of approaching fog. "I didn't promise to wait," she said to herself, "and after all the bother of arranging it I can't be cheated out of my sight of the Bay. It's a straight road and perfectly safe, and my horse hasn't shown a sign of a trick; so in five minutes, if my guide hasn't returned, I shall go on alone." At the end of five minutes Mr. Frazer had not appeared, and Martine, remounting her horse, resumed her way toward the Bay Shore. She set off at a speed that would have quite shaken the breath out of Mr. Frazer, and she was really surprised to discover how much life her animal had. Thus it happened that in spite of the delay she really had a glimpse of the Bay of Fundy before the fog had hidden it. It is true that already there was a thin veil of mist floating about her and permitting her to see rather dimly the rocky shore, and the scattered hamlet that lay at her feet. Martine felt most uncomfortable. Her situation was certainly lonely, and she would gladly have borne the rather tiresome conversation of her late guide for the sake of his protection. But though she waited as long as she dared, he did not appear; nor did she meet him as she turned about toward Annapolis. Toward Annapolis--but where was Annapolis? For all at once she seemed to be riding through a cloud, and she recalled a day when she and a party of friends had thought themselves lost on one of the highest of the White Mountains, pushing their way vaguely through the cloud that enshrouded them. Of one thing, however, she now felt sure. When she reached the crossroads and the farm where the beehives were, she would have no difficulty in continuing her way. But, alas for all calculations! how it happened she never knew, but soon she realized that she was on a road quite different from the one by which she had travelled to the shore. In the fog she had turned somewhere, and the new road was lonely in the extreme. There were no houses near; at least, she judged there were not, for the road itself was rough, more like a forest road, and both sides seemed to be lined with trees. For a short time she went on cautiously; then a line of verse came into her mind that she had heard Amy quote only the day before,-- "'When once a man hath misséd the right way, The farther he doth go, the farther doth he stray.'" So she brought herself to a full stop and, slipping from her horse, stood beside him, gently stroking his side. "Good old fellow," she said gently, "if I'd leave you to yourself, I dare say you'd carry me home safely. Perhaps in a few minutes we can turn round and make a fresh start; but now I want to think." So she stood for five minutes or more, and among the many thoughts that flew across her brain was one that, if shaped into words, would have been: "I wish that I had gone with the others to Mrs. Airton's." But she could not remain inactive. "Whatever happens, I won't be lost on the mountain," cried Martine, emphatically. "It's always better to go on than to stand still, and especially as the fog is so thick that I'm likely to be drenched to the skin if I stay here much longer." At this moment the surrounding stillness was broken by a sound; she listened intently, and in a very short time realized that what she heard was really the noise of approaching wheels. She drew her horse close to the side of the road; a vehicle of some kind was near her. "Hello, hello," she shouted, picturing herself at the moment as a stranded mariner on a shipwrecked vessel. The vehicle was close upon her; the driver drew up his horse; Martine approached him. "What on earth--" he began. "Yes, on earth," responded Martine. "I shouldn't like to be at sea, lost in the fog." "So you're lost, are you?" replied the driver of the wagon, in a brisk, cheerful voice. "Well, there's one thing, you needn't stay lost." Martine looked at the speaker, who had now jumped down from his seat and was standing beside her. He was a tall youth, with reddish brown hair and a frank, pleasant face, and she judged that he was two or three years her senior. "It's fortunate," he said, "that we happened to have an order for some groceries up beyond at the Jones farm. I don't come this way once a month, and there is very little passing any day; so if you had waited for some one to rescue you, you would have had to wait a long time." Martine was not sure that she liked the word "rescue." All her life she had prided herself on her independence, and it irritated her to realize that she had put herself in a position that obliged her to depend on a stranger. [Illustration: "'Hello! hello!' she shouted."] "Perhaps I shouldn't have said 'lost,'" she responded; "I've only just missed my way a little, and if the fog should lift I could easily find my way back to my friends." "If the fog should lift!" The boy laughed heartily. "Are you acquainted with the habits of fogs? Or perhaps it behaves differently in the States; but in this part of the world, when it sets in late in the afternoon, it generally stays all night. But come," he continued more gently, "you'll catch cold if you stay here much longer. I'm on my way to Annapolis myself, and I'll very gladly take you there. Come," he continued, holding out his hand; "you'd better get into the wagon here, and I have a rope by which we can lead the horse behind." "Oh, no," said Martine; "I can ride just as well. I don't mind the fog, if you will let me follow your wagon." "Nonsense!" protested the boy; "you can't go fast enough to keep warm, and your horse might make a misstep; and besides," he concluded, "I have a sister about your age and I know what's best for girls. Come, jump in." To her own great surprise Martine found herself obeying the strange youth; perhaps, after all, she felt that there would be more comfort for her in his covered wagon than in picking her way through the fog, over the rough road. When she was seated, he handed her a carriage robe which he bade her wrap around her; then he tied his rope to the horse's bridle, saying as he did so: "I know this animal well, and he'll follow us like a tame cat." Then he took his seat beside Martine and they drove along slowly. After a turn or two they came to the place that Martine called "the beehive farm." Already she had related the story of Mr. Frazer's adventure, and her acquaintance had laughed heartily at her account of the good man's flight after the recreant Jill. "I didn't suppose even a swarm of bees could put any speed into Jill, but Frazer himself is so conscientious that I wonder that he isn't sitting here on the fence waiting for your return." As they talked Martine wondered and wondered who her rescuer could be. Both his language and his subjects of conversation were not what she would have expected from a grocer's boy, for that was what he called himself once or twice, and in the back of the wagon there was a large kerosene can, with one or two empty boxes, as well as some packages that certainly looked like groceries. But she did not waste much time in speculating, because she found so many things to ask that she had never thought to ask any one else before. "Didn't realize that the first mill on the Continent was built at Annapolis?"--said her companion, "and you from Chicago, where people are supposed to think and dream about flour and grain? I am surprised. And you didn't know that Membertou, that old Indian, is reckoned the first convert made in America? Dear me, where have you been brought up?" "Oh, I'm learning," responded Martine. "I'd never heard about the Acadians until we came down here. But now I think they're just great; don't you?" "I should hardly call them great," returned the other, with a smile, "although there's any amount of interesting history connected with them; but I've always taken more interest myself in the early days of Port Royal than in the exile of the Acadians. I wish they'd change the name of Goat Island back to Biencourtville, for that's what it's called on Lescarbot's map." "Oh," replied Martine, not knowing what else to say. She knew nothing about Lescarbot and less about his map, but she didn't wish to display her ignorance. "I remember Biencourt," she added meekly; "he had a very hard time, hadn't he?" The face of the other brightened. "Oh, I'm glad you remember him; he's my idea of a hero. I believe if he had lived Port Royal would have fared much better. Charles La Tour was not at all the same kind of man. But Madame La Tour, ah, she was the right sort! Perhaps you know her story." "No," replied Martine, meekly, "I do not, but probably Amy does." "Who is this paragon, this 'Amy'? You've spoken of her several times; she seems to know everything." "I really think she does," replied Martine--"know almost everything. But I wish you could tell me about Madame La Tour." "There won't be time now, but I could lend you a book, if you stay here longer. She doesn't exactly belong to Annapolis; it was the fort at the mouth of the St. John that she defended. But here we are fairly in the town, and you can consider yourself saved," he concluded with a smile. "Why, there's Mrs. Airton's house!" exclaimed Martine in surprise; "I didn't know you were coming this way." The boy looked at her curiously. "Do you know Mrs. Airton?" "Well, not exactly, for I was out when she called, but she was kind enough to ask me to tea to-day, only I thought I'd like to ride instead. I thought that perhaps I'd be back in time for tea." "You were right in that," rejoined her companion, pulling up his horse. "I'm sure they're not through tea yet; I can leave you and take your horse on to the stable. Here, jump out." But Martine hesitated, and for the moment she was annoyed at her rescuer. If Priscilla or Amy should look from a window, how mortifying it would be to be seen driving in a grocer's cart with a riderless steed tagging on behind. "No, thank you," she said; "I would rather go on to my boarding-house; please drive on." She never knew whether her new acquaintance would have heeded her request or not, for hardly had she spoken when from a side door Eunice Airton and Priscilla rushed toward the wagon. "Where's Martine?" cried Priscilla, excitedly; "we recognized the horse." "Oh, Balfour," began Eunice, "what--" Without further ado Martine jumped down from the seat. The girls had approached the wagon from the rear, and at first had not seen her. Her sudden appearance surprised them. By this time Amy had reached the group. "What happened?" and she looked on Martine for an explanation. "Nothing, nothing," replied Martine, "only I was caught in the fog." Amy laid her hand on Martine's arm. "Your clothes are damp; you may take cold." "Come into the house," added Eunice; "we are not yet through tea." Martine saw that protest could not avail. As a matter of fact, she was not only cold but hungry, and the prospect of something to eat was one that she could not resist. "You said that you might come to tea," remarked Amy, "and so Mrs. Airton will not be altogether surprised." Had any one but Amy said this, Martine would have suspected her of sarcasm; but even if Amy would inwardly smile at her ignominious return, Martine could bear ridicule from her better than from any one else. When Martine had replaced her waist with a drier one belonging to Eunice, Eunice led her to the dining-room, where the others had resumed their seats. Mrs. Redmond and Mrs. Airton made little comment on her misadventure, and never did hot biscuit, and strawberries, and chocolate, and cookies seem more appetizing to Martine than they did on this occasion. Later, when Amy and Priscilla were helping Eunice clear the table, Mrs. Airton sat down beside Martine. "I am glad it was Balfour who found you," she said, "though I am sorry that he could not come in to tea with you. It is his night at the store, and he usually waits for his tea until late in the evening." "Balfour?" asked Martine; "who is Balfour? Of course I know he drove me home, but who is he?" "Balfour," replied Mrs. Airton, "why, Balfour is my son and Eunice's brother." "Ah," cried Martine, "I did not realize that; now I understand." But what she understood she did not then explain. Not long after tea Mr. Frazer rushed excitedly into Mrs. Airton's sitting-room. "I'm so glad the young lady's safe," he cried, "though indeed I thought she'd wait for me; but the sorrel led me a long chase, and when I got back to the farm she wasn't there. But I never thought of her going to the Bay Shore with the fog rolling in so thick, and when I found she wasn't at the house, I went back again to the farm, thinking she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. At last I met some one who had seen her driving with Balfour; then I knew she was safe. So I must apologize again for the behavior of my sorrel, though it was all the fault of the bees." Martine forgave the sorrel as readily as she forgave Mr. Frazer, for her adventure had ended so pleasantly that there was no occasion for blaming any one. CHAPTER XIII LETTERS AND SOME COMMENTS "Do you realize that we have only a day or two longer in Annapolis?" asked Amy, one soft afternoon in July, as she sat with Martine and Priscilla within the walls of the old fort. Mrs. Redmond, seated some distance from them, was sketching a bit of far-off shore that came within her range of view. Martine had her hands folded idly in her lap, though the sketching-block and materials that lay beside her showed that at least she had made some pretence of work that day. "Yes, I realize it all too well," she responded. "I wish we could stay here all summer." "It has been so much pleasanter since we knew the Airtons that we shall find it very hard to go," added Priscilla. "Of course we might stay here the rest of the summer," replied Amy, "only, since we had a definite route planned out it would be a pity not to follow it." "The other places may be very stupid," murmured Martine. "Not Grand Pré," rejoined Priscilla. "You'll probably enjoy that far better than Annapolis; you seem to forget that it is full of memories of the expelled Acadians." "Oh, yes, the Acadians; but do you know they don't seem half so important to me as they did when we were in Clare. I've really grown tremendously interested in those first Frenchmen, who had such an unlucky time here at Port Royal. Annapolis has memories enough for me." "What a fickle creature you are, Martine! Surely you haven't forgotten Yvonne." "No, no," and Martine sprang to her feet. "I'm only waiting for a letter from my father and then you shall know what is going to happen to Yvonne. Why, I've written her three times since I left Meteghan; I thought you knew that, Amy." "Yes, but don't excite yourself unduly, child; only, when you expressed your indifference to Acadians I wondered whom you included. Nothing would make me forget little Pierre. Here's a letter that I received from him to-day." Amy drew from her pocket a half-sheet of paper and read its contents to her friends:-- "'MY DEAR MADEMOISELLE, AMY REDMOND,--It gives me great pleasure to think that you and your beautiful mother and the charming young ladies like so well our historic Annapolis. I once it visited with my uncle, to view the fort that was built in the days of the greatness of Acadia; it was sad to me to know that now it belongs to the cruel English, who drove my ancestors from their happy homes. When I am a learned man, I shall teach history in a great school, and I will write books to make all know the truth; but now I am only a little boy, and I thank you for your letter and the book you sent me that will ever keep your lovely face fresh in my mind. So with her best duty from my mother, I subscribe myself, "'Your humble friend, "'PIERRE ROBICHAUD. "'P. S. Please write soon again.'" Martine and Priscilla smiled at the quaint letter, with its curious mingling of pride and humility and its touch of French gallantry. "Pierre seems quite sure of his own future,"--and Amy replaced the sheet in her pocket. "With his aim so firmly in view, it's quite probable that he'll attain his ambition." "'Best duty,'" observed Priscilla, "isn't that a strange expression?" "It certainly isn't French; he has picked it up from some of the 'cruel' English." "He probably had an old-fashioned school-teacher at some time. I hope that we'll see both Pierre and Yvonne before we return home; but now we must keep our minds on Annapolis. I'm so afraid that you haven't got all you might of its history." "Oh, my dear Amy, Priscilla is just brimful of the Loyalists and their sufferings; you ought to hear some of the stories that she has gathered up. Show her your note-book, Priscilla." Priscilla reddened and shook her head, while Martine continued: "And as for me, I'm so charged with historical associations that I feel as if I'd give them out in electric sparks if any one should rub me the right way. Of course I know that this is not the original French fort, but when one is dreaming, she needn't be so very particular about facts; so if I shut my eyes, here on this very spot," and Martine suited the action to the word, "I can see Poutrincourt and Lescarbot and all the others who were here that long winter when De Monts had gone back to France, leaving Pontgravé in charge. I just imagine that the old barracks over there is the great hall where they used to have their feasts, and I can see them all marching in with the fifteen gentlemen at the head who sat at Poutrincourt's table, the Grand Master strutting in front, with his staff of office in his hand and his napkin over his shoulder. L'Ordre de Bon Temps--that was a capital idea of Lescarbot's, to keep them all in good spirits and make each man think himself of supreme importance for a day." "Tell me about it," said Priscilla. "If I ever knew, I believe I've forgotten what it was." "That's it, my dear; you have been so very full of the much less important English history of Annapolis that you've overlooked the more romantic French." Then pointing toward the Basin, Martine chanted: "'Sing on, wild sea, your sad refrain, For all the gallant sons of France Whose songs and sufferings enhance The romance of the western main.'" "Well, if this is a wild sea I wonder what you'd call the Bay of Fundy," said Amy, laughing. "Oh, dear! You are so very practical; but I can't argue with you now, for I must make Priscilla understand just what 'The Order of the Good Time' was. During the long winter Lescarbot suggested that each of the fifteen gentlemen of greatest importance in the settlement should be appointed caterer for a day at a time; so they took turns, and each one tried to outdo the others in providing as many delicacies as possible. The steward of the day was called the Grand Master, and fish and game were so abundant here that often the table was supplied with food that the King of France might have envied. In order to keep up their dignity, they all observed a very formal ceremony, entering the hall at each meal just as I told you a little while ago. At the close of the day, after grace, the Grand Master removed his collar and placed it on the neck of the one who was to do duty the next day, while they drank each other's health in wine and recited appropriate verses. No wonder the Indians thought it great sport to watch the white men dine, for they crowded the hall at every meal, and Membertou, their Chief, was often at the Governor's table." "I hope the other Indians had something to eat." "Oh, yes indeed; they were always well fed by the French, and well treated; so that from the very beginning the French and Indians were on the very friendliest terms." "You must have done a deal of reading, Martine, you know your subject so well," said Amy, quizzically. "Oh, I haven't read so much," she began. "No, it's all Balfour Airton," interposed Priscilla. "He talks like a book, and he's discovered that he can make Martine listen to him." "Any one would like to listen to him," rejoined Martine, "and I'm glad to say that though he is of English descent, he doesn't consider the English absolutely perfect." "There, there," said Amy, throwing oil on the waters, "our acquaintance with the Airtons has certainly added to the pleasure of us all. Balfour seems a plucky fellow, for it can't be particularly pleasant to him to serve as a grocer's clerk in the summer holidays." "But he needs the money." "Oh, yes, Martine; but I know boys who would remain idle rather than do work that they thought a little beneath them." "To tell you the truth," added Priscilla, "I'm afraid that the Airtons have very little money indeed. Eunice says that there's a mortgage on their house, and that they may have to give it up before long. Balfour has offered to stay out of college and look for work in Halifax, but his mother will not listen to this; she wishes him to be a lawyer like his grandfather." "He has a scholarship at college, and he earns more or less money all the year, so that really his education costs his family nothing." "I fear our conversation is too personal," interrupted Amy, "though it has certainly been a pleasure to meet two people so free from self-consciousness as Eunice and Balfour. That reminds me," concluded Amy, "that I had a letter to-day from my friend Brenda, Mrs. Weston. She is surprised that we find so much to interest us in Nova Scotia. She made a trip this way one summer with her parents, but they travelled rather hurriedly through the province and made their longest stay at Halifax." "Oh, Halifax," interrupted Martine. "Nothing but English; only fancy," with a true English accent, and she raised her hand toward her eye as if holding a monocle. "If there's anything in the world I dislike, it's the real English. Excuse me, Priscilla; I did not mean to hurt your feelings." "My feelings? Why, I'm no more English than you are, Martine. You won't deny that you have some English blood in your veins?" "Unluckily, I can't deny it; but I'm glad that they named me Martine; that at least is un-English." "It certainly is a queer name." "Not queer at all, Priscilla. My grandfather was Martin, and Martine is the French feminine for it. If I'd been a boy, I would have been named Martin. Unluckily I wasn't, and so Martine was the best that could be done. My elder brother had been named for my father; Lucian, you know, is his name. I never heard any one else call 'Martine' a queer name;" and the Chicago girl turned away petulantly. Noting again the signs of a coming storm, already too frequent on this trip, Amy hastened to change the subject. "I don't know why I should have so many letters in my pocket to-day, but since I brought my mail with me, let me read you a little from Brenda's letter; you know her, Priscilla?" "Yes, indeed." "Oh, Brenda,--Mrs. Weston," cried Martine, eagerly, all trace of annoyance disappearing from her face and voice. "I've never talked with her, but I've seen her several times; I think she's just fine. She isn't a bit prim and stiff like most Bostonians. Why, she has as much style as a Chicago girl." "My dear," interposed Amy, "remember that Priscilla and I are from the neighborhood of Boston." "Oh, yes, but you don't set up for style--there, I don't mean that, of course; I only mean--" But Martine was getting herself into deep water, and her floundering amused Amy, although she maintained a grave face, as she said: "Style is not confined to dress; other things are considered just as important by the true critic. However, I'm glad that you admire Brenda, for you'll be the more interested in her letter. "'Your account of what you have seen in Nova Scotia is perfectly fascinating. But you haven't told me how you like those funny little brown fish that they call Digby chickens, that have a flavor made up of smoked ham and salt cod; you can fancy how surprised I was when I ordered them, for I thought they'd be real chickens. We didn't see any French in Nova Scotia; I can't imagine where you found them. Are they the real thing? or do they speak with a Stratford atte Bow accent? "'How different this summer is from last, when we were all so worried about Arthur and the Spanish War,--at least, I was. It is just a year since I was so very ill, and now I am perfectly happy. I feel quite ridiculous when they ask me to chaperone parties of girls who are older than I until I remember that I am really an old married woman and quite settled. "'It is all I can do to prevent Arthur's going to the Philippines; he really has the war fever, and I wonder what will come of it all. Next month he is to make an address at some reunion of Spanish War Veterans; doesn't it seem absurd to call him a veteran? Tim McSorley is at Manila. Maggie is down here at Rockley with us this summer, and you haven't an idea how useful she is. My mother says that the way she does things is recommendation enough for the Mansion School, and that if Julia needed to earn money she would make a small fortune training girls. "'I had a letter yesterday from Happy Hill,--you know that's the name of the farm where she has the girls this summer. They are nearly all new girls, who do not interest me as much as the others who were there my year. Norah is with Julia this summer; but there, I'm telling you things that are no news to you, and in fact I have very little news of any kind to write; but I hope you'll give my love to your mother and Priscilla, and Miss Stratford and I only hope that you are as strict with them as you can be some times, when you want people to get all the information they can out of a trip. "'Oh, that reminds me. I hear that Fritz Tomkins is in Nova Scotia; you do not mention him in your letter, but you must be delighted to have him with you. Of course four women can get along perfectly well, but if anything should happen, it is so much better to have a man in your party; and Fritz is so like a brother that I'm sure you can make him very useful. With love to all, "'Sincerely, "'BRENDA WESTON.'" Amy had read the whole letter aloud without realizing how personal it was, for her original intention had been only to read that part relating to Nova Scotia. "That sounds just like Brenda," she said to the girls, "and I'm glad that she's so happy, for last summer was a miserable one for her." "It was for all of us," murmured Priscilla. And then Amy suddenly realized that the Spanish War was a subject too sore for her to touch on in Priscilla's presence. "Come," she said, "one last look at old Port Royal. We shall have several farewell calls to pay to-day and to-morrow, and we may not have time to return to the Fort." "Amy," said Martine, "I know I'm very stupid, but I'd really like to know where Port Royal ends and Fort Anne begins. Some one told me that this is really Fort Anne, but you always speak of it as Port Royal; so just to gratify my curiosity I'm willing to listen to a little more history." "Then I'll give you as much, or rather as little, as I can to make you understand some of the happenings at this Fort in the early days. I am sorry that I cannot go at all into details about the many sieges and expeditions against the Fort in the seventeenth century. The quarrels of D'Aunay and Charles de La Tour form a most exciting series of episodes, and you must read them at length in Parkman or some other history. Although theirs was not warfare between French and English, La Tour was a Huguenot, and in a general way the English were on his side. In fact, he once came down to Boston and interested Winthrop and others in his cause. In the end I suppose La Tour may be considered to have been the conqueror; at least, he survived D'Aunay, and later married for his second wife D'Aunay's widow. Port Royal was captured by Cromwell's fleet in 1654, and a few years later, in the reign of Charles II, was given back to France. In 1690, when England and France were again at war, De Menneval, the governor of the Fort, had to surrender to Sir William Phipps, and the account of this expedition you will surely read sometime, for Phipps was a New Englander and his career most interesting." "The New Englanders seem to have had a special spite against Acadia," said Martine; "so it isn't strange, Priscilla, that you have inherited part of it." "Oh, no, I haven't; only if I must choose I naturally prefer what is English to what is French." "After all that Phipps thought he had accomplished," continued Amy, "Acadia was again handed back to France; but I will pass over other attacks to remind you of what you have doubtless read many times in your school histories, that, when the Treaty of Utrecht settled the wars between Queen Anne and Louis XIV, Acadia was given to the English. Since that time the fort has been Fort Anne and the town Annapolis." "It's no wonder," said Martine, "that the Acadians hardly knew whom to obey, when they'd been handed over from one side to another so often." "This does account for much of the misunderstanding that finally led to their deportation. They trusted too implicitly in the French King, and for a long time vainly hoped that he would conquer the English and make them again his subjects." Hardly had Amy finished when a boyish voice was heard crying, "Good-morning, good-morning. Is it really true that you're starting North to-day?" "No, not to-day; we have still a day or two left before we set out for Grand Pré; we are going over to see your mother this afternoon." "I'm glad of that," responded Balfour, "for I'm to have a day off, or rather an afternoon, and I wanted to be sure of your plans." Balfour did not explain that he had asked for this special holiday in order to have some time with his new friends. "You won't spend the whole afternoon with my mother," he began awkwardly,--"at least, not all of you,--and so I thought that perhaps some of you would go for a drive with me." "I am going to stay with Eunice," said Priscilla; "it will be our last day together." Martine said nothing. Then Balfour turned to Amy: "Would not you and Miss Martine drive with me? I can take you to one or two out-of-the-way places that you probably haven't visited." "Surely," responded Amy, "that will be delightful. I can go, and with pleasure. As for Martine, she must speak for herself." Amy had no doubt as to Martine's desire, so that it was hardly necessary for her to await a reply. "Why, of course," replied Martine; "there's nothing I'd like so well." CHAPTER XIV AN EXCURSION Balfour, when the three started on their afternoon expedition, was in a particularly happy frame of mind. "There's one advantage in working all summer--a half holiday seems ten times more valuable now than usually. Not that I'm working hard this summer, only my days are not my own, and I can seldom make plans; besides, I do begrudge the time that I have to take from study." "Then you will probably think to-day wasted." "No, indeed; besides, we are going to study nature, and--" "A little French history," interposed Martine. "Did you not say that you would take us to an old battleground?" "Yes, I hope to, for my steed is not like Jill. We can depend on getting somewhere with Lion, whereas Jill--" "Mr. Frazer would say that she went fast enough the day he rode her in my company." "It's a great thing for a horse to know when to stop, as well as when to go on. Whoa, Lion! There, we can leave him standing while we go up that little hill. It's said to be the site of an ancient French church. It may interest you." Amy and Martine loudly praised the beauty of the scenery as they stood on the elevated land above the narrow, winding river. "They say that a church stood here in the earliest French days, with a set of silver bells that rang out most musically over the water. Then, when the church fell to pieces, the bells sank into the earth, and are hidden somewhere underground,--and any one who likes may dig for them." Martine began to prod in the earth with her parasol. "Come, my dear, we won't have time to-day, and you need a crowbar rather than that tiny stick. If you found them they would be rather too clumsy to carry home;" and Amy laid her hand on Martine's arm. "I'd rather look for Apostle spoons," replied Martine. "I heard of a woman who dug up two in her garden, and when she saw how dirty they were, threw them into a kettle of lye that she happened to have boiling for soap, or something of that kind. She almost lost her head when the ugly lead things came out looking like gold, for they were silver washed with gilt. If she found such things, why not I, for it's a true story, isn't it?" turning to Balfour. "Oh, yes, fairly true, and there's always a chance of finding something by digging long enough. But I would never waste my time digging, except with hoe and spade, for fruit and vegetables. There's good money," he concluded, "in strawberries here in Nova Scotia. In Annapolis I know a man who has several acres, and in good seasons he gets two thousand boxes a day." "Strawberries! Aren't apples the prize crop here?" "Yes, and more certain than anything else. A man can get $300 an acre from a good orchard. If money were the only thing I'd rather be a farmer than a lawyer down here." "That's better than some gold mines," said Amy, as they turned and walked down the hill to the carriage. "When I was a small shaver," continued Balfour, "and had plenty of time to spare, I used to walk there along the top of the dykes of Annapolis. From the base of seven or eight feet it narrows to hardly a foot at the top, and I can tell you that it was ticklish work keeping a footing." "Why didn't I know of that before?" cried Martine. "I certainly should have tried it. I love to walk on railroad tracks, and dyke-walking must be almost the same." "You can't try anything of that kind while you are in my care," interposed Amy. "The river is probably deeper than it looks, and if you should go too near the edge--" "Oh, I can swim, my dear Miss Amy Redmond, though, to put your careful soul at ease, I'll promise not to go near the water. All the same, I wish that I were an Indian, at this very moment gliding down from Minas to Digby. Didn't you tell me that this was one of their favorite routes?" and she turned to Balfour for a reply. "Why, yes," he replied, "from any point outside Minas they used to glide over to French Cross, then by a portage of four miles to Aylesford, and they would be borne on by the current down the Annapolis River, sometimes as far even as Digby." "French Cross?" asked Amy. "What have I heard of French Cross?" "Perhaps of the awful winter there that some of the Acadians passed through, just after the deportation." "Tell me about it," cried Martine, eagerly. "I never heard of it." "Well, after the Acadians had been put aboard the ships at Grand Pré, some friendly Micmacs hurried down secretly to warn the French at the eastern end of Annapolis. When they heard the news, about sixty Acadians decided on flight, and with a Micmac guide began to make their way north. They hoped to reach a point on the shore where the English would not see them, from which they could cross over to New Brunswick, and then get the protection of the French at Quebec. But when they reached Aylesford they did not dare try to cross. Their food was poor, sickness broke out among them, many died, and were buried in the soft Aylesford sand. The others went on to French Cross, but still did not dare cross the Bay. During the bitter cold of December, while they were suffering everything, they saw the last of the transports pass down the Bay, carrying their countrymen to the southern colonies. Many died during the winter, and when spring came the friendly Indians made birch-bark canoes for the remainder, who then crossed in safety to the New Brunswick shore." "Man's inhumanity to man," sighed Amy, sentimentally. "What wretches the English were!" exclaimed Martine, more energetically. "Remember, please, that I am English;" and Balfour raised his hand in remonstrance. "Besides, the persecutors of the Acadians were not English, but your fellow New Englanders, who took the whole matter on themselves, without asking leave of any one else." "But I am no New Englander," objected Martine. "Oh, it's all the same. Some of your ancestors were from New England undoubtedly, unless you are different from most Chicagoans. But if you repudiate New England, you cannot object to my arousing your sympathies for some of those exiled Loyalists who suffered quite as much as the over-pitied Acadians." "It's a shame Priscilla is not here," murmured Martine. Now Balfour was not likely to speak idly, and in a moment he had begun his recital. "The old lady who told this story to my mother was visiting Annapolis from Fredericton, and her mother, the daughter of an officer in a New Jersey regiment, experienced all the hardships that she described. The vessels with these New Jersey officers and soldiers and their families went up the St. John River in early October, and landed at a place called St. Ann's, that later became Fredericton, the capital of the Province. It was a wet, cold season, and the people had no shelter but tents, that they tried to cover with spruce boughs. Their floor was the ground, and when snow fell in early November the old lady's mother said that her family tried to shut it out by putting their one rug against the opening. Often a part of the family had to sit up all night to keep the others from freezing. When everything else failed they would heat boards at the fire, and hold them over the children to give them needed warmth." "A likely story!" and Martine smiled. "Indeed, it is perfectly true," rejoined Balfour, gravely. "Many men and women died of exposure and lack of food that terrible winter. Their graves were dug with pickaxe and shovel, in the hard ground not far from the tents. Like the Acadians at French Cross, they had no clergyman to pay the last rites. They had been used to comfortable and pleasant homes, and many of them had had wealth; so it was doubly hard to have to live in Indian fashion on fish, and moose, and berries. In the spring they made maple sugar, and killed pigeons. There was great rejoicing when the first vessels came with corn and rye. They were in constant fear of the Indians, and it was long before they could live even half decently." "I have always sympathized with the Loyalists," said Amy, quietly. "Oh, well, it's all over now," returned Balfour, bitterly. "But it must have been hard for many of them to remember that their houses and lands, and even their personal property, had been passed over to people who to them seemed to have no shadow of right to it." "Do you care now?" asked Martine, gently. "Oh, no;" but Balfour's tone belied his words. "My family did not suffer so much as some, though we had to start here in Annapolis with little besides the land that the King granted." "Back to the soil is a good thing sometimes." "Oh, yes, and Nova Scotia was very hospitable to the poor Loyalists; but still--to tell the truth, sometimes I wish that I had grown up on the other side of the line. There seems to be more chance in many ways;" and Balfour sighed. Amy looked at Balfour in surprise. He was evidently considerably her junior, yet he talked like one much older. "I should like to see him and Fritz together," she thought. "I believe that Fritz would appear five years younger, for he always persists in talking like an overgrown boy." "There," concluded Balfour, "I have said too much. On the whole, I am contented, and the Province offers more than many corners of the world to an ambitious young man, so enough said. Now, just see, I was so absorbed in harrowing your feelings over the Loyalists that I have taken a wrong turn, and we are now so far from the battleground that we'll have to give it up this afternoon." "'All roads are alike to me,'" hummed Amy, while Martine added, "But the scenery here is lovely. Just see how the North Mountain stands out, with that little fringe of mist hanging about the top, and I've never seen so many fine orchards. Oh, I wouldn't have missed this particular drive for anything;" and her flushed cheeks and beaming eyes showed that she had meant what she said. "The drive has been full of pictures, too," added Martine. "I've seen a great many things even that you have not spoken of, and whenever I look over there toward the woods I fancy I see an Indian creeping along; not an unfriendly savage, but one with a smile on his face, hoping perhaps to be asked by Lescarbot to stay to dinner at the Fort." "Yes," rejoined Balfour, "one of those jolly fellows who objected to the wording of the Lord's Prayer in asking for bread, saying that bread alone wouldn't do for him, as he needed moose, and fish besides." "Yes, and some of the French dishes that they favored him with occasionally." "Well, I have heard many things that make me believe that the Indians of Acadia were jokers. Some of the stories would shock you, I am afraid;" and Balfour hesitated. "Oh, we are not so easily shocked. Tell us, do." "Very likely you've heard this particular thing. But it is said that one of the men in that first expedition of the French undertook to make a dictionary, and when he tried to get some of the natives to give him the Micmac for various sacred names, the Indian gave him words that were just the contrary,--almost profane, in fact,--so that the Frenchman made himself very ridiculous when he tried to make use of his new vocabulary." "Which shows," said Martine, "that the Micmac Indian was not such a serious and solemn creature as those that used to appear in our school histories bewailing the advance of the white man. I always thought I'd like to meet one of them." "Why, Martine?" "Yes, just for the pleasure of sticking a pin in him. He would never have had spirit enough to turn his tomahawk against me. But these Micmacs knew how to enjoy life. The dictionary maker was probably a prim, conceited fellow, who deserved to be laughed at. Of course, in a general way," she concluded hastily, "I am always on the side of the French, and I love to remember that the old Fort once belonged to them." "'When from Port Royal's rude-built walls Gleamed o'er the hills afar, The golden lilies on the shield Of Henry of Navarre. "'A gay and gallant company, Those voyagers of old, Whose life in the Acadian Fort Lescarbot's verse has told,'" recited Balfour, as they turned into St. George's Street, "and here we are in sight of Fort Anne, and it pleases my soul that the flag floating above is the flag of Great Britain." "We won't quarrel about that now," said Martine, "for you have given us the very pleasantest afternoon we've had." "Yes," added Amy, "it has certainly been delightful, and so it is all the harder to remember that this is probably our last excursion around Annapolis,--at least, for the present." "You are very good to appreciate our old town so, and I hope that you will find Wolfville almost as attractive. I am sorry enough, however, that you are going away. We shall miss you all;" and though emphasizing "all," Balfour looked directly at Martine as he spoke. "My sister has grown so fond of Miss Priscilla that she has forgotten her inborn hatred for New Englanders, and I hope you'll understand that we all appreciate your interest in Acadian history. I only trust I haven't bored you and Miss Martine by my facts and reminiscences. I fear that I've been almost garrulous." "Oh, no, indeed, far from that;" and Martine's emphasis showed how deeply she meant what she said. At this moment they had reached their own door and the last good-byes had to be said. "I cannot come again this evening," Balfour explained, "but I'll see you for a moment at the train." Then, thrusting his hand into his pocket, with an exclamation he drew out a small object that he held toward Martine. "I had almost forgotten, but if you would take this," he cried, "for your collection, I would be so pleased. It's in a better condition than most things they dig up;" and as Martine took it, she saw that it was a small trowel, remarkably bright, yet of a curious shape. "Another Acadian relic. How kind you are!" "This fork is for you, Miss Redmond. Even if you have not a collection, it will interest you. The trowel," Balfour continued, "was almost as bright as this when it was dug up, it had been buried so deep, and the fork is of an odd shape. Of course they haven't any great value," he concluded, "only they are genuine relics, as I know, for I dug them up myself. I might have brought you a gridiron with a long handle and four feet, but you would have found some difficulty in carrying it about, and the little spade can be carried in your travelling-bag for use in mending a broken dyke, or shaping bricks, if you happen to wish to mend or build on the way. That at least was its original use, and the fork--well, you can find many uses for it;" and he turned from Martine to Amy. Both girls found it hard to bid good-bye to Balfour. In spite of the shortness of their acquaintance he was already an old friend, one whose friendship they particularly valued. "How sensible he is," sighed Martine, as they went indoors, "and to think that he's only a year older than Taps!" "A year older than--who?" asked Amy, thinking that she must have misunderstood. "What did you say?" "Oh, nothing--really nothing," replied Martine, hastily, with a heightened color. "I was only thinking that Balfour Airton seems so very much older than most boys of his age, and he knows so much more than most students." Martine's words were hurried and nervous, and Amy decided that she was more disturbed than she had expected her to be at parting with her Annapolis friends. But if Amy only suspected Martine's feelings, she had no difficulty in deciding how Priscilla felt. She and Eunice had formed a most romantic attachment for each other, and made no effort to hide the tears that fell freely as they bade good-bye at the station. At the final parting each threw her arms around the other's neck, and the bystanders tried not to laugh when Eunice in her emotion knocked off Priscilla's hat and entangled the cord of her eyeglasses in Priscilla's belt. But the bystanders, if amused, were sympathetic, consisting as they did chiefly of Dr. and Mrs. Gray, Balfour, and Mrs. Airton, and one or two other friends whom the travellers had met during their weeks in Annapolis. "Your tears, my dear Eunice," said Dr. Gray, "exactly express the feelings of all the rest of us; and while we wish you, Mrs. Redmond, a safe journey, it is perhaps not too selfish to hope that you and the young ladies may look back to Annapolis as the brightest spot on the map of your travels." "Indeed, we shall," said Mrs. Redmond, cordially, "and--" "All aboard!" called the conductor; "Good-bye," shouted Balfour; "Write soon," sighed Eunice. "Come back next summer," cried Dr. Gray. "Perhaps sooner," responded Amy, and with a puff and a shriek the "Flying Bluenose" glided off toward the real land of Evangeline. CHAPTER XV WITH PREJUDICE "Priscilla," said Amy, as they finished breakfast on their first morning at Wolfville, "you are no longer homesick." "Did I say I was homesick?" "Perhaps not in words, though you have looked it a great many times. But I noticed a change during our last week in Annapolis; you have seemed perfectly cheerful ever since." "Oh, I'm sorry," responded the over-conscientious Priscilla, "if I seemed less than cheerful before; it was really very wrong in me, for you and your mother have been so kind, and Martine is so very--" here she hesitated for a moment--"so very lively." Amy smiled at Priscilla's earnestness. "To most persons you would have seemed perfectly cheerful, but little things have shown me that your heart was not wholly with us." "That was only because I had never before been altogether away from my family. But if there has been any change lately, it has been on account of Eunice. She seems to me the most sensible person I have ever known, and I hope that she can carry out her plan of going to college. If papa had lived I could have done something for her, but now I can't make any promises for the future, because mamma says that we shall have to be very careful about spending for a few years." "I'm glad, however," responded Amy, "that you have this interest in Eunice, even if you cannot do all that you would like to do for her; it is rather curious that each of us should have found a protégé in the course of our travels; Yvonne, Pierre, and Eunice, each one so unlike the others, and yet all of them rather interesting." "Martine, of course, can accomplish the most," and Priscilla sighed. "I imagine that her father and mother never say 'no' to her." "Money isn't everything," replied Amy, "and you and I can do more or less for Eunice and Pierre in spite of the fact that time and thought are the most we can give. I have often noticed that the person who has a real interest in the welfare of some one else can really accomplish things in better ways than by spending money." "Balfour wouldn't let any one spend much money on Eunice; he is so very independent, and wishes always to stand on his own feet. I never saw any one just like him." "I agree with you, Priscilla, and I feel that we owe much to him for all he did for us in Annapolis; besides, he has given mother one or two letters to people in Wolfville, so that I fancy we shall be somewhat indebted to him here." A few moments later Amy, in her little bedroom, reread a letter received from Fritz that morning. Its tone was so cheerful that it ought to have had an exhilarating effect on her; on the contrary, she was now less happy than before she received it. Fritz and his friend had already reached Chester on the east coast, and he wrote most enthusiastically of the charms of this little watering-place. Not one word of regret did he utter now over his separation from Mrs. Redmond's party. His time was apparently fully occupied with boating and driving excursions and other pleasures of the conventional summer resort. One sentence only, at the end, suggested that he had not forgotten what he had previously said to Amy. "I am surprised that you have travelled so comfortably, with not a single accident to interfere with your pleasure; but if anything disagreeable should happen, then perhaps you will wish that you had some stronger person to help you out of your difficulty." With a sigh Amy laid the letter in her bureau drawer, and as she did so her eye fell on an envelope addressed to Martine. Evidently she had picked it up with her own letters when she had brought them upstairs. The envelope was empty and hardly worth returning, but as she took it to drop into the waste basket, she looked, as one will, at the postmark. To her surprise, it was the same, "Chester," as on her own letter from Fritz. Then her mind flew back to the morning at Yarmouth, when she thought she had seen Martine wheeling down the side street with an unknown youth. The inference was now plain--in some way Martine had made the acquaintance of Fritz's friend, and was keeping up a correspondence with him. There was nothing very wrong in this in itself, except that it implied on Martine's part a certain amount of deception. "Taps," as Fritz called him, might have been a perfectly desirable friend for all the girls, and Fritz himself might have introduced him to Martine. She had had no opportunity to meet him on the boat. Yet even had he been an old friend of hers, there seemed to be no reason why she should not speak frankly about him. The discovery of this envelope reconciled Amy completely to Fritz's banishment. It was just as well that he and his friend had been sent off by themselves. As to Martine, Amy decided that at present it was hardly well to speak to her of the letter, or even mention it to Mrs. Redmond. But for the rest of the day she was less cordial than usual toward Martine, and the young girl felt the change. When Amy returned to the piazza, where she had left the others, she found only her mother and Martine. In a moment Priscilla joined them, looking bright and happy, and with unusual color in her fair cheeks. "I've been down the street," she said, "and the town is so attractive that you must all come with me on an exploring tour; I can't tell why, but I feel more at home here than in most places. Wolfville seems less English than Annapolis; in fact, it is more like one of our own New England towns." "That, I dare say," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "is partly because it is a college town, but more likely because it was settled by Americans. I have an idea that hardly a Loyalist came here after the Revolution." "Settled by Americans?" cried Martine. "Wasn't this all French country through here?" "Yes--once--my dear. You remember, however, that after the French were deported, their lands were granted to colonists from New England. Those who came to this part of Nova Scotia were chiefly from Connecticut, and Wolfville is named for a well-known family of these colonists, named De Wolfe." "Then this isn't Grand Pré?" "Oh, no; there is still a Grand Pré two or three miles to the west, with relics and memories without end, of Evangeline and Basil." "Let us go there, then, as soon as we can," cried Martine. "Not yet, my dear. We would better first see something nearer at hand; Mr. Knight, Balfour's friend, has offered to drive us to Grand Pré this afternoon, and if this suits you all, I will send him a reply at once." The three girls, agreeing that they should enjoy the afternoon drive, fell in with Mrs. Redmond's suggestion for a morning walk. "I have been advised," said Mrs. Redmond, "to take a road behind the college, leading to the top of the ridge, where we can get a fine view of the Gaspereau Valley." Though it was a steep hill, the view from the summit repaid them by its surpassing beauty. The deep valley, bordered with trees of varying shades of green, the blue river flowing between, and toward its mouths winding in and out among the marshes, formed a scene long to be remembered. "If we could see to the very mouth," said Mrs. Redmond, "and bring our imagination into full play, we could picture the poor Acadians gathered in forlorn groups waiting to be dragged away to the English transports. Their pleasant homes were found all along the sides of this valley, as well as at Grand Pré. Undoubtedly it is Longfellow's poem that has given the latter place its greater prominence." Some distance along the ridge the four Americans continued to walk, until they reached a point from which they had a wider view; then for the first time their eyes fell on the clear waters of Minas Basin. On its farther shore rose a high, red bluff. "Bluff," at least, was what Martine called it, but Priscilla, repeating her words, exclaimed: "No, no, it's a mountain; it must be." Mrs. Redmond smiled at the emphasis that each girl threw into her words. "My dear children," she exclaimed, "I should think that you'd at once know Blomidon; surely you must often have seen it pictured. Blomidon, you remember, was the home of Glooscap, the deity of the Micmacs, and Minas Basin was his beaver pond. Poets and painters have been inspired by Blomidon, and I imagine, Martine, that you and I will even make some attempt to reproduce its beauty." "Ah," sighed Martine, "but we could never give the effect of that light and shade on the side of the mountain, for it really is a mountain, as Priscilla says; and there's something quite wonderful in that deep red that stands out so between the sky and the water." "From Grand Pré we'll have an even better view, I'm told, of Blomidon. You are so fond of jewels, Martine, that you'll be tempted to cross the Basin to hunt for amethysts." "That reminds me," said Amy, "of something I read the other day; when De Monts visited the Basin, he called Blomidon, 'Cap d'Or.' Among the amethysts that he found on an island near by was one of extraordinary size, which he took back to France and presented to the King and Queen, who had it set among the crown jewels." "We cannot linger here much longer," said Mrs. Redmond; "if we take this lower road, it will probably bring us into the business section, and then we can walk back home, along the main street." When they had done their errands and were perhaps half-way home, Mrs. Redmond, who was ahead, looked back for a moment. "Here, Amy, is something especially for you." Amy hurried on and found herself at the entrance of a little graveyard. "Oh, mamma, you are laughing at me." There was a suspicious smile on Mrs. Redmond's lips as she said: "Every one, my dear child, knows your _penchant_ for old graveyards, and this one is so bright and cheerful that you might have missed it had I not called your attention to it." Following Mrs. Redmond and Amy, the others entered the enclosure. It was, as Mrs. Redmond had said, "bright and cheerful," with neatly kept walks, and a little fountain playing in the centre. Evidently it was no longer a place of burial. Many of the stones were more than a hundred years old, and marked the resting-place of the first Connecticut settlers. "How far away they were," said Amy, "from their real home. After all, in spite of the rich dyke-lands given them here, I wonder if many of them did not regret the homes they had left." "That reminds me," said Priscilla, "of some lines I copied from a poem the other day; Eunice had the book," and she turned over the leaves of her note-book. "Read them, please," said Mrs. Redmond. So Priscilla began rather timidly, "The poem is 'The Resettlement of Acadia,' but I copied only parts of it," and then she read with expression: "'But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall till the land no more, For the vessels from Connecticut have anchored by the shore, And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with Scripture stored, Rejoices he has found at last "the garden of the Lord." * * * * * They come as Puritans, but who shall say their hearts are blind To the subtle charms of nature, and the love of humankind? * * * * * And tears fall fast from many an eye, long time unused to weep, For o'er the fields lay whitening the bones of cow and sheep.'" "I know that you'll think me frightfully stupid," was Martine's comment, as Priscilla finished reading. "That is delightful poetry, but it isn't clear in my mind who the Connecticut Puritans were. Were they exiles, too, like the Acadians and the Loyalists?" "Only by their own will. But you are not stupid in failing to understand about the resettling of Acadia. Many Nova Scotians know very little about it. After the French had been deported in 1755, this fertile Province would have been of little service to England without inhabitants. The simplest way to repeople the land was to attract colonists from the older colonies. So Governor Lawrence sent a proclamation to Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut, stating the terms on which the Government would grant land to settlers. As a result three separate groups of settlers were formed. The Massachusetts families came to Annapolis; the Rhode Islanders to the country North of Grand Pré, where there is now a Newport; and the Connecticut settlers, as Priscilla has just read, to Grand Pré. These people were of the highest character. Many of them had considerable property of their own, and they came down here in the spirit that took so many sturdy New Englanders West a generation or two ago." "Thank you, Mrs. Redmond; I am glad to know that they didn't drive the French out." "Oh, no, many of them had undoubtedly seen the fertility of Nova Scotia during the long French and Indian Wars, in which they had fought; the richness of the country was pretty well understood. But they themselves had nothing to do with deporting the Acadians. Dr. Gray explained all this at Annapolis. But come, girls! You can copy these inscriptions some other day, Priscilla. We must rest a little now, if we expect to enjoy the afternoon." When Mr. Knight called for them that afternoon the girls were surprised at his appearance. Mrs. Redmond had forgotten to say that he was an extremely young man, whose youth seemed all the greater because he tried to assume the manners and aspect of a much older person. He had been graduated from Acadia College a few years before, the youngest of his class by more than a year. He was now a teacher in the neighboring school that fitted boys for Acadia, and on this account perhaps felt the need of maintaining a dignity of demeanor that should make them forget his youth. His friendship for Balfour and his sincere admiration of the whole Airton family ought to have saved him from Martine's ridicule. But from the moment that her eye took in the details of his costume,--his high-standing collar, his round-headed walking-stick, his monocle, and his hair neatly parted in the middle (though this was hardly a detail of costume), she was convulsed with laughter. The carriage that Mr. Knight had brought was two-seated, but each seat was wide enough for three, and the pair of horses looked capable of travelling many miles without fatigue. Martine and Priscilla begged for the front seat with the driver, and Mr. Knight, accordingly, sat on the back seat with Amy and Mrs. Redmond. The party was soon outside the more closely built streets, on a broad road that for the time offered little outlook. Mr. Knight, with the evident intention of doing his full duty by Balfour's friend kept up a monologue whose steady current afforded great amusement to Martine. "Talk of babbling brooks," she murmured; "did you ever hear anything like it?" and she gave Priscilla's arm a gentle pinch that made her squirm. "He's taking any amount of trouble to make history clear," rejoined Priscilla, who, as usual, was not ready to accept Martine's point of view. "Yes, but he's beginning at the wrong end. We know all about Champlain, and De Monts, and the Scotch Fort, and all that; what we want is how the Acadians were treated at Grand Pré, and where--" "Oh, he'll get there." "Yes, if we give him time. But I am going to make him change the subject." So, leaning back, Martine turned to Mr. Knight, "You are a great friend of Mr. Airton's, I believe." "Oh, yes, indeed; that is--but of course you know--well, Mr. Airton is--ah, not exactly a contemporary of mine--that is, he is--I am older." Mr. Knight, as he spoke, grew rather red in the face. There seemed to be no excuse for his embarrassment, except the one that Mrs. Redmond gave later, that he regarded Martine's question and her way of putting it much in the light of a question from an _enfant terrible_. Realizing, however, that he had not said just the right thing, the poor young man next began to stammer in his effort to explain himself. "Balfour certainly is a great friend of mine, and one of the finest boys I know." This ought to have been sufficient to please even the critical Martine, and had Mr. Knight not used the word "boy" she might have been quite content. As it was, this word happened to irritate her, and she responded in a tone that disturbed Amy: "Oh, did you say that Mr. Airton is younger than you? Isn't he considerably taller?" If Mr. Knight's face had been red before, it now became almost a deep, deep crimson. Amy, rejoicing that her mother's seat was so far from Martine's that she had not heard this remark, resolved at the earliest opportunity to have a word alone with Martine. The opportunity, however, did not come for some time, and meanwhile Mr. Knight talked enthusiastically of the apple crops of Cornwallis, and of the fortune that any man might gather who would deal intelligently with the Gravenstein. "The Cornwallis Valley," he said, "is one of the finest farming regions in the world. You will see what I mean when you go to the Look-off, as you will while you are here. But now--" "Oh, is this an old French church?" asked Martine, excitedly, as they approached an ancient wooden structure half hidden by Lombardy poplars. If Mr. Knight heard her, he did not reply, but he jumped to the ground, even before the driver had fairly pulled up his horses, and then, when the carriage came to a full stop, offered to assist Mrs. Redmond to the ground. "This," he began, "is sometimes incorrectly called an Acadian church." "Does he mean to snub me?" whispered Martine to Priscilla. "Yet it is merely an old Scotch church," continued Mr. Knight, "built about a hundred years ago. A service is held here two or three times a year, but the building receives no great care, and, as you can see, even some of its windows have been broken by mischievous boys." "Such as Balfour Airton?" suggested Martine. But Mr. Knight took no notice of her flippant criticism of his previous remark about Balfour. "It is like a New England meeting-house," said Amy, with a tinge of disappointment, as they looked inside the old building, noting its high pews, and sounding-board, and unadorned walls. Then, as she saw Martine standing apart from the others, she remembered the words that she had meant to say to her. So, drawing near, she took the young girl's hand in hers. Martine looked up at her with a smile. "I know that you have a scolding tucked away somewhere, but I just won't let you give it to me. It won't do me the least little bit of good, and you wouldn't waste even a scolding, would you?" "Oh, Martine, you are incorrigible; you surely realize that you need at least a reproof. Mother would give it to you if she had heard." "Mrs. Redmond is too sensible to overhear disagreeable things." "Very well, Martine; but tell me honestly, wouldn't you prefer to sit with mamma? She always has a soothing effect on you." "That would bring me beside Mr. Knight. No, thanks. Surely, Amy, you realize how ridiculous he is, talking in that patronizing way of Balfour, who is a whole head taller than he." "You forget, my dear child, that if he were not a great friend of Balfour's we should not have had the pleasure of his escort this afternoon. He is certainly most kind in taking all this trouble." "I'll admit that he is very kind, though I dare say that we could have found our way around without him. But he is ridiculous, isn't he, with his walking-stick, and his English accent in an out-of-the-way place like this?" "As Wolfville has always been his home, Mr. Knight probably feels that he has the right to a walking-stick or an English accent. If he had a French accent you would perhaps make greater allowances for him. But for the sake of peace, if you don't object, I'll have Priscilla change places with you. If you overhear anything you dislike, you may vent your anger on me. I do not wish Priscilla to be a victim." "A victim! She doesn't realize that she is a victim now. Just look at her. She is hanging on every word that Mr. Knight utters--and it's all on account of his English accent." CHAPTER XVI EVANGELINE'S COUNTRY "I will admit that what he is saying is perfectly true." "And absolutely necessary, Martine, to our understanding properly this land of Evangeline." "But he needn't talk so conceitedly, as if he were the only one in the world who knows that there was no real Basil, nor Gabriel, and that Evangeline herself was somebody else. Why, even in Chicago, where we are farther away from Acadia than you are in Massachusetts, we know that. But just listen,"--and as Martine and Amy stood there in silence a few feet from the willows, they heard Mr. Knight's rather shrill voice saying: "I am aware that you Americans have mapped out almost every inch of Grand Pré, and that you can point out the site of Basil's smithy, and Gabriel's house, and the old church, although as a matter of fact only the last is at all certain. It is quite natural that you should accept your Longfellow as real history, but--" Here Martine could restrain herself no longer. Stepping forward she faced Mr. Knight, who stopped talking in his surprise at her sudden appearance from the background; and in a clear voice she began to recite: "'with a summons sonorous Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement.' Isn't that history," she asked gravely, "as well as Longfellow?" "Why, yes, in a general way," responded Mr. Knight, with an amused smile. "As to details, why, I am not quite so sure, though I can assure you I have no intention of questioning Mr. Longfellow's accuracy. Far from it. His picture of the deportation is wonderfully complete." "Yet you were criticising him." "Oh, no, only the tendency of some tourists to connect everything in the neighborhood of Grand Pré with something mentioned by Longfellow." "But if it makes the place more interesting," began Martine. "Oh, certainly, that is one of the uses of poetry, and really, Miss Stratford, I intended no criticism of 'Evangeline,' only--" and again that smile of amusement--"you will pardon me when I say that these are not Evangeline's willows, as some call them, except in the poetic sense." "They are very picturesque," said Amy, in an effort to turn the conversation. "Until I came to Nova Scotia I had never thought of willows as so strong and sturdy. In fact, I had in mind only the weeping variety." The line of willows, a dozen or so beside the rail fence, with two or three cows grazing in their shade, formed a picture so tempting that Priscilla turned her camera upon it, and with a wave of her hand pointed to something beyond. In a minute or two Mrs. Redmond and Amy were beside her, with Mr. Knight and Martine but a step behind. "Shall you object if we call this Evangeline's well?" asked Martine, with a touch of scorn in her voice. "Ah, call it what you please, Miss Stratford. It is certainly an old French well. Evangeline may have drunk from it." "Is it quite safe to drink from an old well?" "Oh, mamma, you are not usually so anxious." "I can assure you, Mrs. Redmond, that this is pure water. The wall was built a few years ago, and you will find the water deliciously cold. This well, by the way, is probably near the site of the priest's house;" and involuntarily he glanced toward Martine. "Oh," she rejoined, as if in answer to his glance, "I thought that there was no priest--except in the poem." "Ah, surely there had been a priest, though not Father Felician; and indeed at the time of the deportation the priest was away from Grand Pré, a prisoner at Halifax, and so he could not exhort the people. But these are mere matters of detail. Undoubtedly we are now standing very near the site of the church." "I wonder if the bells are hidden in the earth like those we heard of at Annapolis," and Amy turned to Martine with a smile, hoping to divert her from quizzing Mr. Knight. "Ah, the bells!" exclaimed the offending young man. "There is a story--if you should care for it." "By all means," replied Mrs. Redmond; and under the embarrassing gaze of four pairs of eyes Mr. Knight told his tale. "It isn't a remarkable story in any way, only they say that when the Acadians saw that they were prisoners, some of them managed to take down the bell and wall it up in one of the vaults under the church, while the church treasure was put in the other. Years afterwards, in the days of the English settlers, a strange vessel was seen in the Basin one night. People who passed this way thought they heard queer noises during the night, and in the morning the ground near the site of the old church was disturbed. Some people said that in the night they had heard a bell ringing. That night there came a terrible storm, and soon bits of wreckage drifted in that must have come from the strange vessel. In this way every one believed that the theft had been avenged--if the strangers stole the bell and the treasure. It is only fair to say," continued Mr. Knight, "that some believe that the bell was taken by returning Acadians who wished to set it up in an Acadian chapel on the Gaspé coast. At any rate, there are people still living who have heard their parents say that at certain times they can hear the distant ringing of this Grand Pré bell." "How weird!" cried Martine. "Are there any more stories like that? I love them." "Oh, there are some others connected with buried treasures, but an evil fate was usually supposed to attend those who grew suddenly rich by unearthing Acadian treasure; and there are tales of ghostly fires on St. John's eve; and other stories used to trouble me very much when I was small and had to pass lonely places in the night." "Oho," thought Martine, though she said nothing, "then it is as I thought; he is easily scared." "At the time of the deportation," said Mr. Knight, as they took their places again in the carriage, "the water came much nearer the village. Since the days of the Acadians thousands of acres of dyke-lands have been reclaimed. When the Connecticut settlers came they found many dykes broken, through which the sea was rolling in, and they might have had a hard time repairing them if they had not found a few Acadians still left in the country, who had managed to escape the English and were lurking in the neighborhood of their old homes." "That reminds me," said Priscilla; "who were the Acadians, that is, where did they come from in the first place? I have never thought of this before." "Why, Priscilla, they were--" then Amy stopped, not feeling quite sure of her ground. "Oh, they were French, from--" and Martine could get no farther. "Of course they were French, but why did they know so much about dykes and such things?" When no one else seemed inclined to answer the question, Mr. Knight undertook to reply. "The Acadians of Grand Pré, like the Acadians of Annapolis, were nearly all descended from a group of peasants from Rochelle, Pictou, and Saintonge, who came out with D'Aunay and Razilly about 1630. They came from a region of marshes, and they brought with them the art of building dykes. The _aboiteaux_ that they built were marvels, and before you go we must try to show you one of the dykes at low tide, when all the wonderful method of building will be displayed. Pierre Terriau, by the way, was the name of the first Acadian to settle in the Grand Pré region. He came to the shores of the Habitant in 1671. Others soon joined him. The people at Minas were so shut off from Port Royal that they grew very independent. Indeed, this desire to escape the close observation of those at the Fort was what sent Acadians from Port Royal to this new region. In time there were three parishes in Minas,--St. Joseph, St. Charles, and Grand Pré,--and the people were like one great family, constantly inter-marrying, and always ready to help one another. "'Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance,' as your Longfellow says;" and Martine, had she been inclined, might have taken this as an apology for the disrespect she had imagined cast on her poet a little earlier. But there was no time now to discuss either Longfellow or the Acadians. Before the party stretched the broad dyke-lands, where already many farmers were cutting hay, while here and there were mammoth haystacks. Priscilla snapped her camera at a hay wagon with a larger load than any she had ever seen, drawn by two of the heaviest, sleekest oxen; Amy made a few notes in her diary; Mrs. Redmond sighed for her palette and sketch-book; and Martine exclaimed loudly on the richness of color, the vivid green of the marshes, the unclouded blue of the sky, and the richer blue of the water, with a glimpse here and there of reddish shores, and above all Blomidon, the magnificent, showing up in the distance, like a veritable giant. "Have you seen all that you care to see at Grand Pré?" asked Mr. Knight, politely, with a "Here, driver, draw up for a last look at Blomidon before we turn toward Avonport." "How dark it looks now!" exclaimed Amy, pointing to the promontory. "That is because the sun no longer shines on it," replied Mr. Knight "Listen to one of our poets: "'This is that black bastion, based in surge, Pregnant with agate and with amethyst, Whose foot the tides of storied Minas scourge, Whose top austere withdraws into its mist. * * * * * "'Yonder, across these reeling fields of foam, Came the sad threat of the avenging ships. What profit now to know if just the doom, Though harsh. The streaming eyes, the praying lips, The shadow of inextinguishable pain, The poet's deathless music, these remain.'" "Have we seen all that we can see?" interrupted Martine, untouched by the poetical tribute to her Acadians. She was determined to show no appreciation of anything said by Mr. Knight. "Have we seen all that we can see?" repeated Martine, adding with some sharpness, "I thought that there would be much more." "Well, I am sure--" and Mr. Knight hesitated, "I am sorry--but there isn't so very much--you know all the Acadian houses were burnt, and it's just a modern village--the old Covenanter Church is perhaps the oldest thing--and you've seen the old well and the willows and the things that we point out to Americans." "There it is!" thought Martine, "that same patronizing tone when he speaks of Americans." "Oh, there is one thing," continued the unhappy young man, conscious now, as at all times, of Martine's disapproval, "I should have shown you the little ridge near the station where Colonel Noble and one of his soldiers were buried, after that terrible fight in 1747. You remember the French had only seven killed to the one hundred English who were slaughtered." "That was a cowardly attack," said Amy, warmly. "But it was the real French, and not the Acadians, who were responsible," interposed Martine. "Yet the Acadians helped--at least as guides." "This pleasant country has certainly witnessed a great deal of tragedy." Mrs. Redmond's voice was that of the peacemaker. "Yet through it all Blomidon has remained there calm and placid." Up to this time Priscilla had had little to say. "But Glooscap, the deity of the Micmacs," responded Mrs. Redmond,--"you remember that after the white men came to Minas, displeased with their teachings, he fled away, and has never been seen since. "'You can see yourself Five Islands Glooscap flung at him that day, When from Blomidon to Sharp he tore the Beaver's dam away. Cleared the channel, and the waters thundered out into the Bay. Here he left us--see the orchards, red and gold in every tree! All the land from Gaspereau to Portapique and Cheverie, All the garden lands of Minas and a passage out to sea.'" "Why, mamma, I never heard you quote poetry--at such length." "Perhaps you thought that I couldn't, but this is a Canadian poet, and later you must read more of the myths grouped around Glooscap." "Oh, I know that Blomidon was his home, and Minas his beaver-pond, and Spencer Island used to be his kettle that he tipped upside down when he deserted Acadia, and two rocks there in the Bay were once his dogs that he turned to stone at the same time. He never was cruel, never grew old, and was never to die, and so I suppose that the Indians are looking constantly for him to come back and restore their own to them." "As to that," said the serious Mr. Knight, "the Indians in Nova Scotia are much better off than in the days of Glooscap. They may sit side by side with white children in almost all the schools of the country. Many of them live on land of their own, and raise live stock--though unluckily they prefer ponies to heifers, and in every way the government is fitting them for the full responsibilities of citizenship." "Oh, dear," sighed Martine, laying her hand on Amy's and leaning forward so that those on the back seat might not hear. "What a regular schoolmaster he is! He is more improving even than you, Miss Amy Redmond. But listen--how much more appreciative is our dear Priscilla." In spite of herself Amy could but smile as Priscilla's gentle voice came to her. "Thank you, Mr. Knight; the present condition of the Indians interests me very much, and I have made a note of what you have said to report at one of our Indian Aid Association meetings when I return home," whereat the driver of their vehicle laughed, chuckled, and shook his head. "I'd like to show her some specimen Micmacs," he said to Martine, "that come round here oftener than once in a while, and have some distance to travel before they are fully fitted for the responsibilities of citizenship." "Now, ladies, a last look at Blomidon," cried Mr. Knight, as the carriage took a sharp turn, and then, after one long, backward look, they pressed on and drove westward toward Avonport. "Dear Prissie," said Martine, when at last they stood on the broad beach, "you have been a very good girl to-day." Priscilla, reddening at her words, made no reply. "Yes, you have been very good," continued Martine, "and when Mr. Knight recalls this afternoon he will remember with pleasure the close attention that you have given to his every word." "Oh, Martine, how absurd you are; I never heard you talk so pompously before." "This is the effect of a few hours spent with an eloquent guide, philosopher, and friend. Poor Amy is under the spell now; he seems to be teaching her geology." Looking in the direction of the spot where they had left Mrs. Redmond and Amy, Priscilla saw that Mr. Knight was pointing at the stones with his walking-stick, as if they were diagrams on a blackboard. "He is probably explaining the rock formation," said Priscilla, solemnly. "My guidebook says that the region has great geological interest." "Then let us go off by ourselves somewhere, for if he gets the chance he will try to teach us all he knows, and really, I could not stand any more instruction to-day. Come, Prissie." At first Priscilla hesitated. "Do come; we'll have such a good chance to study those rocks and crags by ourselves." "I'd rather wait for the others, but still--" "That's a good girl;" and, half dragging Priscilla by the arm, Martine set off rapidly toward the bold cliffs that promised them more entertainment than they had had that afternoon. "There are sure to be shells," said Martine, "and perhaps curious seaweeds in some of the little pools. The tide is so high that undoubtedly there are many strange things washed up here." Martine was correct in her surmises, and for half an hour the two felt like explorers as they picked their way from stone to stone, filling their hands with trophies. "Isn't it fun?" cried Martine. "I feel as if we were quite alone in the world. We can just enjoy ourselves without thinking of history or geology, or anything else." "I wonder if the others will be worried," said Priscilla, who herself was not quite sure that she enjoyed this sensation of being quite alone in the world, with nobody near but Martine. "Of course they won't be worried. We shall be back before they even miss us. Besides, I'd like to worry Mr. Knight." Priscilla looked at her watch. "I think that we ought to return now; we have been gone more than half an hour." "Oh, not yet--but listen; some one is calling. It is Mr. Knight. 'Young ladies, young ladies,'" and Martine mimicked the tones that now were borne quite clearly to their ears. "I just won't have him find us, and lead us back as if we were two children who had done something that we shouldn't; let us hide behind these rocks until he passes." Somewhat against her will Priscilla allowed herself to be led into a rocky nook where a jutting ledge hid them effectually from any passer-by. So Mr. Knight, walking along the cliffs above them, even had he peered down to the lower level, could hardly have seen them. His "Young ladies, young ladies, we're starting home now," grew feebler and feebler, and when Martine had assured herself that he was really a safe distance away, she came out from her hiding-place with a cry of "Danger past." "We mustn't stay here too long," remonstrated Priscilla; "Mrs. Redmond will be worried." "I am perfectly willing to go now," replied Martine, "since Mr. Knight won't lead me by the nose. We had a hard climb to this grotto, but it will be much easier going down." Hardly had Martine spoken when Priscilla, who was a few steps ahead of her, turned back with a cry of alarm. "Look, Martine; what shall we do?" Stepping up beside her friend, Martine too exclaimed in surprise. "Do you suppose it will come any higher? I have heard of the rapid rise of the tide, but this has just rushed in." Even in that first quick glance both girls realized that they were in a critical position. In going up to the "grotto," as Martine called it, they had taken no notice of tide-water marks, such as both of them might have observed. The rocky arms by which they had ascended were now covered by water, and an incoming wave dashed over Priscilla's feet as they stood there, uncertain what to do. "Will it come all the way in? We shall be drenched if it does." "No," said Martine, turning about and inspecting the nook where they had been standing when they heard Mr. Knight's voice. "You can see that if the last high tide had come in lately as far as that little hollow, there would be some water there now. Instead, it is perfectly dry. You can prove that for yourself." "Yes, yes, you are right; by standing back here we can at least keep dry, but oh, dear, when shall we get out?" "Probably not until Mr. Knight rescues us," replied Martine, cheerfully, "and even he will hardly come to our relief until low tide, which is probably some hours away." Whatever the real danger, Priscilla and Martine saw at once that they were in a very disagreeable predicament. The little niche in which alone they could have a dry footing on three sides had steep walls, whose height at the lowest was surely twenty feet. Martine scanned the sides carefully, but the stone surface was perfectly smooth. Nowhere was there a projection that offered the least foothold. It was in no way possible for either girl to climb to the top. Toward them flowed the advancing tide. It had entirely cut them off from the path by which they had reached the grotto, and though it might not be dangerously deep at every point of the beach and rocks that it now covered, neither girl had courage to venture into the water. Martine indeed had proposed to wade as far as it seemed safe, and then, if necessary, swim to some point where she might get a footing. "No, no," Priscilla had remonstrated, "you might in some way miss the others, and if you had to wait around for some time in your wet clothes you would be really worse off than you are now--and besides, I should hate to be left here all alone." "It might be a waste of energy," replied Martine, "for surely the tide cannot come up to this little hollow; so it is only a question of time when we shall get out of this. But it does seem to me that so unusually clever a person as that Mr. Knight thinks himself might have found us before this." "You aren't quite fair, Martine, for he certainly was just above us here, calling with all his might. I dare say that he even looked over the edge. You hid yourself so completely, and made me hide too, so that when he looked he could not see us. He must think that we went in exactly the opposite direction, and he and the others are probably a mile away now, searching for us." "I do not care how much bother Mr. Knight has, but I do regret putting Mrs. Redmond and Amy to such trouble. Why did you come with me, Priscilla? If you had refused we shouldn't have got into this scrape." "Oh, Martine, when you fairly dragged me here! Surely you are unjust." Martine knew that she was unjust but like many persons who realize their own foolishness, she experienced a certain relief for the present in blaming some one else. "It will be hours," she grumbled, "before the tide will be low enough to let us out for it is still coming in, and we shall be kept here for some time after it turns." "If we get out before dark I shall be thankful. It will be terribly disagreeable to find ourselves alone here in the dark." "Oh, it won't be as bad as that!" Martine's voice became suddenly cheerful. Self-reproach had taken hold of her. What if Priscilla should really suffer from this escapade? As if in answer to her thoughts, Priscilla coughed once or twice. "There it is," thought Martine; "Priscilla is away for her health, and I may undo all the good of the summer. It will be a great disappointment to Mrs. Redmond, as well as to Priscilla's mother. They both expected so much from this trip." Which reflections showed that Martine was certainly not a villain of the deepest dye. Had she been hardened in perversity she could not so soon have reached a state of repentance. But repentance without works avails little, and when Priscilla coughed for a fourth time Martine became quite feverish with anxiety. Two large clouds in the distance seemed to her to indicate a coming storm. Wretched enough would their condition be if they should be caught by a heavy rain while they were in this exposed position. CHAPTER XVII SAFE AGAIN Time passes slowly when one has nothing to do, and although the fact that their situation was equally disagreeable to both should have drawn Martine and Priscilla closely together, they now found even less than usual to talk about. Yet strangely enough, without blaming the other each was heaping mental reproaches on herself,--Martine saw her own folly in running away from the others, and Priscilla was conscious that she had been too easily led. "We might help time pass by reciting poetry," said Martine. "Or discussing history," rejoined Priscilla. "This might be a good time to settle the respective merits of the Loyalists and the Acadians." "With the tide coming in so fast I should hardly dare get into a discussion; there'd be no one to help pull us in if we fell out. But listen, isn't that some one calling?" "I believe it is, although the sound doesn't come from above. Don't you hear it?" "Yes, I do; it's some one calling 'halloo, halloo.' Perhaps--" "Yes, it may be some one searching for us." Any doubts that Martine may have had were soon removed by the sight of a small dory gliding into their field of vision some distance below them. There were two men in the dory, both hatless and in their shirt-sleeves. In an instant both girls were on their feet, waving their handkerchiefs. In the same instant the men in the boat caught sight of them, and one of them lifted his oar and flourished it two or three times in the air. "How will they get here?" asked Martine. "Oh, probably the water isn't very deep; they can push up part way, and then wade." "If they can wade, we might have ventured." "It would not have been safe for us. See, they are pushing the boat up all the way." The water, indeed, was deep enough to let the boat come up into the hollow--now filled with water--between the two arms of rock, whereby the two girls had climbed to their present position. While the boat was still some distance away Priscilla and Martine had recognized the immaculate Mr. Knight as the man who was steering. Mr. Knight, however, was immaculate no longer; he was hatless and coatless, his hair somewhat tumbled, and his face very red from the unwonted exertion. From the moment of recognizing him until the moment when the side of the boat grazed the ledge was a very short time indeed. "We thought we'd find you somewhere near here; at least, we hoped so," said Mr. Knight, looking from one girl to the other as if to decide which was the real culprit. "But how in the world did you get here?" "Walked," replied Martine, laconically; "hadn't time to swim." "But if you walked why didn't I see you when I looked an hour or two ago? I remember standing above this particular place and calling. Perhaps you weren't here then." Martine said nothing. If it should be necessary to confess she could attend to this later. At present she had enough to think about. "Is Mrs. Redmond worried?" asked Priscilla, anxiously. "Yes and no," replied Mr. Knight, "though she'll be glad enough to see you." "Must we go in the boat?" Priscilla spoke as if she dreaded the experiment, and she added, "It looks so very wobbly." "Oh, that boat, she's as steady as a setting hen," exclaimed Mr. Knight's companion. "Just you look out, though, and don't wet your feet." "I'll go first, Priscilla, and if I survive, why, then you can follow." But before Martine had attempted to take her place Mr. Knight turned to Priscilla, "Of course, if you would rather not go in the dory we could wait here until the tide ebbs. I could stay with you while Mr. Sands rows back to report to Mrs. Redmond. But the boat is perfectly safe, I can assure you." "Of course it is perfectly safe," exclaimed Martine, angrily; "I never heard such a silly idea." But whether she meant to apply "silly" to Priscilla's timidity or to Mr. Knight's suggestion she did not deign to explain, and the young man, after one curious glance in her direction, did not address her again. It was but the work of a minute or two to get the girls aboard the dory, and soon they were at a landing-place from which they could reach Mrs. Redmond and Amy. "You ain't the first people that's got caught in that way on the rocks," said Mr. Sands as they rowed along, "only generally it's some romantic couple that rather likes to stay there till the tide goes out. But your ma was afraid that if you was there you might try to wade, and so catch your death of cold, and besides, she wasn't sure you were anywhere, as long as Mr. Knight couldn't find you; so when they all seemed so concerned the only thing was to haul out the dory, though it wouldn't have hurt you a mite if you'd had to stay." "I would as soon have stayed," said Martine, coldly; "it was a good view, and I rather enjoyed sitting there in that little grotto." "Grotto," Mr. Sands laughed loudly, and Martine fancied that a smile flickered at the corners of Mr. Knight's lips. "Grotto," repeated Mr. Sands. "Well, I never heard that name used before in these parts. I thought a grotto was foreign, but you've said something now that I won't forget. Here, Mr. Knight, you help the young ladies out, while I steady the boat," and in a second the two girls were running up the beach, where Mrs. Redmond and Amy greeted them with open arms. It was now after sunset, and all were hungry and cold. In aspect they were wholly unlike the party that had set out from Wolfville that afternoon. All seemed quiet and subdued,--Martine and Priscilla, because they had really been more fatigued by their little adventure than at the time they had realized; Mrs. Redmond and Amy, because they had been most anxious at the prolonged absence of the girls, and Mr. Knight--well, perhaps inwardly he was blaming "those Americans" for giving him much more trouble than was his due. Whatever his thoughts, however, he made no criticism, and any perturbation that he may have felt was shown only by his silence. What was most to the point, however, the horses and the driver were in good spirits, and set out for Wolfville at a fine rate. While the others had been looking and waiting, man and beast had had food and drink, and this accounted for their energy. "Grotto," cried Mr. Sands, as the party drove away, "well, that does beat all." Once on the way back to Wolfville they stopped before a house, after Mr. Knight had had a word with the driver. Then the young man, excusing himself, went within, returning soon with a small package. This he opened after he had resumed his seat, and distributed to each of the party a bread and butter sandwich and two or three cookies. "I might have brought more," he explained, "but it would be a pity to take away all your appetite for your supper at Wolfville." The sandwiches and the cakes seemed to promote conversation, and in the remaining half hour the party was as bright and cheerful as a party of young persons ought to be after a summer excursion. When they reached the house Mr. Knight declined the invitation that Mrs. Redmond gave him to stay to tea, though he promised to call on her the next day. "While we are in Wolfville," said Mrs. Redmond, as he turned away, "we may not be able to show you how thoroughly we enjoyed the delightful afternoon you have given us, but if you come to Boston we will do our best to make a return." "I can assure you that the pleasure has been altogether on my side," responded Mr. Knight. "And I can assure you," added Martine, who had now fully recovered her spirits, "that Priscilla was an unwilling accomplice of mine this afternoon, and that you were very good to rescue me as well as her--everything considered." "Oh, but I can assure you," began Mr. Knight, "that I didn't mean--that is, I--" and here realizing that the more he tried to say the more he might blunder, the poor young man backed down the steps with a polite bow and a single "good-night." "Priscilla," said Amy, that evening, as she handed the former her mail, "here's a funny little package for you, half open at one end, and a letter directed in the same handwriting. Excuse my noticing that the letter is post-marked 'Meteghan.'" "Why shouldn't you?" responded Priscilla. "We all have acquired the habit of looking at one another's post-marks." "Open the parcel," cried Amy; "I'm curious to see what it is." Priscilla glanced at Martine, who was deep in a letter from one of her boarding-school friends. Then she cut the string, and, loosening the paper, handed the package to Amy while she glanced over the Meteghan letter. "Why, it looks like Yvonne's lace," cried Amy, and at the word "Yvonne" Martine joined the group. "Why, it is Yvonne's lace," she exclaimed. "How did you get it?" "I sent for some," replied Priscilla. "I thought that it might help her if I should buy it. I could not buy much, but it has pleased her to sell it. Read her letter." Tears came into Martine's eyes as she read the simple letter of thanks that seemed to come straight from the heart of the little French girl. "She remembers us all, though she doesn't spell the names just right, and she sends the best love of Uncle Alexandre, Uncle Placide, and aunts Mathilde and Marie. Well, we must have made an impression." Then, after glancing at the letter a second time, Martine continued: "But you are a brick, Priscilla. How did you happen to think of sending for the lace? I had forgotten all about it, though I was anxious to help Yvonne." "She writes a good letter, considering that she sees so dimly;" and Amy called Martine's attention to the clear, round hand. "The convent sisters have certainly done a great deal for the child." When all had admired the strip of lace, Priscilla folded it up neatly and laid it with her letters. She was relieved that Martine had not taken offence at her writing for it. Though Priscilla had not intended this to be a silent reproof to Martine, it had somewhat this effect, for too frequently in Martine's life "out of sight" meant "out of mind," and though she had no desire to break the promises that she had made so freely when in Meteghan, still, but for Priscilla's reminder she might have been long in keeping them. At the same time it is but fair to say that already without Priscilla's knowledge she had taken steps toward carrying out the larger plan that she had conceived regarding Yvonne's future. "Mamma," said Amy, after she had shown Mrs. Redmond Yvonne's letter, "I have just had a letter from Julia." "Ah, that is delightful," said Mrs. Redmond. "I am always so pleased to hear from Julia." Julia Bourne, the cousin of Amy's friend Brenda,--Mrs. Weston--was little older than Amy or the other girls in Brenda's group. Julia, on being graduated from Radcliffe, had decided to spend most of her time and a fair share of her income on a Domestic Science School for girls. The experiment carried on in the Mansion, a stately West End house belonging to her former teacher, Miss South, during its two years of existence, had proved most successful. The work at the Mansion had been in the nature of social settlement work, and Amy, with little money to give, had been glad to enroll herself as a voluntary teacher. But for the Nova Scotia trip Amy would have been one of Julia's assistants this very summer at Happy Hill. Often, indeed, in the course of her travels she had thought of the work going on there, and had indulged in a little self-reproach that she should be spending her own holidays in idleness. Most persons, even those inclined to be critical, would have said that Amy had really enough work on her hands in the five or six hours of tutoring that she tried to give Priscilla every week. Yet even granting that her time was not sufficiently occupied, there is a kind of idleness that in the end is more beneficial to the individual than any amount of work. Although Amy had not been in danger, perhaps, of breaking down during the past season, still, Mrs. Redmond realized that she had been working up to the limit of her strength, and she had planned the Nova Scotia trip in such a way that Amy should be unable to withstand going. That Amy would need all her strength for her senior year at Wellesley had been Mrs. Redmond's strongest plea. Every day of this summer had been a proof to Amy of her mother's wisdom. "Of course we miss you [wrote Julia], and I am glad to say that no one else can exactly take your place. But I honestly believe that in a certain way you can do almost as much good in Acadia as here; for it will be a great thing to inspire Priscilla with more confidence in herself, and tone down Martine a little. "Here at Happy Hill we have two or three of the girls who were at the Mansion its first year. We have been able, I am glad to say, to imbue them with some sense of responsibility. Each of them in turn is called housekeeper for a week, and although things are not really altogether in her hands, the effect on her is really the same, and we older people merely act as a check to prevent matters from going too far out of line. "It is very amusing to see these older girls take charge of the younger, and instruct them in all the details of country life. They have some gardening to do, and they make butter and cheese, and each one is shown how to drive, and is permitted at intervals to drive down to the village. Then they have open-air gymnastics in addition to the very considerable amount of exercise that goes with their housework, and they have just enough study from books every day to prevent their growing altogether rusty. "Mr. and Mrs. Elton--it doesn't seem quite natural yet to speak of Miss South as Mrs. Elton--are now, I suppose, in Norway. They sent the girls a box of unmounted photographs last week, showing the most picturesque scenery in Greece and Italy, where they were in the early spring. Nora is to be with me part of the summer, and Anstiss Rowe, as perhaps you know, is giving all her time to Happy Hill. Brenda undoubtedly keeps you informed about affairs at Rockley. She is perfectly happy, and altogether different from the Brenda of a year ago. "When your Acadia days are over, I hope that you will have a week to spare for Happy Hill before Wellesley opens again. With my best regards to your mother and the girls, "JULIA." When Amy had finished this letter Mrs. Redmond glanced through it. "I should like to go up to Happy Hill for at least a week," said Amy. "It is altogether probable that you can. We shall be at home by the first of September. Why, what has become of Martine?" Amy looked toward the chair where Martine had been sitting a few minutes before. It was certainly empty. "I'll run up to her room;" and, suiting her action to her word, in a moment Amy was knocking at Martine's door. In answer to a feeble "Come in" she entered, only to find Martine lying face downward on the bed. "Why, what is the matter, child?" she asked, affectionately stroking Martine's hair. "Oh, nothing," came in muffled tones from the prostrate Martine, "only this has been such a long day." "You are tired," responded Amy, "and probably you were more excited than you realized when you and Priscilla were lost." "We weren't lost"--Martine threw considerable spirit into her voice,--"I knew just where we were." "But we did not--" Amy, though amused, tried not to show her amusement--"we were rather alarmed, so really my mother and I ought to be the persons to collapse. Come, Martine, even if you are tired, you must cheer up, and go to bed." [Illustration: "'Why, what is the matter, child?' she asked affectionately."] "It isn't because I'm tired," and Martine's tears flowed afresh, "but I thought that to-night there would be a letter from my mother. There must be a mail in, and I have counted up the time from New York. There ought to be a letter to-night. I am sure that she's worse." "Nonsense, child. Probably she does not feel quite well enough to write, and your father has overlooked the mail. You know how apt men are to forget." So Amy tried to pacify Martine, and at last succeeded in getting her to look at things more cheerfully. She had never before seen Martine in low spirits, and she felt quite sure that fatigue, even more than disappointment, had caused the tears. "I will admit," she said, "that this has been a trying day, beginning with--" "Beginning with Mr. Knight,"--and now Martine was smiling. "Wasn't he funny, with his 'you Americans,' as if we were some strange species?" "But in the end don't you think that Mr. Knight did pretty well? I think that he more than redeemed himself by his kindness." "Well, as he is a friend of Balfour Airton's I suppose that I ought not to criticise him. There, don't shake your head, Amy. Yes, I do think that he was very kind--in the end. But the day has been fearfully long. We ought not to have taken that walk this morning." When at last Martine went to bed Amy sat beside her until she fell asleep. There was a strange mingling of childishness and womanliness in this little Chicagoan to which Amy could not accustom herself. Her worldly wisdom and grown-up air of womanliness were quite as hard to understand as the extreme childishness in which she sometimes indulged. The more equable Priscilla was much easier to comprehend, and yet Amy was not altogether sure that Priscilla, under stress of circumstances, would be the easier to manage. CHAPTER XVIII THE RIGHT AND THE WRONG OF IT "For my own part," said Martine, "I am just as firmly on the side of the Acadians as ever. They may have been stupid about the oath, and probably they were too easily influenced by Le Loutre, but they had been handed from England to France and from France to England so often that I don't see how they could consider themselves English when really they were French." "You must have had Irish ancestors as well as French," said Amy, with a laugh. "Your remark sounds almost like a bull." "Well, I mean to take the bull by the horns," replied Martine; "you can blame any one else for the deportation, but not the poor Acadians. They certainly did not in the least know who they were. But I am glad," she concluded, "that you have taken so much trouble to explain it all to me, Miss Amy Redmond, for I have never before understood why the English were so cruel." "It is surely a fact"--Amy spoke decidedly--"that the English Government would have preferred to keep the Acadians their subjects. They needed them to supply provisions, and to man their garrisons. With their knowledge of woodcraft, and of the Indians, the Acadians would have been invaluable on the English side." "But you couldn't expect them to fight against the French, who were their own flesh and blood!" and Martine cast a glance of reproach at her friend. "That, of course, was the chief point in the dispute. The Acadians claimed to be neutrals, when really they were sending their produce to Louisbourg, or to the French in other places, to help them continue their war with the English. Yet they expected the protection of the English when in trouble, and they always had it, although their only tax was the tithe that they spent for the support of their own church." Amy and Martine were sitting on the broad sands of Evangeline's beach, looking toward Blomidon, and waiting for Priscilla, who had strolled some distance away. They had driven over from Wolfville in the omnibus, and were to have an hour or two at the edge of the Basin before they need return. In the midst of the discussion Priscilla rejoined them. "More Acadians!" she cried with a smile. "Let me ask you a favor--" "To say no more about them?" "No, not that. When we leave the neighborhood of Wolfville we shall think of other things; so, once for all I, for one, should be glad to have the whole story straightened out. We know what happened after the expulsion, for we've been at Clare, and we know about the earliest French; we heard all that at Annapolis. But now, my dear Miss Amy Redmond, you have been looking into this thing thoroughly, and if--" "Yes," urged Martine, "if you'll please tell us what happened in the years between, it will save our reading, and you will make it much clearer to us than any book." "Down with your flattery," rejoined Amy; "yet as there's no time like the present, I will tell the story briefly. We might as well pass over the various transfers of Acadia from France to England, and from England to France, before 1710. But the conquest of Annapolis by General Nicholson in that year gave Acadia finally to England. The change of Government was confirmed by the treaty of Utrecht in 1713, and all Acadians who did not wish to be subject to England were given time to leave. Those who remained were required to take an oath of fidelity to King George, and England on her part agreed to let them exercise their own religion under their own priests. In spite of these arrangements many of these simple-minded Acadians still considered themselves subjects of the King of France, even up to the time of the expulsion. Perhaps the priests encouraged them in this and delayed their taking the oath of allegiance. By 1730, however, nearly all had signed the oath, and if war had not broken out later between France and England there might have been no further trouble. But when it was found that many of the Acadians, instead of remaining neutral, were joining with French and Indians in attacks on the English, Lord Cornwallis, the Governor at Halifax, required them to take the oath again. This was necessary because a new generation had grown up who had been encouraged by the priests and politicians in enmity to England. Most of them would not take the new oath, because it required them to defend Acadia against the enemies of England, and this, they said, would oblige them to fight against the French, their kinsmen. In 1751 there was a large immigration of Acadians to Île St. Jean, then in the hands of the French. These exiles suffered much, but they were encouraged to hope that when France reconquered Acadia they could go back to their deserted homes. "Cornwallis continued firm, and at last the Acadians were informed that all who would not take the oath must leave Nova Scotia. In the very beginning deputies from the Acadian villages had gone to Halifax to say that it would be impossible to take the oath and ask permission to dispose of their farms and leave the country." "Why didn't they go? It would have been so much better in the end." "It is hard to say, Martine. Friends of the Acadians claim that the English put all kinds of obstacles in their way, first refusing them transportation in English vessels, then preventing their buying rigging at Louisbourg for vessels of their own. But, as I have said, more than a thousand did eventually pass over to the Île St. Jean, and some of these took part in the defence of Beauséjour." "Well, they were surely very conscientious," said Martine, "for they knew that by taking the oath and becoming British subjects they could live in comfort on their farms. It was very brave in them to choose poverty and exile." "It might seem braver, if behind it all they had not had the feeling that the time was near when the French would drive the British from Nova Scotia and so restore them to their own." "It was all that Le Loutre, I suppose," commented Priscilla; "he was responsible for so much." "Whether he was really as bad as some represent him would be hard to say; but this missionary to the Micmacs had great influence, and it was all used against the English. We pity the Acadians, but we ought to pity the innocent English settlers on the outskirts of Halifax, and at other places, who were tortured and murdered by the Indians whom Le Loutre and other French had stirred up. Now, to keep to our story without making it too long, the Acadians dallied and dallied. They did not take the oath of allegiance, and they did not seem to be preparing to leave the country. At last Lieutenant-Governor Lawrence gave them only a short time to decide. "Well, the French and Indian War continued, and the English were generally more successful than the French. At last Beauséjour was captured, chiefly by the help of a body of troops commanded by Colonel Winslow. These men were New Englanders,--sturdy, conscientious men from country towns, a large number of whom had been farmers and small tradesmen. "Beauséjour fell the middle of June, and it may interest you, Priscilla, to know that Le Loutre, rather than fall into the hands of the English, fled to Quebec, where he was coldly received. Later he went to France, and died in obscurity. "In July, 1755, a memorial was sent to Lieutenant-Governor Lawrence, signed by twenty-five leading Acadians, on the subject of the oath, and requesting the return of their guns that the Government had obliged them to give up on account of their sympathy with the French. When Governor Lawrence sent for the signers to come to Halifax, fifteen appeared before them. He pointed out the insincerity of their memorial, and when he desired them to sign the oath they flatly refused. Finally, on the twenty-eighth of July, these deputies and others from Annapolis appeared before the Governor and Council, and although warned that the consequences would be serious, they declined to take any oath differing from that taken under Governor Phillips; that is, they were unwilling to bear arms for the English against the French." "That, I must say, seems noble to me, since they knew what risks they were running," cried Martine. "That is to an extent a matter of opinion. But their refusal decided Governor Lawrence what to do. He immediately wrote to Colonel Monckton that enough transports had been ordered up the Bay for the Acadians, and that he must remove them. He was told that all the property of the Acadians was now forfeited to the Crown, and that they would be allowed to take on board ship only their money and their household goods." "It is a wonder he left them anything," said Martine, sarcastically. "He wasn't absolutely heartless, and he gave careful directions for provisioning the transports for their long journey." "I am sorry that it was a New Englander who had to carry out these cruel orders," said Priscilla. "Yes, it fell on Lieutenant-Colonel Winslow, and a detachment of those New England troops that had fought at Beauséjour to attend to the deportation at Grand Pré. It was Tuesday, the second of September, when he ordered all the male inhabitants from ten years upwards to assemble on the following Friday in the church at Grand Pré, to hear what his Majesty had to say to them. Then--but really I think one gets the story better from Longfellow. It is from this point that we have our sympathies so deeply touched, and we are willing to forget that the simple-minded Acadians had brought much of their trouble on themselves." "It doesn't make their sufferings less, even if they were to blame," interposed Martine. "That is true. They may have been less peaceable and amiable than they have been represented by the poet, and their homes and their ways of living may have been less--less--" "Æsthetic," suggested Priscilla, with a smile. "Well, æsthetic, then. But all this does not alter the fact that they deserved the greatest pity. Many of them, indeed, honestly believed that they were still the subjects of Louis XV, and that to take the oath required by the English would be a great crime." "What they needed was a really good and disinterested man to advise them; some one like Paul Mascarene, who was partly French, and yet could get the English point of view," said Priscilla. "Some way I can't feel that the English were altogether disinterested--although," she concluded hastily, "I am more on the English side than the French,--and I am very sorry that it was a man of Plymouth descent who carried away the Acadians from Grand Pré." This, in view of Priscilla's previous prejudice against the Acadians, was really a very liberal statement, as the others realized. "It should console you, then, to remember that Colonel Winslow was simply a soldier acting under orders, and we have no reason to think that he used needless cruelty. 'It hurts me to hear their weeping and wailing,' he said in his journal, and this shows that he had a tender heart." "But I can't see why families were separated, and why all these Acadians couldn't have been sent up to Upper Canada to the other French;" and Martine sighed deeply. "You forget that France and England were still at war, and to have put so many able-bodied men at the service of France would indeed have been madness. Governor Lawrence explained all this in letters to the governors of the different colonies to whom he sent the Acadians. They were sent to as many different colonies as possible, and broken up into small groups, so that they could not unite in any plan for return." "I suppose that Governor Lawrence thought it better for them to become public charges,--people who had always been perfectly independent." "Oh, well, there is a bright side. Many of them never lost hope for a minute, and even those who went to the French West Indies soon began to plan to get back to Acadia. In the end, after the Peace, they began to take the oath, and receive their new grants of land, and since then England has had no more devoted subjects--as we saw for ourselves in Clare." "All the same," said Martine, "this must be a haunted region around here, and I can tell you I should hate to walk through Grand Pré alone after dark, or even drive through." "Speaking of haunted regions," said Priscilla, "though I don't know why I think of him just now, what do you suppose has happened to Mr. Knight? No one has seen him since our adventure." "_We_ haven't seen him," responded Amy, "but I sincerely hope that he is in the land of the living. I must have forgotten to tell you that mamma had a letter from him the day after our drive, telling us that he had been suddenly called to New Brunswick, and expressing his regret that probably he should not see us again." "That must have been a great relief to him," murmured Martine, "that call to New Brunswick. Otherwise he might have had to see us again." "Oh, he expressed great regret at having to go without doing so." "That was kind in him, even if it wasn't quite sincere. It is my own opinion that he went away on purpose. He couldn't bear to see us again when he remembered how his hair was tumbled--not a sign of the parting--and his cuffs wet. But _we_ remember, don't we, and I hardly blame him for running away." "Martine, my dear child, you are very absurd. No man could possibly be so vain." "Especially, my dear Miss Amy Redmond, one whose business is the instruction of youth," rejoined Martine, flippantly. "I had a letter from Eunice this morning," interposed Priscilla, "and she said that Balfour had had a letter from Mr. Knight, who thanked him for the introduction he had given him to us. She said that he had written about our trip to Grand Pré, and was surprised to find Americans so much interested in Acadian history." "That is all very well. People always write that way after a letter of introduction; they feel that they must. You cannot persuade me that Mr. Knight had any other reason for running to New Brunswick except to avoid us." "Perhaps he wished to escape our thanks for the rescue." "Rescue!" Martine's tone was scornful enough. "We weren't in the least little bit of danger." "We weren't exactly comfortable," responded Priscilla. "I was thankful enough, I can tell you, when Mr. Knight and the dory came in sight. Why, we might have had to stay there for hours." "Oh, no; there would have been some way. The tide goes out as rapidly as it flows in." "Well, leaving out individuals, who certainly have been very kind to us," interposed Amy, "considering that in their hearts many of them think of us as 'those Yankees,' Wolfville has been fairly worth while." "Yes," replied Martine, "though I haven't been able to paint Blomidon, I have captured the Grand Pré willows. The subject may be trite, but I've managed to give it a touch of individuality by adding a tree or two and lopping off a branch or so, here and there, and this will set some persons guessing as to what my view is." "Oh, Martine!" "But the artistic reputation of the party is kept up by your mother's sketches. That one of the marshes is simply perfect. No one who had not seen the colors could believe that nature up here in the north is so brilliant. The water is so blue,--and she has caught it exactly,--and the bright red of the shore at low tide, and the vivid green of the dyke grass, varied here and there with clumps of yellow--" "Stop, stop; you make me fairly dizzy." "But it's a true picture, isn't it? and your mother has reproduced it to perfection, and if she doesn't sell it before Christmas I shall get papa to buy it for me." So the three friends sat and chatted on this their last afternoon in Evangeline's land, half regretting that the time was near when they must bid good-bye to Acadia. Though they had not tried to do all the things possible for the tourist, they had gone to the Look-off, the highest part of the Blomidon ridge, and from this spot had had a magnificent view of the Annapolis and Cornwallis valleys, and the six rivers flowing into Minas, and the hundreds of fertile farms and the picturesque seaports lying almost at their feet; and they had made also several side trips. Priscilla had slaked her thirst for information by setting down in her note-books many facts about the productiveness of the region, and declared that in future if she should meet a boy anxious to become a farmer she would send him to Nova Scotia rather than to the unknown West. "Ah, but there's no government land for him to take up here, and farms don't go for a song. Every inch is cultivated," rejoined Amy. Thus at last, when Amy with her mother and her friends were ready to leave Wolfville and Grand Pré and their neighborhood, their minds were filled not only with the history of Acadia and the memories of the past, but with pictures of the present that seemed likely to be lasting. Mrs. Redmond, moreover, in balancing her accounts,--not a reckoning of money, but of something more precious--counted as the greatest gain the improvement in health made by Priscilla and the improvement in disposition made by Martine. Priscilla's gain was easily recognized. Even she herself could see it when she looked in the glass, and she was daily growing more and more conscious of it. But Martine's gain,--perhaps she herself did not realize it. Perhaps she had not known in the beginning how much she needed improving. Yet Mrs. Redmond, realizing it, had observed with pleasure that Martine was not nearly as self-willed, was not nearly as ready to ridicule the foibles of others as at the beginning of the trip. Just as the angles of Priscilla's disposition were rounding off to a certain degree, so Martine was much less likely than formerly to fly off in a tangent. Although it could hardly be said that the two girls understood each other perfectly, it was yet the fact that wishes collided far less often than in the past. When Priscilla yielded, she did so with a smaller show of helpless resignation than had been her wont, and Martine no longer thought it clever to laugh at every suggestion made by Priscilla. As to Amy, her mother saw with pleasure that to her the summer had been one of real refreshment. If she had been absolutely idle she could not have been half as happy as now, with the sense of responsibility that was hers in having the care, or at least the partial care, of Martine and Priscilla; moreover the trip itself, opening as it did to her a country of which previously she had known so little, was in every way a delight to her. It had shown to her a world of history and poetry with which she had not been familiar, even though she had known something about it, and this in itself was worth much to her. CHAPTER XIX A DISCOVERY "I almost wish," said Amy to her mother, as their train was speeding away from Wolfville, "that we were going direct to Halifax." "That _is_ a concession," responded Mrs. Redmond, with a smile, "for if you had been less anxious to see Windsor we should have passed on without stopping there. Perhaps even yet it is not too late to change our plans." "Oh, no; I am just as anxious as ever to visit King's College, and Martine and Priscilla, if not enthusiastic, still feel pleased at the prospect of seeing one more town before we reach Halifax. I've had to use some persuasion to get them to take this point of view, and it would be very foolish indeed for me to be the one to change plans now." A moment later Martine and Priscilla, who had been looking from the window on the opposite side of the car, returned to their seats. "Would you care to give up Windsor now?" asked Mrs. Redmond. "No, indeed; since I realized that Windsor is the old Piziquid of the Acadians I have been crazy to see it, for I read a story the other day whose scene was laid there; and besides, I've heard that Windsor has one of the queerest harbors in the world, with water in it hardly two or three hours a day, and only red mud the rest of the time." "That's nothing very new," interrupted Priscilla; "we've seen enough of that kind of thing already in Nova Scotia." "Oh, but the difference is that the harbor of Windsor is so large that they say it is very amusing to see so many great vessels stranded in it I'm quite reconciled now to spending a day or two there; it's only Priscilla who objects, Mrs. Redmond." "I don't really object" responded Priscilla, "but I'm afraid we won't have all the time we need at Halifax." "After all, we shall not be limited in our stay there. Unless those letters that I expect insist on my return at once I shall be quite willing to stay away until after the first of September." "Who is it then, besides Priscilla, who wishes to cut Windsor?" "No one but me, Martine," returned Amy; "and this is only because I have a little feeling that I can't explain that we might better go through directly to Halifax. It's the kind of feeling that leads people sometimes to give up a particular train from fear that some accident will befall it." "Ugh!" and Martine held up her hands in protest. "I never knew before, Miss Amy Redmond, that you could be superstitious, for that's what 'having feelings' amounts to." "Well, at least I'm strong-minded enough to disregard these premonitions. In my heart of hearts I believe that we shall not only escape from Windsor alive, but enjoy our stay there thoroughly." Not so very long after leaving Wolfville the travellers were within sight of Windsor. They had passed through beautiful farming regions with occasional glimpses of river and marsh; and there across a stretch of yellowish water they caught sight of the town which the Indians had so correctly named Piziquid, "the meeting of the waters." This first glimpse showed a town built up on the sides of leafy hills and stretching down to the water, bordered with many wharves, at which lay three-masted schooners and craft of every size. Their rooms had been engaged at one of the smaller hotels. It was delightfully situated on a side street, and within seemed pleasant and homelike. Already their bags had been taken to the rooms assigned them, and Martine and Priscilla lingered a moment to speak to the landlady's little daughter, a child of five or six, who was playing in the hall. "How red her cheeks are! I must kiss her;" and Martine bent down to suit the action to the word. But the little girl was coquettish, and, slipping away, stood at some distance, staring at the strange young ladies. Priscilla looked sharply at the child. "I wouldn't kiss her," she remonstrated. "Her cheeks are flushed; they are almost feverish. I believe she's not well." "Nonsense," rejoined Martine, with a laugh. "Every one down here has red cheeks;" and she took a few steps forward in pursuit of the child. Priscilla laid her hand on her arm "No, no, she looks just as my little sister did after she had scarlet fever; promise me you won't kiss her." "I don't see why you should care," said Martine; "but you seem so in earnest that for once I'll do what you wish." At this moment Mrs. Redmond approached the girls, in company with the landlady, who had been showing her her room. She, too, looked keenly at the little child. "Is this your little girl?" she asked her companion. "Yes, my only child." "Is she,--is she quite well?" The woman hesitated for a moment. "She has been sick, but she's almost well," she replied. "What was the matter with her?" asked Mrs. Redmond, pleasantly. "She has had scarlet fever, but--" "Girls," said Mrs. Redmond, "have your bags brought from your rooms." Then she turned to the landlady. "I can understand now why you can offer us a choice of so many rooms; the fever, I suppose, drove your guests away. I'm sorry, but we, too, must look farther." In a few moments the four had called a carriage and were on their way to seek a new abode. Martine saw the ridiculous side of the whole affair and made the others laugh at her account of the way Priscilla had saved her from the fatal kiss. "It is no laughing matter," protested Mrs. Redmond; "the child was evidently in that condition when the disease is particularly contagious, even though she herself is not especially ill. I shall have to watch you all very carefully, and shall be thankful enough if you do not suffer from this exposure." "There, Amy," cried Priscilla, "the worst is over; your premonitions are justified, and another time we won't laugh at your superstition. Though you hadn't scarlet fever in mind, this was the danger which we were to pass through." "I hope that the worst really is over, but it is rather curious that this particular incident should have happened here after what I said." Under the guidance of their driver the party soon found a boarding-place in a large wooden house, attractively situated on a hill. On the morning after their arrival Mrs. Redmond advised the girls to make the most of their time. "I'm told that we can visit the college and return in time to take the afternoon train for Halifax, but perhaps it will be as well to do things a little more at our leisure and go on to-morrow." "Oh, far better," said Martine; "it would be so tiresome to go on to-day; besides--" and here she stopped as if she had almost disclosed something that she should not speak about. Soon after breakfast Martine and Amy strolled off to the grass-grown ramparts of Fort Edward, the defence that had been built by the English against the French when Acadia came into their possession. An old blockhouse was the most interesting thing to be seen from the Fort; interesting at least from the historical point of view. "What makes Windsor seem so very new?" asked Martine. "Every one speaks of it as such an old town, and it seems to be full of new brick buildings that look as if they'd been finished hardly a week." "It's the fire," replied Amy. "The greater part of Windsor was destroyed by fire a year or two ago. It used to be much prettier, they say, with its old wooden buildings and tree-lined streets. The trees and the old-fashioned dwellings have all been swept away,--at least in this part of the city. When we go to King's College this afternoon we shall see what is left of the older section." "Martine," said Mrs. Redmond, when the two returned, "I'm sorry to have to reprove you." "If any one is to reprove me you are the one, Mrs. Redmond, whom I should prefer to administer the reproof; but what is the trouble now? Am I in danger of catching anything new?" "No, my child, but see!" Mrs. Redmond held up before Martine a small chamois bag. "Oh, dear, did I really leave it lying about?" "Yes, Martine, and had any one else found it you might have been put to considerable trouble to recover your rings." Taking the little bag from Mrs. Redmond's hands, Martine emptied its contents on a table. There they were,--not only the four beautiful rings, but the diamond star that her father had given her the preceding Christmas. Ever since Priscilla had expressed her contempt for those who wore expensive jewelry while travelling, Martine had carried her rings in the little bag in which she kept the star and one or two other valuable pins. "It seems to me," said Mrs. Redmond, "that it would have been wiser to leave these valuable things in Boston." "But I always have them with me, and nothing has ever happened." Mrs. Redmond hesitated as to what she should say. Although she was Martine's temporary guardian, she believed that it was not her place to instruct the young girl on points that would naturally come within the observation of her parents. If they had established no rules regarding the times when she should or should not wear jewelry, it was hardly the duty of another to interfere. Yet she saw that a word or two now might prevent further complications while she and Martine were travelling together. "It is true," she said, "that people must judge for themselves when they shall and when they shall not wear jewels. But your rings, I can see, are all valuable, especially the emerald, and it is so easy to mislay such things when dressing, or when leaving a boarding-house, that if I were you I would put them safely away." Though she did not express it, her real thought was that in travelling there is seldom an occasion when a young girl needs to wear jewelry. "Thank you, Mrs. Redmond," said Martine, pleasantly. "I am truly sorry that I brought these things with me, although at home I always wear my rings without thinking about them. The diamond star I thought might be worn if we were invited to a party or a reception while away, but I see now that it would not be the thing for me to wear it at all this summer. In fact, when papa gave it to me he said that he did not expect me to wear it often until I was eighteen, but I thought I would like to have it with me, and it seemed safe enough in this bag." "Yes, when you wear the bag around your neck; but if you leave it carelessly lying about, you'll have only yourself to blame if you lose it." "Thank you, Mrs. Redmond," responded Martine; "after this I will see that it is put away." Martine had received Mrs. Redmond's words so well that the latter was more than ever impressed with the young girl's amiability, and she wondered that between her and Priscilla there could still exist any antagonism. There was no evidence, however, of anything but good feeling when the four set out for their drive to King's College. Amy had told them that they were to drive also near the grounds of the old home of that Judge Haliburton whose other home they had seen at Annapolis, explaining: "Some persons call him 'the father of Canadian literature,' because his 'Sam Slick' and his history were almost the first books written in Canada to attract the attention of people outside." King's College, in a certain way, offered rather less than the girls had expected, though its chief college building was an imposing structure, with great columns in front. The grounds were extensive, and the gently rolling lawns suggested an English landscape. "King's is an old college for this part of the world," said Mrs. Redmond, "and though I cannot remember all I have heard about it, various old forms and ceremonies are kept up here, I believe, and commencement is always very interesting." "It isn't as old as Harvard, is it?" asked Martine. "What a question!" interposed Priscilla. "No college is as old as Harvard--at least, in this country. Just see how small this is, too!" "Yet you ought to be especially interested in King's College, Priscilla," said Mrs. Redmond, gently, "for it was founded by exiled Loyalists almost immediately after the Revolution. Indeed, plans for the college were made in New York even before the close of the war, when it was seen that large numbers of educated men and women would probably have to bring up their children in a new country, where it would take time to establish even ordinary day schools." "After the Revolution! That seems young compared with Harvard. But come, let us see what there is in this ancient-looking library. The driver says it's the only building open to visitors now," said Amy, who had been leading the way. There were some entertaining books and portraits in the old library, and after lingering over them a little while, the girls prepared to return to the town. They took a last look at the old college before the carriage drove away. "Its surroundings are beautiful," exclaimed Amy, "but it doesn't compare with Wellesley;" and before her eyes rose a picture of the College Beautiful, with its lake, its hills and groves, and its many fine buildings. "I'm very glad, however," she added, "that we came here, for I have got a certain impression from King's College that is quite worth having." "So say we all of us," added Martine. And thus in an amiable frame of mind the party returned to their boarding-house, pleased with their sightseeing. Although none of the girls would admit that they were tired, Mrs. Redmond suggested that all go to bed early. "I'll agree," responded Martine, "if you'll come up first to my room." Martine's room was large and pleasant, and even for so short a stay she had thought it worth while to give it a few homelike touches. Photographs of her parents and of one or two of her friends in ornamental frames were on the mantelpiece, and over the mantelpiece itself she had draped a soft foreign scarf. Her silver toilet articles occupied the top of the bureau; for in spite of Priscilla's disapproval, or perhaps because of it, she now carried these things in her suit case. Slight though these little touches were, Martine had contrived to relieve the room of its purely boarding-house aspect. The house itself was plain, and both inside and out had a certain aspect of flimsiness. This had been accounted for by some one who had told Mrs. Redmond that it had been put up very hastily, immediately after the recent fire. It had been built for a boarding-house and pretended to be nothing else. It was airy and clean, but neither its landlady nor the other boarders attracted the travellers sufficiently to incline them to stay downstairs in the general sitting-room; so the three girls and Mrs. Redmond sat and chatted in Martine's room, enjoying the box of chocolates that she had opened for their especial pleasure. "They ought to be good," she said, when Mrs. Redmond praised them. "They came from Halifax;" and she glanced mischievously at Priscilla. "From Halifax?" repeated Amy. "I suppose that's where most shopkeepers in Windsor get their goods." "Halifax by way of Windsor." "No, no," retorted Martine, "not by way of Windsor at all; they came to me by mail. You know I went down to the post-office the last moment before we left Wolfville." The others made no comment, but Priscilla and Amy exchanged glances, and Priscilla's seemed to say: "I told you so." Before, however, anything could be said, Martine rushed to her bureau. "I received a letter, too, at the same time," she cried, "and except for these chocolates I never should have thought of it again." Lifting the cover of the candy box, she took from it a large square envelope, which for safe keeping, perhaps, she had placed under the lace paper that lined it. "What next?" thought Amy. "If the letter is from either Fritz or Taps, I wonder if she'll venture to read it." Then Martine, with the utmost unconcern, opened the envelope, saying as she did so: "It's from Mrs. Blair; you know she's a cousin of mamma's, and she often gives me good advice; I suppose this letter is full of it. That's one reason I left it to read on the train. I knew it would keep till then; and, after all, I entirely forgot it." "Mrs. Blair would feel complimented," interposed Amy. "Oh, she knows me; I never hide my feelings." "Do you ever try?" "Yes, my dear Mrs. Redmond; I've never dared let you know just how much I care for you." Thus effectually silenced, Mrs. Redmond waited for Martine to read her letter. "You ought to like Mrs. Blair," said Amy, for Martine still held the opened envelope in her hand without attempting to read its contents. "Why?" "Because she has style, Martine, and you generally put that before everything else; but read your letter, I would like to hear where they are, for I am always interested in Edith's doings." "Yes, yes," yet Martine did not take the letter from the envelope; "but people need something besides style. I get so out of patience with Mrs. Blair when she and mamma are together. She always has the air of disapproving of mamma for having married a western man. She makes me think of the New Yorker who said to a Chicago woman, 'How can you bear to live so far away?' 'Away? From what?' asked the other. And the New Yorker couldn't say a word." "But that isn't like Mrs. Blair, for she always has a word ready for everything. Do read your letter, Martine," continued Amy. So Martine glanced hastily over the pages, making comments as she read. "Oh, it's a kind of duty letter. She wants me to think it a great privilege that you have allowed me to travel with you this summer. She seems to have an especially high regard for you, Priscilla. I won't flatter you by reading what she says. Oh, yes, and she wants to give me some bad news. She has seen mamma at Carlsbad and thinks her looking very miserable. Well, that's about all, except that she wishes Edith cared more for Europe." "Yes," interposed Amy, "Edith was very anxious to go West this summer with Philip and Pamela; they're having a fine trip over the Canadian Rockies." Martine evidently was not listening to Amy. Her face wore an expression of great bewilderment, and then, with an exclamation of surprise she thrust the letter into Amy's hand: "Read it," she cried; "isn't it extraordinary?" and she pointed to the signature. "'Audrey Balfour Blair!' Did you know that was her name?" "Why, I'm not sure," responded Amy. "I never had a letter from Mrs. Blair." "Nor I," responded Martine, "though Edith often writes to me." "That's why Balfour and Audrey seem so familiar to me," added Priscilla, whose family were on rather intimate terms with Mrs. Blair. "I never heard even mamma speak of Mrs. Blair by her first name," continued Martine. "Of course I must have known that it was Audrey, but I had never noticed the Balfour before." "Well, if Balfour is a family name of Mrs. Blair's it must be of your mother's also; or at least it probably is." "In that case," said Martine, "then Balfour and I may be cousins." "I wish that Eunice and I were cousins." Priscilla's wistful tone was in contrast to the brighter one in which Martine had spoken. "What's in a name?" continued the latter. "I dare say it's only the merest happening that these names are alike." "I was going to suggest," commented Mrs. Redmond, "that it might be wiser not to build your hopes too high, although I'll admit that there may be some connection between the two families." "What pleases me the most," said Martine, "is to think of Mrs. Blair's disgust when she hears that her family names belong also to people in Nova Scotia." "And one of them a grocer's clerk," added Amy, whereupon Martine colored deeply. "Balfour's just as good as Philip Blair, and he won't have to leave college without taking his degree." Then, as if ashamed of her petulance, she added: "To find out how things really are I suppose that after this I'll have to take an interest in genealogy. Mrs. Blair belongs to the Colonial Dames and offered to have mamma's name put through, and I think she would have consented to this if I hadn't laughed so at the idea. I dare say the Dames are different from the Daughters. I hope so at any rate, for the Daughters are always waving their ancestors in one another's faces, especially at their meetings, which I am told are like real battles." "Oh, no," protested Mrs. Redmond, "not always. I've been at some that were very pleasant." "Well, before long," concluded Martine, "you'll find me climbing family trees in a way that will make you dizzy; in fact, I feel a little giddy, as the English say, at the very prospect of having--Eunice for a cousin. Indeed, I believe I'll not sleep a wink to-night in my effort to settle the question." CHAPTER XX FIRE AND FLAME Long after the others had left her Martine sat alone. She was restless and wide-awake, and any one looking at her would have seen that her face was far less cheerful than usual. Her thoughts, indeed, were disturbed, and one or two tears fell as she held her mother's portrait before her and looked earnestly into the deep blue eyes. The portrait was a miniature, painted in the days when her mother was almost as young in appearance as Martine herself, though in fact she had been married for several years. The young girl especially valued it because she could remember perfectly when her mother had been very like the lady in the picture, and also because this miniature had not been copied. It was too valuable a thing for Martine to carry with her when travelling. Mrs. Blair's letter, with its mention of her mother's poor health, had stirred her deeply. She had concealed her feelings in the presence of Mrs. Redmond and the girls; or rather, for the moment she had been more impressed by the suggestion that came to her, through Mrs. Blair's signature, of a connection between her family and the Airtons. Now, however, she began to dwell on the significance of the news from Carlsbad, and the conclusion was hard to set aside that her mother's condition was even worse than her father's brief letters had given her to understand. Putting away the miniature with a sigh, she drew the last two letters from the portfolio, reading and re-reading them in a vain effort to decide whether her father had written briefly merely to conceal his feelings. "It's strange that men always write so little in a letter. Though papa would always rather telegraph than write, still, when he does write, I _do_ think that he might say something. Now if it were mamma, why, she would tell me everything;" and upon this, with the knowledge that it might be long before her mother could write to her, Martine burst into tears. As she tossed the letters aside Martine threw herself on her bed, and then-- How long she had lain there she did not know, although rising with a start, she realized that she had fallen asleep, and almost as quickly she perceived a strong smell of smoke in the room. Opening her door, she turned toward the ell where Mrs. Redmond and the two girls had their rooms. The smell of smoke was stronger there, and in the darkness some one brushed against her, crying, "The house must be on fire." With a leap Martine reached the top floor where her friends were. Mrs. Redmond's door opened to her knock, and then she rapped loudly on the door of the room that Amy and Priscilla occupied together. "Fire, fire!" she called, and in a moment Mrs. Redmond's voice was added to hers. "Open the door, Amy; don't wait to dress. Come, come, don't you understand? The house is on fire." "Yes, yes, we are dressing." "Unlock the door; I can help bring out some of your things." The hall was thick with smoke. Mrs. Redmond and Martine knew that the fire was near. Amy's voice was heard from the room--or was it Amy?--speaking almost in terror, "I cannot open the door; I have mislaid the key." "Why did you take it from the lock? Oh, Amy!" Mrs. Redmond uttered no further reproof now. It was a time for action. "Martine," she cried, "we must go for help." But Martine made no reply. Already she was far on her way downstairs. All the people in the house were now evidently aware of the fire. Doors were slamming, and she heard steps and voices ahead of her. In spite of her difficulty in making her way through the thick smoke, Martine soon found herself near the broad front door. Here two or three men were standing. "Please help me quickly," cried Martine, breathlessly; "my friends are in a room in the wing, and cannot open the door. Come, I will show you." Leading the way, Martine was soon at Amy's door again. She could see no one, for there were no lights in the hall, but she recognized Mrs. Redmond's voice. "I found a pair of large scissors in my valise; perhaps with them the lock can be pried open." One of the men who had come with Martine was already pounding on the panels of the door to learn where it could most easily be broken in. After one ineffectual effort to pry open the lock, the other one had thrown down the scissors that Mrs. Redmond had handed him. Both of these things had occupied seconds rather than minutes,--seconds that seemed hours to Martine and Mrs. Redmond,--and then, before further violence had been done to the door, there was a click, a turn of the lock, and Amy and Priscilla stood before the four others. Their appearance showed that they had indeed dressed hastily, but they made no apologies as they hurried on. When they reached the street Mrs. Redmond drew a breath of relief. "Oh, Amy," she cried, "how could you be so careless?" "I took the key from the door absent-mindedly, and had set my travelling-bag on it. I'm thankful enough that I found it, for the door might have been hard to break in." "Look, look!" cried Priscilla, excitedly. "We are out none too soon." As she spoke flames were bursting from the wing of the house that they had so lately left, and men and women were pouring in and out of the main building, removing furniture, pictures, and clothes. "Let me count you," cried Mrs. Redmond. "I am not sure--" "It's Martine, mamma,--she is not with us. Where did she go?" [Illustration: "After one ineffectual effort to pry open the lock, the other one had thrown down the scissors."] "Perhaps she has gone back to her room for her things. She had left everything behind when she came to rouse us." "Impossible! She would not be so foolish. The fire is close to her room. Here are the engines. Why were they so long in coming?" "Where is Martine? We must find her." "No, no, Amy," and Mrs. Redmond laid her hand on her daughter's arm. "But, mother, if she had not called us--" "Yes, if she had not called us we might be in there now. She did not think of herself, and now she has gone to her room for some of her things." "Her diamond perhaps;" and then, as if ashamed of her words, Priscilla added, "But I can help Amy, Mrs. Redmond. You cannot hurry as we must." As Mrs. Redmond watched Amy and Priscilla running into the house she wished she had gone with them. Uncertainty was harder to bear than any effort she might have made. Her suspense, however, was not long, for to her relief she heard Amy's voice. "Here's Martine, mamma. We had barely time to reach her. Look, look!" This latter exclamation was called forth by the rapid spread of the flames. It was a beautiful sight--beautiful yet terrible to those who so lately had been within the walls that now seemed to be melting in the heat. Yet even as they gazed Martine began to laugh hysterically. "You look so--so queer--Priss--Prissie," she cried, and again she laughed. The light from the fire enabled them to see one another plainly, and as the others glanced at Priscilla they saw a black streak across her forehead that altogether changed her expression. "It's a case where the pot can't call the kettle black," rejoined Amy; "your own complexion is not milk-white at the present moment, Martine." "You are the only one who has her hair properly arranged, Miss Amy. Even your mother has a hasty coiffure, and no collar. Oh, Mrs. Redmond!" and again Martine laughed nervously. "It matters less how we look than how we feel. I wish that you, like Priscilla, had brought your coat, though I fear there is only one hat among us." "What a noise the engine makes! Can't we get away soon?" "I hope so. If we only had a man with us we could send him off for a carriage. Even Fritz would be useful now." From her mother's tone Amy could not judge whether or not she was in earnest, though in truth the same thought had come to her. "After all," cried Martine, holding up her watch, "it is not half-past eleven. I had begun to think that to-morrow had come. The flames are not so bright. I believe that the fire is dying down. It started in so well that I almost hoped that we'd see the house in ashes." "Oh, Martine!" "But nearly all the furniture has been saved, and the house is probably insured, and--" "You are shivering, Martine. Come, we must make our way through the crowd. Even if we have to walk down to the large hotel near the station, that will be better than staying here." So they made their way through the crowd. Heaps of household goods and pieces of furniture were scattered over the lawn, and even on the sidewalk in front. The engine was still hissing, flames were still darting from back and sides of the house that had so lately sheltered them. Hardly had the four reached the street when a man's voice called, "Stop, ladies, for a moment." As they halted, the man, whose outline they could barely distinguish, overtook them. "You are the American ladies whose doors I tried to break open a little while ago. I would have helped you further, but I had to return immediately to my sister, who has been ill, and who is now in a neighbor's house. I have been anxious about you, for you are strangers. Have you plans, or will you permit me to make a suggestion?" "We shall be only too happy to hear your suggestion, Mr.--" "Taunton," quickly rejoined the stranger, as Mrs. Redmond paused, adding, "I would suggest that you come with me to the house where I have taken my sister, and I may say that I have been asked to bring you back with me. The house is large, and you can all get a good night's rest." It is needless to say that Mr. Taunton's invitation was gratefully accepted, and soon the four found themselves in a warm room, where a hospitable little hostess bustled about, offering them tea, and bread and butter, though after all it wasn't a meal-time. "She's very good," murmured Martine to Amy, "not to mention how queer we look. For my own part, I haven't dared look a mirror in the face, though there are two in the room. How much has happened in the last hour!--for it is only a little more than an hour since we knew of the fire; that is, since I smelled smoke." "I hope that it wasn't long enough for you and Priscilla to catch cold. We shall never forget how chilly the air of an August midnight can be." "Oh, I am all right," responded Martine. And then, as if to disprove her own words, she sneezed violently. "Why did you go back to your room, Martine? It was a dangerous thing to do. You brought nothing out with you but that little bag." "Oh, I had barely time to get that. The room was so hot and smoky that I quite lost my head, yet I got what I especially went for;" and she opened the little bag and drew from it a small velvet case. "Your diamond!" cried Amy. "Ah, Martine, how foolish to have had it with you!" "No, Amy, not my diamond pin;" and snapping a spring she disclosed the miniature of her mother. "That is more to me than ten diamond pins. I had barely time to snatch it from the bureau and pick up this bag." "Then you left the pin behind!" "No, child, no; it is safely hung around my neck. But one of my rings was on the cushion, and it will delight Priscilla's heart to know that I did not save a single brush or silver-topped bottle. It will be rather hard for papa, for he'll have to replace them all next Christmas. But I do wish that I had my hat and my suit case. Until we overtake our trunks at Halifax we can't make ourselves perfectly respectable." "But still," rejoined Amy, "I am thankful that we have a place where we can sleep to-night--and mamma is beckoning us, so let us follow." It was nine o'clock, and the sun was streaming brightly through their windows before Mrs. Redmond and the girls left their rooms next morning. All but Priscilla had slept well, but the latter had tossed about all night, with her thoughts dwelling more on Martine even than on the exciting events of the fire. Clearly Martine had acted very generously in the efforts she had made to awaken the others. She had had ample time to save all her own possessions, yet quite neglectful of herself, her one thought had been for others. If Priscilla was sometimes harsh in her criticisms, she at least wished to be fair. After her night of confused thoughts, it was not strange, perhaps, that Priscilla awoke heavy-eyed and dull, thus causing Mrs. Redmond to wonder whether this one experience might not undo all the good accomplished during their weeks in Acadia. Martine was still inclined to sneeze, but she laughed when caught in the act. "It sounds like hay fever, doesn't it? I have never had a fashionable ailment before, and if it is hay fever, why, I am in the part of the world where patients are often sent, and my recovery will be rapid." After breakfast Mr. Taunton, their new acquaintance, offered to help Mrs. Redmond in any way that she might suggest. "You may wish your luggage or your tickets attended to--or, or your shopping," he concluded. "My sister and I saved both our trunks, and she is resting so comfortably this morning that I can put myself at your service." "I do not wonder that you speak of shopping. We could hardly go even as far as the station without buying a few necessary things. If we could have a carriage in about an hour we could do some errands. We are going to Halifax by the afternoon train." "You have lost more than most of the other boarders, in proportion to what you had in the house," continued Mr. Taunton. "Our late landlady is the heaviest loser, but she is a cheerful little body, and consoles herself with the thought that she is well insured." "Don't forget to pay our board bill, mamma; it just occurred to me that we left so unexpectedly that we forgot even to mention it to her," interrupted Amy. Mr. Taunton laughed heartily at her suggestion, and then began an earnest plea for his own city, St. John, in contrast with Halifax. "If you can visit but one, St. John is the better worth seeing. We come to Nova Scotia occasionally to rest, but St. John is wide-awake, and its churches and public buildings will compare favorably with any in the United States. Then you have heard of our wonderful reversible falls, that flow with the tide one way and with the river the other, and the beautiful Kennebecasis--" "You would make a good tourist agent," interrupted their amiable hostess, Mrs. Andrews, entering the room at this moment. "But if I should begin to paint the charms of the Citadel, and old St. Paul's, and the Northwest Arm, and--" Mr. Taunton laughed. "It's a feud as old as the hills, this rivalry between St. John and Halifax, and a stranger can settle the matter for himself only by seeing both places; but if you must give up either, I honestly believe that you can best spare Halifax." Before Mrs. Andrews could protest, a violent ringing of the doorbell called her from the room. A second later she returned to the sitting-room, followed by two young men. In an instant half a dozen tongues were loudly exclaiming, "Why, Fritz, how in the world did you find us?" Mrs. Redmond held the hand of one of the new-comers while she looked affectionately up into his face; Amy, drawing back a little, appeared far from displeased at this sudden appearance; and Martine,--Priscilla could hardly believe her eyes,--yes, Martine had certainly thrown her arms around the neck of Fritz's companion, who was no other than the Freshman "Taps," of whom Priscilla had had a passing glimpse on the Yarmouth boat. While Priscilla gasped in amazement Mrs. Redmond and Amy could not conceal their surprise at Martine's demonstrativeness. But they had not to wait long for the explanation, which Martine herself saw was due them. "There, there, Lucian, don't be too affectionate until I explain--" "Explain what?" asked the so-called "Taps." "Wait, listen;" and slipping her arm through that of Fritz's friend, Martine turned with a bow toward Mrs. Redmond. "Let me introduce to you and Amy and Priscilla, as well as to the rest of the company, my brother, Lucian Stratford, otherwise 'Taps.' There, Lucian, don't say a word. Let me explain how it was. Of course at first we didn't mean to make any secret of it, but Lucian and I thought it would be fun to see whether you could tell whether we were brother and sister, and he made Fritz--I mean Mr. Tomkins--promise not to tell you. It seemed rather funny that you hadn't heard. Then when Amy was so sniffy--excuse me, Amy--about having boys in the party, why, I had to promise not to tell. It was hard at first, but I got interested in keeping it up when I found that Priscilla was so suspicious." Priscilla, coloring, looked more and more uncomfortable, Mrs. Redmond was slowly grasping the situation, and only Amy appeared to be angry. "It's like you, Fritz," she exclaimed, "to go out of your way to play a practical joke on me, but I did expect something better from Martine." Martine's face grew serious. "I can't see that the joke affects you, particularly, Miss Amy Redmond!" rejoined Fritz. "To be sure, you have had various accidents that might not have happened had we been with you to protect you, but as to knowing that 'Taps' was Martine Stratford's brother, why, you could have found that out for yourself, or at any rate I should have told you only too gladly had you given me a chance. But when you banished me so completely--" "Come, come, children, no quarrelling. We won't banish you again, Fritz, and if you feel like going on with us we shall be only too happy to have your company. Your coming now is certainly most opportune. You can do so much to help us; we have shopping--But first let me introduce you to Mr. Taunton, who has been so kind to us, and to Mrs. Andrews, our hostess, and to the others." After the introductions Fritz explained why they had come to Windsor. "Halifax may be slow, but it is reached by telegraph, and the daily papers contain some news, so when I saw the headlines 'Fire at Windsor,' I naturally read the whole thing, for, according to the schedule which Lucian had from his sister, you were due here yesterday, or the day before, and we had even thought of running up to meet you." "Though we decided it would be better sport to take you by surprise at Halifax," interposed Lucian. "Yes, and when we read that some American ladies had barely escaped with their clothes--" "Not all of their clothes," murmured Martine. "We thought," continued Fritz, "that we'd risk it by rushing up here." "So we bolted our breakfast," interposed Taps, "and made the 'Yankee' and--" "We poked among the ruins," added Fritz," and when we didn't find any remains, we asked a few questions of some others who were poking there." "And here we are," concluded Taps, "and from this on I'm going to keep my eye on Martine. You didn't set the fire, did you, sister?" "There, Lucian, if you tease like that you'll be banished." "No more banishment for either of us," cried Fritz, boldly. "You've all had accidents enough to show you the need of adequate protection." "Perhaps you could have prevented the fire," said Amy, with some sarcasm. "I could have prevented your staying at any house but the most fire-proof hotel in the town, and that I believe is still standing." "What did you save?" asked Lucian, in an effort to turn the conversation. "Oh, my mother's picture," said Martine, softly. And then, as if afraid of seeming sentimental, "But I lost an emerald ring and all my silver brushes, and a pair of slippers, and one of my gloves, and a dozen postage stamps." "Stop, stop, Martine." "Well, I saved my best stock, and Mrs. Redmond saved her umbrella, and we--" "Are all clothed and in our right minds, excepting you, Martine, who seem in danger of losing yours," interrupted Amy. "I believe that carriage at the door is the one that Mr. Taunton telephoned for; so, if we are going to Halifax to-day, it is surely time to start on our shopping expedition." Acting on this suggestion, Priscilla and Martine helped Amy gather together their few remaining possessions, while Mrs. Redmond discussed her plans with Fritz. When at last the moment came for the few words of farewell, Mrs. Redmond and the girls felt that in bidding good-bye to Mrs. Andrews and the Tauntons they were parting with friends whom they had known for weeks instead of hours. Mrs. Redmond and the girls drove to the station, where Fritz and Lucian met them after a brisk walk down town. "Fritz," said Amy, as the two stood together in the hotel sitting-room, "I have a confession to make." "Open confession is good for the soul, so out with it at once, fair lady." "It is simply this: I am really glad that you are here to take charge of things. Even in travelling mamma, you know, hates to attend to practical details. Now of course we have got on very well, barring one or two little things." "Fires and such." There was a mischievous twinkle in Fritz's eye. "Oh, well, even that might have been worse; so now, until we reach Halifax, I do wish that you would take charge of everything." "With pleasure," responded Fritz. "Especially will I see that you do not mislay your keys. But you look tired, Amy. Come, sit down." Whereupon Amy sank wearily upon a sofa, only too glad that for the present her responsibility was shifted to some one else. There was a funny side, however, to the zeal displayed by Fritz and Lucian. They insisted, with an emphasis that no one dared oppose, that the girls and Mrs. Redmond should rest quietly while they went out to shop. "My dear boys," Mrs. Redmond had protested, "there is hardly a thing that we shall really need before we reach Halifax. In the parlor cars we shall be unnoticed and perfectly comfortable, and after we have opened our trunks we can tell what we most require." "Oh, Mrs. Redmond, there must be some errands for us to do. Can't you trust us?" Lucian's face was so expressive of disappointment that Mrs. Redmond was glad that she had made out a small list. "Of course there are some things--and we are ever so much obliged to you and Fritz for your willingness to do errands." "You see," continued Lucian, confidentially, and dropping his voice that his sister might not overhear him, "I didn't ask Martine what she needed. That would have started her off to suggest no end of things,--you know what girls are. I can tell pretty well what she ought to have, so we'll just slip off before she can say anything." Fritz had condescended to accept a few suggestions from Amy, and the two boys rushed off in high spirits. An hour later, when they returned, their arms filled with packages, followed by a grinning hotel boy who was dragging a large parcel, Mrs. Redmond lifted her hands in amazement. "Two hats!" she exclaimed, in still greater surprise as they undid the strings of the larger package, "but only one was really needed. Martine left hers behind, but Amy--" "Now, Mrs. Redmond," said Fritz, "perhaps you didn't observe Amy's. Why, some one must have turned the hose on it; the flowers were all bedraggled, and the ribbon--Mrs. Redmond, surely you must have noticed its condition. But these are so pretty that I couldn't let Lucian be the only one to buy a hat." "It's certainly very thoughtful in you, Fritz, but still my list--" "Oh, we've got everything that was on the list, only these little extras were just to amuse ourselves." "Six stocks! you extravagant boy!" Martine, arriving on the scene, had opened one of her brother's parcels. "Six stocks!" he repeated. "Why, that's only one and a half apiece!" "And gloves; well, we could have waited until we reached Halifax. They are probably better there. I wish I had thought to speak of shirt waists," continued Martine. "This is hardly respectable." "Oh, I thought of that, too," replied Lucian; "at least, I remembered you hadn't a coat, so I supposed some sort of a wrap would do. Coats have to be kind of tailor-made and fitted, don't they?" While he spoke Lucian was undoing the largest package, from which he drew out a Scotch shawl of brown and yellow plaid. "There, that's the thing!" he exclaimed with pride. "It looks as if it had come straight from Edinburgh. You can throw it over your shoulders instead of a coat." "Oh, Lucian," cried Martine, "you can't expect me to wrap myself up like that, especially on a warm August afternoon!" "Why shouldn't it be all right travelling?" asked Lucian, with less elation. "You wouldn't have to think about the fit." But when he saw that all the others were laughing at him, he walked off toward the window, murmuring what sounded like "There's no pleasing some people." "Come back, come back," cried Martine, as he turned away; "the shawl will be very useful if we go yachting at Halifax, and no one but you would have thought of these delicious boxes of chocolates. We all thank you very, very much; see, there's a box for you and Priscilla, Amy, as well as for me." Lucian's face brightened under his sister's praise, while Amy and Priscilla thanked him for their chocolates. "You were dreadfully worried, weren't you, Prissie," said Martine, mischievously, "over the chocolates that I offered you last evening? But though Lucian was the giver in that case, perhaps you will enjoy these better, knowing where they came from." "Shall I put this magazine in your bag?" asked Priscilla, hoping thus to divert Martine from further teasing. "Certainly," replied Martine. "Let Lucian help you with the catch. It is hard to open." "The magazines are Fritz's contribution," explained Lucian, as he worked with the spring of Martine's bag. "There's one for each of the party. But hello, what's this? Did you think of digging a grave, or anything of that kind, sister, when you brought this along? It's a strange thing to have saved from a fire;" and before Martine could protest Lucian had withdrawn his hand from the bag in which he had been fumbling, and before the gaze of the whole party held up a queerly shaped little trowel. "I didn't ask you to meddle with things in my bag," cried Martine, excitedly, after the manner of sisters. "Well, what's the matter with the little spade?" asked Lucian, looking from one to the other. No one replied as Amy snatched it from his hand. In fact, Amy was the only one to recognize it as the Acadian relic that Balfour Airton had given to Martine. CHAPTER XXI OLD CHEBUCTO So slightly had the travellers really suffered from the fire that they soon recovered from the effects of that exciting night, yet they were glad enough to reach Halifax and open their trunks. "It seems better than luck that we sent these trunks ahead to Halifax. If they had been burned--" "We should have had great fun shopping, my dear Miss Amy Redmond," responded Martine; "as it is, we shall just have to pretend that we need things when we see any startling bargains in the shop-windows." "If you should try to replace what you have lost you could keep yourself busy for a day or two," rejoined Amy. "No, thank you. The things that I lost I can wait for until Christmas. I have bought some inexpensive brushes, plain enough for Priscilla to approve; but at Christmas--well, perhaps I can persuade papa to get tortoise-shell, or something more elaborate than the simple silver set that melted away at Windsor." In this way Martine always turned aside the sympathy that the others tried to offer her for her losses. Fritz and Lucian had taken the travellers to the small Halifax hotel, where they themselves had been staying for two or three days before their sudden flight to Windsor. It was a cheerful, homelike place, and in its little garden the girls spent more or less time resting after the exertions of their later days in Acadia. The fire and the events immediately following it had seemed to bring Martine and Priscilla more closely together,--at least, for the time their lack of sympathy was less plainly evident. One day the two were sitting in the garden. "I almost wish we had been a week longer in Acadia," Priscilla said. "Why, we are in Acadia still!" rejoined Martine. "Don't speak of Acadia as so far away." "Oh," responded Priscilla, "perhaps all Nova Scotia is Acadia; but really, when we use the word we mean where the French settled. Halifax is thoroughly English. On that account I do prefer it, though Acadia was certainly interesting." "Thanks!" said Martine, "but I am going to prove that Halifax also was settled by the French. Amy laughed at me yesterday when I tried to prove my case. But listen; it was Amy herself who told me that no one had thought seriously of making a settlement here until D'Anville's fleet took refuge here after their defeat near Louisbourg. The ships were safe enough, but the men died by hundreds, and were buried on the beach. Well, after they had gone away, some sort of a petition was sent from Boston to England, asking that a settlement and fortifications be established to prevent the French from coming into Chebucto again and interfering with New England ships. The English thought this a good plan, because the Acadians at Annapolis and other places would be kept down if there was a strong town on the coast. So, you see, if it hadn't been for the French, Halifax might never have been settled. Have I proved my case?" Priscilla shook her head. She could not quite tell whether Martine was in fun or in earnest. "It seems to me that if Massachusetts men suggested the plan to England, you could just as easily say that Boston men settled Halifax." "That's just what 'Taps'--I beg his pardon--Lucian said when I explained my theory to him. But then, he can't be expected to share my feelings about the Acadians,--at least, not yet,--although on the whole he is pretty sensible, isn't he?" Priscilla found it difficult to answer this question directly, so, to conceal her embarrassment, she propounded another question. "Why do they call your brother 'Taps'?" she asked abruptly. "For no reason whatever, that I could ever see. But you know how boys insist on nicknaming one another. Mamma just hates it; and, if you notice, I always say 'Lucian.'" "'Lucian' is such a good name," said Priscilla. "Yes, and don't you think that Lucian himself is a dear?" "I like him very much," responded Priscilla, simply. She would hardly have applied Martine's term to him, but she had found Lucian helpful and entertaining during their three or four days in Halifax. "I believe," continued Martine, "that I might have told you something about Lucian before, except that I thought you might be prejudiced." "Prejudiced!" "Yes, a month ago you were much narrower-minded than you are now, and of course you and Amy had heard that Fritz Tomkins had charge of a Freshman who had been in rather bad company last year; and so if you had heard that it was Lucian before you had seen him, why, you might have had the queerest notions about him." "You have the funniest way of putting things;" and Priscilla smiled again. "Well, really," continued Martine, "there was nothing wrong with Lucian, only he is rather too good natured, and papa might as well give him a smaller allowance. But I heard Fritz Tomkins telling Mrs. Redmond that Lucian had kept a very good standing last year, but he wanted to break off with one or two men who were not going just the right way, and they wanted him to go to Paris and Vienna, and the only way was to plan some other kind of a trip. But there's really no harm in Lucian." "Oh, no," said Priscilla, "I am sure of that; he has such a good face. It is curious that, with his blond hair and blue eyes, he still reminds me of you, and you are almost a brunette." As Priscilla paused for a moment, the latch of the iron gate clicked sharply, and as a step sounded on the flagged walk, Martine rose quickly to her feet. "Why, Mr. Knight!" she exclaimed, and in a moment Priscilla, too, was welcoming the new-comer. "But we thought you in New Brunswick!" "So I was a day or two ago. Certain business has brought me now to Halifax, and it is rather singular that we should be staying at the same hotel. I saw your names on the book this morning, and wondered if I should see you before my departure." Mr. Knight's manner was so unaffected that Martine at once reproached herself inwardly for having imagined that he had run away from Wolfville to escape Mrs. Redmond's party. "I am to be here only a day or two," he continued, "but if there's anything I can do--" "In the way of rescuing," interrupted Martine. "Oh, please," he protested, "don't mention that; it was so slight." "You know," continued Priscilla, "we've been rescued once more,--at least I have been, for really it was Martine who was the rescuer." And then, when the young man seemed mystified by their words, the two had to tell him the story of the Windsor fire, of which, it seemed, he had not heard. After Mr. Knight had congratulated them on their escape and condoled with them on their losses, he said: "In case I have no other chance, I must tell you that my chief regret in leaving Wolfville so unexpectedly was the fact that I had no chance to show you through Acadia College, or tell you much about it. I know that that was one of the things Balfour had in mind when he wrote to me that I should present Acadia College in the best possible light." "Oh, indeed," responded Martine, with a slight touch of impatience, "we have heard quantities about it,--that it offers the same advantages to women as to men; that a great many distinguished college men in the 'States,' as you say down here, were graduates of Acadia; that it has a lovely situation, and plenty of time to grow," she concluded suddenly, for, after all, though truce had been declared, Martine could not resist the opportunity of teasing Mr. Knight. "I saw Balfour Airton," continued Mr. Knight, apparently undisturbed, "when at Annapolis the other day, and he is to be one of the distinguished graduates of Acadia." "Did he say so?" Martine did not try to conceal her genuine surprise. "Oh, no; Balfour thinks of nothing now but hard work, and he's likely to have his share of it the next few years." A little later Mr. Knight excused himself for leaving the two, on the plea of letters to write, and during the two remaining days of his stay they saw little of him. "He's afraid that he may have to rescue us again," Martine confided to Amy, though secretly she was a little piqued by his indifference. Fritz and Lucian, however, pronounced Mr. Knight a brick, and spent one afternoon with him in a long tramp to a place called Herring Cove, the description of which filled the girls with envy. During their whole stay in Halifax, however, the boys went off on few excursions by themselves. "You have been left too long to your own devices," Fritz would say, solemnly shaking his head, "and the punishment for your rash deeds is that you are now to be forever in our care and protection. Until you are safely back in Boston I hardly dare let you out of my sight, for fear of fire and flood." "Do you consider this sail-boat especially safe just because you are in it?" asked Priscilla. "If my mother could behold us now she would think us in the greatest danger. In spite of spending all her summers at the edge of the sea, she is always afraid of a sail-boat." "But I would rather run some risk than miss this sail around the Northwest Arm. In fact I wouldn't have missed it for the world;" and Amy glanced gratefully in Fritz's direction, for it was he who had planned this particular excursion, and had gained Mrs. Redmond's rather reluctant consent. "This narrow arm of the sea is so picturesque," she continued, "with its wooded shores, and the harbor is so interesting with its islands and its shipping." "Just like any harbor," cried Martine. "Oh, I don't know. One has a sense of its greatness here. No wonder even the Micmacs called it Chebucto, which I believe is a word of theirs for 'Great harbor.'" "Please, Amy, this is a pleasure trip with no instruction. You mustn't tell us the size of the dry dock, nor the number of guns mounted on George's Island or on York Redoubt, or on any other of the harbor fortifications." "Nor the time of day," retorted Amy, looking at her watch, "though all the same, Captain Fritz, it is time to turn about, for I absolutely promised that we'd be at home by five o'clock." "Your word is law," responded Fritz. "Tell me a little history," urged Lucian; but Amy refused to do anything but enjoy the sail, and Martine, looking at her closely, wondered if she had taken her words as criticism. "There's one bit of harbor history that I shall speak of," said Lucian, as they turned homeward. "No, Martine, you needn't try to stop me. Everybody remembers Captain Lawrence and his 'don't give up the ship.' Well, do you know that he died here in Halifax? The 'Shannon' brought the 'Chesapeake' as a prize into this very harbor where we are now sailing. It was the first Sunday in June, 1813, and the town was in the greatest excitement. The news of their coming went quickly through the town, and every one who could get hold of a small boat pushed out to see the ships. The men were swabbing the decks, and the scuppers ran red with blood." "Don't, Lucian," cried Martine. "Oh, but this is history, and the kind you should remember. The 'Shannon' had set out from Halifax but a short time before, and when the two ships met in Boston Harbor they fought a fierce duel. The 'Shannon' had less than a hundred in killed and wounded, and the 'Chesapeake' nearly two hundred, all in about twenty minutes; so no wonder it's called one of the bloodiest fights on record. The ships must have been a sight to the quiet Haligonians. Then," continued Lucian, "Captain Lawrence and Lieutenant Ludlow were buried with high honors in the old English burying-ground here, and there was a great procession from the King's Wharf, with the coffins covered with our flags, and six British post captains bearing the pall." "You'll have to visit the grave, Amy," said Martine, mischievously. "Can't be done. An American brig with a flag of truce came for the bodies in August, and they were carried back to their native country." "How in the world did you remember so much?" asked Martine. "I never realized before that you took an interest in history." "This is the result," retorted Lucian, "of travelling with an intelligent companion," and he pointed to Fritz. "No, I didn't do it; don't blame me," rejoined Fritz. "He ran across a history yesterday, or book of annals, or something of that kind, and naturally the mention of the 'Chesapeake' and the 'Shannon' interested him." "Enough said--in excuse," replied Martine, while Priscilla added, "I wonder if we shall visit Melville Island before we go. You know that is where they kept the American prisoners during that war. I had a great-grand uncle who was taken prisoner, and I've always remembered that he was at Melville Island, Halifax. My mother has his diary." "Why, that is interesting," said Amy. "Perhaps it may sound like wishing ill to my forebears, but I'd even be willing to have had a relative or two imprisoned here, just for the sake of having a closer association with Halifax." "That's a very silly remark, Miss Amy Redmond," cried Fritz, disapprovingly. "Yes," added Martine; "I might as well wish that some of my French ancestors had been among the exiled Acadians, so that I could take a deeper interest in Clare. Not that I need a deeper interest--but that reminds me," and she turned to her brother. "It's strange, Lucian, that I hadn't thought to tell you before, but I believe I've found some new relations in Nova Scotia; at least, I hope so. Do you know whether we had any Tories in our family?" "Tories! I should hope not," and Lucian's voice rang with patriotism. "Oh, they are all dead now, so don't excite yourself. But two things equal to the same thing are sometimes equal to each other. We are certainly cousins of Mrs. Blair's. You'll admit that?" "Yes, worse luck to it," grumbled Lucian. "She is such a--such a--" "You mean so conventional," interposed Martine, sedately; "but that's very proper for a Bostonian. Well, Mrs. Blair's name is Audrey Balfour Blair." "Why not?" asked Lucian. "Well, we met a girl this summer whose grandmother's name was Audrey Balfour, and what I want to know is--are we related to her?" "To the grandmother?" exclaimed Lucian. "How in the world should I know? and if we are, what's the difference? Probably the old lady's dead by this time. Most grandmothers are." "Oh, Lucian, do be serious." "You'd better be serious yourself--say, look out for the boom, or you'll lose your head as well as your temper." "I haven't lost my temper. There, I'm glad we're putting in for shore now, if Lucian is going to be so disagreeable." Thus the conversation drifted from Audrey Balfour, and for the present Martine's question was unanswered. This afternoon was only one of several that they spent on the water, and when the conditions were favorable, sometimes Amy, sometimes Martine, had a chance to show her skill as skipper, while the boys approved or made suggestions, and Mrs. Redmond and Priscilla sat back, trying not to show the timidity that they felt. On shore as well as at sea they found much to occupy them, and as conditions for picture-taking happened for the time to be particularly favorable, each one added largely to her own collection of photographs. Each of the girls had a camera with her; but at first Priscilla had been the only one really zealous for photography. When they visited the Citadel Lucian and Fritz had managed to intimidate them by telling them of the fearful fate that might be theirs should their cameras be seen in its neighborhood; so the cameras were hidden until the girls were far from what Martine called "the sacred precincts," until, indeed, the sight of a redcoat on Barrington Street, standing where the sun illuminated his whole figure, caused her to shout in delight: "There, my camera, quick, Lucian. Here's my chance to catch one of those crazy little caps. How do they manage to make them stay on one ear? Quick, before he moves, or sees us," and then the click of a spring showed that she had accomplished her aim. * * * * * One dull afternoon Amy and Priscilla, wandering about, found their way into the Parliament building, and after admiring the stately old portraits in the rooms of the historical society, spent an hour or two over some of the old books and papers in the archives. This was especially gratifying to Priscilla, because she was thus able to satisfy her curiosity about the exiled Loyalists. Their sufferings seemed all the more real when written out in detail in these old manuscript volumes, and as she read, she sighed. The sigh was not wholly for the miseries of the past. That very morning she had received a letter from Eunice that had set her thinking. "I am so glad [wrote Eunice] that you like Halifax. But it there--in the capital of our Province? Sometimes it seems as if I should never go anywhere, though Balfour says that he will send me to college, that I can depend on that. But that will be only to Acadia, and I shall have to wait so long, until he has a law practice--and when will that be? Besides, he thinks now that he may have to stay out of college a year, if not give it up altogether. It's the mortgage on the house. There's some kind of trouble about it, and Balfour is determined not to let it go. It would just break mother's heart. But I oughtn't to make this a complaining letter, when one of the pleasantest things this summer--or any summer--has been my acquaintance with you,--and the others, too, of course, though I didn't know them so well. Please give them my love, but the most for yourself. "Your affectionate "EUNICE." Now Eunice was really so fond of Priscilla that nothing was farther from her thoughts than to make her friend unhappy. Yet such was Priscilla's sympathy for her Annapolis friend that the remembrance of the letter made her feel sad, even as she sat with Amy in the old library. "If papa had only lived," she thought, "I could have asked him to do something, but now,--why, Eunice herself would be surprised to know how little pocket money I have. Not that Eunice wants anything, but it would be so delightful to pay off that mortgage, and then make sure that Balfour could get through college, and then see him put Eunice through college, and then perhaps she could come up and take post-graduate work with me at Radcliffe." Then, amused at the rapidity with which her thoughts were running away with her, for Priscilla had not yet passed her own finals for college, she laughed aloud. Unexpectedly the clouds had been chased away. "Priscilla," said Amy, "I am delighted to hear you laugh. You have been altogether too quiet to-day. Surely you are not homesick again." "Oh, no, not homesick, only thinking." "Tell me then, so that I may laugh too,--unless it's a secret." "Oh, no, it's hardly worth mentioning; besides, it has ended in a foolish wish--if only I had money like Martine!" "Martine cares little for money," responded Amy, with some sharpness. This was not the first time that she had thought Priscilla too ready to criticise Martine. "I know that. She is surely very generous, only it would be so easy to do things for others if one had as much money as she has." "I know what you think, Priscilla; but still Martine's way of spending money is not altogether extravagance. She has had more in her hands than most girls we know, and rich Chicagoans are fonder of spending than hoarding. It's in the air. Martine does not care for money in itself, but for what money buys." "But she surely throws it around without getting full value." "That's a matter of temperament." "Yes," but Priscilla's voice sounded as if she were not sure of this. To herself, indeed, she was saying, "It is strange that Martine has not talked of making plans for Yvonne. Ah, if I had as much in my power I certainly wouldn't let Eunice worry about mortgages and going to college and all that kind of thing." "Priscilla, Priscilla, wake up," cried Amy, a moment later. "Look at the citadel. It's hard to realize that this is the greatest fortress in America, and that only a few generations ago it was nothing but a stockade, a defence against the Indians." "A few generations ago!" repeated Priscilla. "Why, it must be--" "A bare hundred and fifty years, my dear child, since the English ships with their two or three thousand settlers came sailing into the harbor." "A bare hundred and fifty years," echoed Priscilla, "and yet that is rather a long time, and Halifax isn't a large city yet." Before Amy could reply she felt her arm seized from behind. Turning about, she found herself face to face with Martine, who held a letter in her disengaged hand. Priscilla, not hearing the steps, had walked on a little before she discovered that Amy was not with her. But a moment later she too faced about, and, as her eye fell on Martine, she could not help seeing that the latter was holding her finger on her lips with a warning glance at Amy, as if between the two there was some secret understanding. CHAPTER XXII FINDING COUSINS In the end it had been much better for Priscilla if she had at once retraced her steps. Instead, while Amy still had her back to her, while Martine stood with her finger on her lips, Priscilla, with a rapid step that was almost a stride, walked farther away from them. Turning first one corner and then another, she indulged herself in her unreasonable annoyance with Amy and Martine. For a minute or two she continued to walk briskly, wondering all the time if the others would catch up with her. At length, when her curiosity overcame her pride, she did turn around, only to discover that her friends were nowhere in sight. "I shouldn't think Amy would have acted so," she said to herself. "Of course I can't expect much from Martine, but Amy is different." Yet if any one else had put the question to Priscilla she would have found it hard to say wherein Martine was at fault. It was only that in that fleeting glance she had gained the impression that the two were trying to hold some secret from her. Priscilla had not walked very far when another turn brought her in front of a small wooden building that reminded her at once of a child's toy. "Is it a school, or a church?" she wondered, and she glanced up at the little steeple. "Hello, Miss Denman;" and Priscilla, lowering her gaze from the steeple, saw in front of her Martine's brother, Lucian Stratford. "I didn't expect to see you here by yourself," continued Lucian. "I thought that you girls were off somewhere together." "We were," replied Priscilla, "but I just thought I would--do a little sightseeing alone." "Well, I don't blame you," rejoined Lucian; "it's sometimes so hard to get Martine to take an interest in things. It used to be just so in Europe. We could never depend on her, so I don't blame you for keeping by yourself." Priscilla made no reply. She really had no explanation. "This is a funny little church, isn't it?" continued Lucian. "Fritz and I were over here the other day. Some one had told him about it. It's a little Dutch church, and almost as old as the city itself. It was built for the Lutherans, for in the beginning there were a lot of German settlers here in Halifax." "Thank you," said Priscilla. "You are as good as a guide-book; one never expects a boy to take an interest in such things." "I can't say that I do generally, only you remember that foggy afternoon when you girls were all so busy writing letters? Well, Fritz and I got tired of staying indoors browsing over books, so we started out. We went down to the great dry dock--though I don't suppose that you girls would care for that,--and we had a chance to go into old St. Paul's,--that's about as old as the city too, and makes you think of one of the queer, dingy London churches. It has any number of interesting tablets and memorials, and we planned to take you girls there before we go, and then walking about we just chanced on this little toy building. But I've got a suggestion for to-day," concluded Lucian. "You see, it's Saturday, and one of the market days, so if you'd like to go, I'd be happy to take you down there. What do you say?" "Why, yes, of course I'd like it. You are very kind to think of it." Priscilla remembered that Amy had spoken of going to the market, and for a moment she regretted her absence. Lucian Stratford, however, proved a surprisingly agreeable guide, and even before they had reached the Green Market Priscilla was quite ashamed of the little prejudice that she had once held against him. "It's an old custom," Lucian explained, as the two stood in the middle of the street, "for the country people to drive in with their produce." The market was in Post Office Square, and almost every foot of space was occupied by some man or woman with something to sell. Indians, negroes, country people--it was a motley crowd and well worth seeing. The Indians for the most part sat on the sidewalk, bent over their wares, though here and there one or two leaned back against a building. "We saw Indians like these at Bear River," said Priscilla, "only a little better dressed,--perhaps because it was a holiday. But these baskets are the best I've seen this summer." Baskets and sweet grass were the stock in trade of these Indians, and some of the baskets were of odd designs and really artistic shapes. "Do you really like them?" asked Lucian, and almost in the next breath he had laid three or four of the prettiest in Priscilla's arms. "For Martine?" asked Priscilla. "No, no, for you,--if you'll take them. There, let me carry them. I did not mean to load you down. Only I thought I might see something else." "Oh, nothing more now, thank you. You are very kind, but these are really almost too much, and I can carry them myself--" An old negro at this moment crossed their path, swinging a cane. They realized his nearness only when a sudden flourish of the stick sent Priscilla's baskets flying into the street. The negro, apologizing profusely, hastened to help Lucian collect the baskets, and Priscilla was pleased that Lucian showed no anger at the man's carelessness. Instead, he began an animated conversation with the old fellow, and returned to Priscilla's side smiling broadly. "The old man has been praising his son's wife's vegetables so warmly that we'll just have to go over there to see them. She is the fat darkey sitting in that cart yonder, and I hope we'll get off without buying her out." The next moment Lucian was laughing and chaffering with the old negro's son's wife, and Priscilla gasped as she saw him pointing out turnips, carrots, and even summer squashes. She did not know him well enough to protest, and she only wondered how he meant to get the things home. "They're all mine," he called to Priscilla, as she waited for him a short distance from the cart. Then he leaned over toward the old man and said something, and the negro hobbled off, smiling. In a moment he returned with a large pail, into which his son's wife heaped Lucian's purchases. "There," said Lucian, as he returned to Priscilla's side, "won't Mrs. Redmond and the others stare when they behold this load?" and he lifted the pail that Priscilla might the more readily admire its contents. "But you don't intend to carry it through the streets?" There was a question in Priscilla's tone. Lucian glanced at her curiously. He had just been thinking how companionable she was, and now this Plymouth girl was going to show herself as narrow and conventional as others. "I needn't carry it," he responded. "Perhaps Sambo here--is your name Sambo?" "No, sir, my name's Mr. Malachai Robertson." "Oh, excuse me, Sambo--I mean, Mr. Malachai Robertson--could you find me a good smart boy to carry this pail?" Malachai looked at his stick--symbol of dignity--then at the young man, but at the same time he probably reflected that a fair fee was in sight; so he straightened himself up, reached over toward the pail, and with an "I'll carry it, sah," fell into line behind Lucian and Priscilla. Before the two, however, were quite ready to turn homeward, they lingered to watch the shoppers patronizing the Green Market, and buying supplies of vegetables and fruit. "I only wish that Mrs. Redmond had come. It will be too bad if she misses it altogether--and Amy; the sun has come out so bright that she ought to be here to photograph some of these groups of colored people." "Oh, the chance is that you will all be here in Halifax next Wednesday morning. The Market is here twice a week," responded Lucian. "Just now I suppose we ought to be turning home, as they are horribly prompt about meals at The Mayflower." As the two walked up Hollis Street Priscilla noticed that some whom they met looked at them curiously. But only after she herself had thrown a backward glance over her shoulder did she realize the cause, for straight behind Lucian stalked Malachai, flourishing his cane after the fashion of a drum-major with his baton, while with the other hand he supported on his shoulder the pail of vegetables, balancing it with such a nicety that the carrots and squash and the large bunch of radishes kept their place on the top, though to the casual observer they seemed on the point of falling to the ground. [Illustration: "Behind Lucian stalked Malachai, flourishing his cane after the fashion of a drum-major."] Had Priscilla been able to see herself she would have discovered that she, too, added to the gaiety of the group, for her baskets were even more brilliant in coloring than the vegetables, and as she had to carry them in her arms they made a rather startling display. Lucian had offered to take her load, but she had waved him away. "No, a boy always finds it much harder to manage clumsy packages. These are not heavy; it's merely that they look awkward." So Lucian had contented himself with buying three or four bouquets of the brightest flowers,--dahlias and garden asters chiefly,--and with both hands thus filled he made the procession more brilliant. When they reached the house none of their party happened to be in sight, so, at Lucian's suggestions, Priscilla left her baskets on the sitting-room table while she went upstairs to find Mrs. Redmond. Amy's room adjoined her mother's, and as Priscilla stood there at Mrs. Redmond's half-open door the sound of voices in the inner room floated out to her. For a moment she stood there listening, quite unconscious that she was eavesdropping, until a sentence in Martine's clear voice came to her. "She certainly is a terrible trial, narrow minded and priggish, and I don't wonder, Amy, that you dislike her." When Priscilla grasped this sentence in its entirety she turned about instantly. "Did you find them? Are they coming down?" asked Lucian, cheerfully, as she rejoined him. "I--I didn't; that is, I'm not sure," stammered Priscilla. "If you don't mind, I'll leave the baskets here. Perhaps you would give them to the others;" and before Lucian could stop her she had run upstairs again. At the dinner-table Lucian looked anxiously at Priscilla. When she thought that no one was observing her, he caught her wiping away a surreptitious drop of moisture. What could be the matter? Lucian racked his brains to decide if by any mischance he had in word or act offended Priscilla; but his conscience reassured him. He could not recall anything that might have annoyed her. On the contrary, up to the moment of their return to the house they had got along swimmingly--the latter phrase was his way of putting it. "There's no accounting for girls," he said to himself. "I've known Martine to get dreadfully excited about nothing; but Priscilla Denman seemed such a sensible girl that I don't quite understand what the trouble is." Before dinner had ended, however, Lucian decided that whatever it was that had disturbed Priscilla she did not blame him; for she turned to him with the utmost friendliness when he made some allusion to their morning walk, and between them they soon had the others at table laughing at their account of Malachai and the Green Market. "I hope you paid the old man well for his trouble," said Martine; "for it probably was a great favor on his part to walk up Hollis Street toting a pail." "Probably he paid him too well," rejoined Fritz, "unless he has changed his habits within the week. On our way from Yarmouth I tried to make Lucian see how demoralizing it would be to the natives to introduce the habit of tipping here." "Oh, but one ought to pay for benefits received," said Lucian, "and I really do try to be prudent." When dinner was over Lucian noticed that, as they left the room, Priscilla seemed to be trying to avoid Martine. She hardly replied to some question that the latter addressed her, and he saw other evidences that Priscilla did not care to speak to her. After dinner Martine ran up to her brother. "Oh, Lucian," she cried, "here's the most exciting letter from papa! I can't tell you all that's in it now, for it must be kept secret a little longer. But aren't you glad that mamma is better? I know you had a letter from her this morning. To think they'll be home in September! Oh, Lucian, I'd like to hug you, I'm so happy!" "Please, please, not now," begged Lucian; "we couldn't explain to people that I'm your brother;" and he pointed to several passers-by on the sidewalk just outside the garden. "Then sit here with me in this little arbor. I have several questions, and this is the first good chance I've had. Did you ever hear the name 'Balfour' in our family--in mother's family, I mean?" Lucian shook his head. "'Balfour'?" he repeated. "I've certainly heard the name somewhere--lately, too, I should think." "Yes, of course, dear stupid. Balfour Airton; that's the nice boy we met at Annapolis. Mr. Knight's friend, you know, the one we've talked about." "Oh, yes, of course; do you mean to ask if he is in our family? Strange I never heard of it." "There, listen, Lucian; this is what I mean. Mrs. Blair is mother's cousin, and her name, you know, is Audrey Balfour Blair." "Has she a first name, and one so frivolous as 'Audrey'? How did that happen?" "That's just what I wish to know. I thought that perhaps you would remember whether her name was Balfour before her marriage." For a few minutes Lucian seemed lost in reflection, then looking up he exclaimed,-- "Yes, Martine, I am sure; Mrs. Blair's name was _not_ 'Balfour,' it was 'Tuck.' I once met a brother of hers. He was visiting Chicago. But, I'll tell you what--I am pretty sure that her grandmother was a Balfour. That's where the relationship to mamma comes in. You know that _her_ grandmother was a Balfour, and that's what makes them cousins; their grandmothers were sisters." "Why, Lucian," cried Martine, jumping to her feet in her excitement, "that's just what I wanted to know. I don't care anything about Mrs. Blair's grandmother, but if there's a Balfour in mamma's family, don't you see how splendid it would be?" "Can't say that I do," responded Lucian; "but if it pleases you, it's probably all right." Lucian had often said confidentially to his friends that the ways of girls were past finding out, and he did not except his sister from the general rule. "Oh, but can't you see, Lucian, that if I could prove that Balfour Airton is a cousin to Mrs. Blair, and if mamma is a cousin of Mrs. Blair's, which--" "Which she is, without doubt," said Lucian. "Why, then, don't you see--" "Oh, yes, I see," cried Lucian. "Why, then, you would be cousin to Balfour Airton and his sister. Well, perhaps there's no harm in that, if it pleases you; but what is there in it for me? I might not like either of your prodigies, and so I am not ready to be made a cousin to people I have never seen." Yet a good-humored twinkle in Lucian's eye seemed to say, "If I would I could tell you something that would please you mightily--and perhaps I will." Now Martine, understanding her brother pretty well, saw that he was really more sympathetic than he professed to be, so she wisely decided to wait until he was quite reedy to tell her what she wished to know; and to change the subject she pulled a letter from her pocket. "If you hadn't had a letter from mamma by the same mail I would show this to you," she said. "It's the most delightful letter papa has ever written me, though I won't tell why--at least not just now," and she waved the closely written sheet rather tantalizingly before him. "Oh, ho, child, you cannot tease me at this late day; and besides, I know why you try. Put your letter away, little sister; I can wait until you choose to read it to me. But I know what you want, and I am willing to gratify your curiosity. Yes, there was an Audrey Balfour in mother's family; but you may be less interested in her when I tell you about her. She was a Tory." Lucian uttered the last word with all the scorn of one who has studied American history built on the most thoroughgoing anti-British basis. "Oh, that's nothing," responded Martine; "at least, Priscilla would call it nothing. Each of us likes both Acadians and Tories, though I am supposed to care only for Acadians, and Priscilla for Tories. But how do you happen to know about this Audrey Balfour?" "Through the Colonial Dames, my dear. You see, mamma had to have some papers filled out last spring. It was while you were at school, and she asked me to get a genealogist to copy certain things for her. Well, I found that mother's great-grandfather was a Tory, who was driven from his home and went to England or to Canada to live. One or two of his elder children were married before the Revolution, and their husbands were on the patriot side. One of these was Audrey, who was the grandmother of Mrs. Blair; another was our great-grandmother Edmonds. She was Martha Balfour." "I see," interrupted Martine. "Our great-grandmother! Then it isn't so strange that I didn't remember the Balfour in our family; it is so far away. I think it's just wonderful that you remember it." "Oh, it only happened so because I had had to have it looked up. I had the whole line typewritten for my own benefit, and I looked at it several times this year. I noticed the Tory Thomas and Audrey especially, and I wondered if they would effect my eligibility to a patriotic society that I am anxious to join. But I believe that I am all right because I am the loyal descendant of a Tory ancestor." "Dear me!" cried Martine, when Lucian had finished this long speech. "You really sound quite learned! I believe that college has done you some good after all." "After all! If you look up my record you'll find that I took all the history last year that Harvard allows a Freshman, and it's because I have a bent that way that I can remember these things." "Well, Lucian, you've proved yourself a brick. I hope Priscilla won't object to this. Sometimes she is a little jealous--but there, don't repeat it--perhaps jealous is not just the word; but somehow, she doesn't always approve of me." "She's fighting rather shy of you to-day," responded Lucian, "and I can't help wondering what you've been up to. Miss Denman doesn't seem to me an unreasonable girl. She and I had a fine time to-day at the market. I'm afraid that you have been teasing her, Martine." But Martine continued to insist that her conscience was quite clear, so far as Priscilla was concerned, and that Lucian must imagine any traces of ill-feeling. Nevertheless, she could but observe that Priscilla seemed to be avoiding her; for, in the afternoon, when Amy and Fritz went off on their bicycles for a spin through the Park, Priscilla declined Martine's invitation to go with her and Lucian to the Public Gardens to hear the band play. "I have letters to write," she said, "and--well, on the whole, I really can't go." "Very well," rejoined Martine, rather shortly, as she left Priscilla's room to report to Lucian that her invitation had been so scorned. "You must have done something to offend her; think it over carefully, Martine, and then confess," urged Lucian. Priscilla had made so good an impression on him that he was unable to consider her wholly in the wrong. CHAPTER XXIII GOOD-BYE TO HALIFAX Lucian's well-meant advice shared the fate of most advice volunteered by brothers. Martine, unconscious of offence, had no intention of apologizing to Priscilla for things she had not done. Instead, she began to feel annoyed with the latter for her unfairness; for certainly, Priscilla, in giving Lucian the impression that he had received, must have been unfair. "But if she has been unfair," said Martine, "she can just wait for my news. It's too bad, for when I first read papa's letter it seemed as if I could hardly wait to go downstairs to tell the others." Now Martine, though impulsive, was not naturally vindictive, and it would have been almost impossible for her to keep her secret from Amy and Priscilla had she not, immediately after reading her letter, confided its contents to Mrs. Redmond. Somebody knew; and in the course of two or three hours that they all passed together on Saturday evening, Martine more than once changed her seat to have a whispered word or two with Amy's mother. On Sunday they all set out for the Garrison Church. "We make almost as imposing an array as the troops themselves," said Amy. "Perhaps we might if we were stretched out in single file. Since the boys joined us we are really a regiment; but Halifax people are so used to seeing strangers that I am afraid that they won't take any special notice of us," responded Martine. "I should hope they wouldn't. How well we should have to behave if we felt that all eyes were upon us," replied Amy. After service they pushed their way through the crowd waiting outside the churchyard to see the troops form in line. "It doesn't seem quite the thing on Sunday, does it?" murmured Priscilla to Amy; whereat Martine, laughing loudly, cried: "But surely it is better for the soldiers to turn out to church in a body than to sit in their barracks moping." "Soldiers moping!" and Fritz laughed. "Perhaps it isn't the soldiers, but the people crowding to stare at them, who take away the Sunday feeling," continued Priscilla. "That's just what we are doing ourselves," retorted Martine, "and I don't feel very wicked." "Come, come, children, don't quarrel," cried Lucian. "You are both probably right, and both probably wrong." Neither girl replied, for the troops in their brilliant uniforms were beginning their homeward march to the inspiring music of a fine band. As they walked homeward Martine, slipping her arm through Amy's, drew her one side. "Tell me," she said, "and please don't let the others hear or they will laugh--is Halifax the capital of Canada?" "No, my dear, it--" "There, I thought it couldn't be; I knew it must be Montreal. But I asked Priscilla why that old gray building was called Government House, and she said because Halifax was the capital. I never expect Priscilla to make a mistake;" and there was a slight touch of sarcasm in Martine's tone. "She was not wholly wrong," rejoined Amy, "for Halifax is the capital of Nova Scotia. Canada itself is composed of several provinces, of which Nova Scotia is one. The provinces are united under a general government with Ottawa the capital--not Montreal--as you suggested. All the provinces send representatives to the Parliament that assembles every year at Ottawa." "Oh, I see--like our States and Washington." "Yes, the general plan of government is much the same, and each province has its own Parliament. Priscilla and I were in the Parliament building here the other day. It is really a State House." "I've noticed the Parliament building, but what is the Government House?" "Oh, that is the residence of the Governor of Nova Scotia. His real title is Lieutenant-Governor, because all Canada has a Governor-General, who lives at Ottawa." Both girls had been so interested in this little conversation that unconsciously they had lagged, and the others were now far ahead of them. "Martine," said Amy, "as we have a few minutes alone now, do let me influence you to make up with Priscilla--not that any little misunderstanding is wholly your fault, but it is so much harder for Priscilla to give in than it is for you." "But honestly, I haven't said or done a thing to offend her,--at least, not a thing that I know of, though of course for a day or two I have seen that she was trying to be particularly stiff with me." "Well, then I wouldn't notice her stiffness. Just act as if you were the best friends in the world, and things will soon straighten themselves out." "That certainly would be the most agreeable way, and to please you, Miss Amy Redmond, I will follow your advice. Besides, I have something very exciting to tell you and Priscilla, and I really cannot wait longer than this afternoon." "Hurry, young ladies, hurry, hurry!" It was Lucian calling to them. He had turned to meet them. "What kept you so long, Martine? What have you been doing?" "Nothing, only talking." "Oh, that accounts for it. When once Martine begins to talk in earnest, she takes no heed of time." Martine replied lightly to her brother's badinage, and the three reached the house in great spirits. With Amy's caution before her Martine avoided collision with Priscilla during the dinner hour. After dinner, while they were all sitting together in the little arbor,--Mrs. Redmond as well as the girls,--Martine drew a letter from her pocket. "Listen," she cried; "I have something to read you--no, I can tell it better in my own words, although it is nearly all in papa's letter. So listen, Amy; it's for you,--and it's for you, Priscilla, as well as for me." "And for me, too?" asked Lucian, trying to throw great expression into his voice. "No, no, of course not. Mrs. Redmond knows, and she thinks it fine, so listen. In the first place, papa feels much obliged to every one for keeping me contented. You know I tried to make a fuss when they wouldn't take me to Europe, and he says that it's a splendid thing for me to get so interested in history. This is what he says:-- "'When you get back to Chicago you'll find that there's a lot of history there that is worth studying--not entirely about the great fire, and part of the history of Illinois is French.' I never knew that before," interpolated Martine. Then she continued to read, "'Your mother and I think that you owe much to the young ladies who are with you, as well as to Mrs. Redmond, to whom I am also writing this mail. We are much gratified by what you write about the various young people in whom you are interested. Although I cannot promise, without knowing more about her, to launch your special protégée, Yvonne, on a prima donna's career, it seems right that you should be helped to do something for her, so I am enclosing a check for three hundred dollars.'" Amy started; Priscilla gazed in astonishment. "'This,'" Martine continued to read, "'is to be divided into three parts. Your third is for Yvonne; a second third is for Miss Amy to use as she sees fit for the little French boy--I forget his name; and though you haven't said so, I am sure that Miss Priscilla hasn't been behind her friends in adopting somebody. Perhaps I ought to have sent more, but it will do for a beginning, and I shall be glad to hear that the money does some good.'" "There's more about mamma's getting better and coming home soon, that I needn't read. But isn't it splendid? You can't think how hard it was for me to keep it to myself a whole day." Upon this there was a small Babel for a second or two, until, after a moment of silence, Priscilla, in words that showed some slight hesitation, spoke,-- "I must thank you, Martine, as much as your father. You must have made him think very pleasantly of us all. But I wonder if I ought to keep the money?" "No, my dear Puritan Prissie, you mustn't keep it. It's for you to give away as quickly as you can to your protégée, and we all know who that is." "Yes," added Mrs. Redmond; "you need have no hesitation in using it for Eunice. Mr. Stratford has written me fully on the subject. He says that this summer has cost him so much less than Martine's vacations usually cost, that his gift is only a part of what he has saved." "He hasn't heard yet about the Windsor fire," murmured Martine, "or he might feel differently, though the silver and the jewelry will be a Christmas matter," she concluded hastily. "Shall I send all the money at once to Yvonne, Mrs. Redmond?" "Oh, no, my dear; we must talk things over and make careful plans for Yvonne and Pierre. A little money will go a good way with both of them." "Oh, of course, Mrs. Redmond, whatever you say will be the thing. That isn't slang is it, Miss Amy Redmond? There's a pained expression at the corners of your mouth; but never mind, you can't deny that I've improved this summer--to beat the band;" and with this shot Martine, darting forward, laid her hand on Amy's arm. "As an impartial judge I can say that you all have improved this summer,--at least, speaking for the three girls," said Mrs. Redmond. "Although I haven't commented on it, it has pleased me greatly to observe the rounding off of several sharp corners." "'Speaking for the three girls,'" quoted Fritz,--"but where do we two come in? Didn't we banish ourselves when we were bid, and keep out of sight, until we heard that you had been almost destroyed by fire? Our improvement has been quite remarkable, though I don't see any one paying premiums to us; and if we had protégés whom we wished to protect we'd have to go deep into our own pockets for the wherewithal." "Yes," added Lucian, "I was thinking of that myself. It's a good thing that we haven't found any one to be interested in." "Oh, but you have, Lucian; at least, I have found some one for you. Don't you remember our new cousins, the Airtons? How stupid! I haven't told any one else." And hereupon, without further delay, Martine plunged into an account of the discovery that she thought that she had made--that Eunice Airton and her brother were cousins in the third or fourth degree to her and Lucian. "I feel as if we ought to wait until we can make sure, but Lucian says that he can put his hand on the papers when he returns to Cambridge--and at any rate mamma will know. I'm awfully sorry, Prissie dear, that they are not your cousins too; but perhaps we can find a link somewhere back among the Mayflowers--just large enough to join you and Eunice." Priscilla, not knowing what to reply to Martine's fun, wisely chose the golden mean of silence. If Martine had not said "Prissie" she might have thought her wholly in earnest. "But oh, dear," reflected Priscilla, "I do wish that Eunice had turned out to be my cousin instead of Martine's. It doesn't seem fair that she should have everything." This thought, however, had hardly shaped itself, when Priscilla put it far from her. Martine had certainly been generous, and Priscilla, if narrow in some ways, meant never to be unjust. Martine, however, had other things than Priscilla's attitude on her mind. "So you see, Lucian," she concluded, "there is some one for you to help,--not that Balfour Airton wishes any one to do anything for him,--but if he's a cousin, you'd naturally want to help him save his time for study in the summer holidays." "I study so diligently myself in the summer," commented Lucian, "that I'd be a fine one to lay down the law to my new cousin! No, poor fellow, if I have anything to do with him, I'll certainly not advise him to lay himself out on summer study." "Oh, Lucian! If I didn't know that you'd take an interest in Balfour, I'd try to persuade you; but just think how Mrs. Blair will feel!" "Mrs. Blair! What in the world has she to do with--anything?" concluded Amy, vaguely. "Why, if Eunice and Balfour are our cousins, then they are her cousins, and as she doesn't like people who work, it will be great fun to tell her about Balfour, for probably he'll get through college much better than Philip did--" "My dear Martine, did Mrs. Blair ever harm you?" "No, except to say that what a pity it is that I am not at all like Edith." "There! Eunice Airton reminds me of Edith; that's the resemblance that puzzled me;" and Amy seemed pleased with her discovery. "Oh, if they're at all alike, I won't object to this Eunice as a cousin, for Edith isn't half bad, and--" Lucian's speech was cut short by the appearance on the scene of the little buttons of the hotel, who happened to know Lucian rather better than the rest of the party. "If you please, sir," he said, "here's a telegram for one of the ladies, and I don't know which is which, though her name--it seems to be Mrs. Redmond," and he handed an envelope to Lucian. In an instant Mrs. Redmond had read the despatch, while Amy asked anxiously, "Is it anything serious, mamma?" "No, no, my child, far from it. I told you there was a probability that certain business would call me home a little earlier than we had planned. Well, the summons has come, and I ought to start to-morrow." "Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed Priscilla, with an expression of real delight. "Why, I thought that you were enjoying yourself." "Yes, Mrs. Redmond, so I am, but I shall be so happy to see mamma again, and the children. I had a letter from the twins yesterday, and they miss me dreadfully." "Shall we go home through Clare? Shall we have a chance to see Yvonne?" "And Pierre?" added Amy. "And Eunice? Of course we could stay over one train at Wolfville," pleaded Priscilla. "My dear children," remonstrated Mrs. Redmond, "I fear that you did not understand me. I must be in Boston as quickly as possible, and that means that we must take the direct boat from Halifax." "All of us? Then Lucian and I will return to New England with hardly a glimpse of the real Acadia." "I have no control over your movements. You and Lucian must do whatever seems best for yourselves." "Whatever you advise is best," interposed Lucian, gallantly, "but I am pretty sure that Fritz will agree with me that it would be much pleasanter for us if you would permit us to return with you." "Not only pleasanter, but much safer for some of the members of your party;" and Fritz assumed an air of importance. "Yes," added Lucian, "there's my sister. Suppose she should accidentally fall overboard, or--" "Or suppose Amy should lose her keys," interrupted Fritz, "or--" "There, there, if the girls never suffer greater mishaps than those that have come to them this summer, they will do very well. We call this a pretty successful trip." "And really," added Martine, "nothing that has happened was anybody's fault. Those things were simply adventures, and besides, I might easily have had scarlet fever; so congratulate me on my escape. Even a trip through Acadia would have been just a little dull without some mishaps." When Mrs. Redmond had left the young people to themselves, they separated into two groups, Martine and Priscilla and Lucian in one, and Amy and Fritz in another. "Now, Priscilla," cried Martine, "since we are friends again, perhaps you will not object to telling me why you were annoyed with me yesterday. Even Lucian noticed it." Priscilla, coloring at this abrupt question, glanced shyly at Lucian. "Oh, you needn't mind Lucian," said Martine, noting the direction of her glance. "He doesn't count." Thus Priscilla, feeling less afraid of Lucian's criticism than of his sister's reckless tongue, admitted that her feelings had been hurt by the glimpse that she had had of Martine with her finger on her lips. "I always have hated secrets," she admitted, "especially when it seems as if some one is trying to keep something from me. I thought that if you and Amy didn't wish me to know anything,--I mean, if there was anything that you didn't wish me to know,--why I wouldn't intrude; but I realize now how foolish I was, especially as the secret was something pleasant for me." "After all, I didn't tell it to Amy then, so you might as well have stayed with us." "Oh, no, she mightn't, for then Miss Denman and I wouldn't have had that visit to the Green Market. You, by the way, will miss it, because you won't be here next Market Day," interposed Lucian. "It certainly was great fun, especially Mr. Malachai Robertson," added Priscilla, with a smile, "and I have learned one thing--not to indulge myself in any little jealous feelings, particularly on this trip." "On this trip;" and Martine shook her finger at her friend. "To think that Puritan Prissie should break forth into slang!" But the only effect of her ridicule was to make Priscilla smile too, and open her heart a little wider. "I haven't quite finished my confession," she continued. "You know yesterday morning, when your brother and I came home from the Green Market, I overheard you talking to Amy about some one who was 'narrow-minded and conventional,' and you didn't wonder she disliked her, and I thought it was me," concluded poor Priscilla, with an apparent disregard of grammar. "Of course we didn't mean you," responded Martine, "although at this moment I don't quite--oh, yes, I do remember. It was Miss Belloc, one of Amy's classmates. Amy was telling me of some priggish things that Miss Belloc had said, and I did use those very words yesterday. But if you had listened longer you would have heard Amy say, 'not that I disliked Miss Belloc, but her narrow views.' Then you would have known that we didn't mean you." "Oh, I know that you didn't, and I realize now that I have been very unfair." "Oh, no, only a little unfair," rejoined Martine, "but 'least said, soonest mended,' and the most important thing is that now we are both going to be perfectly fair after this." Meanwhile Amy and Fritz were discussing various practical matters. "Your mother and I have been talking over this letter of Mr. Stratford's, and we both agree that you probably will not disagree with us--in other words, we think it would be wiser for you girls not to send money to your protégé Pierre, or to Yvonne, or Eunice, until after we have reached Boston." Fritz had assumed a manner of unwonted dignity, and with difficulty Amy refrained from laughing at him. "Delay will give Martine time to find out if it is best to put part of the money in the hands of some one to spend for Yvonne in Clare, or whether it would be better to have her come to Boston to have her eyes treated. Then, after you have talked with one or two teachers, you can judge whether Pierre is too young to have a course of manual training. You don't know what you want yourself yet." "Really, Fritz!" "Yes, really, Miss Amy Redmond, I think that the poor little beggar ought to have some fun with his hundred dollars, instead of being ground down to more education. Then, as to Eunice Airton and her brother, why, if they really are cousins of Martine's, Priscilla Denman needn't have them on her mind any longer. Mr. Stratford will come down with something handsome, so they might have this hundred as an instalment to get some fun with at once." "You don't know Balfour Airton. I shouldn't be surprised if he should insist on his sister's returning Martine's present." "Then the sooner Martine proves her cousinship the better. The money can wait until that is accomplished. Now a word especially for you, Miss Amy Redmond. Please admit that Lucian and I are very magnanimous in making so few reflections upon our banishment. Also admit, please, that you would have had a much better time if we had been with you." "We couldn't have had a better time," averred Amy, stoutly. "We've enjoyed every minute of it, and I shall return to college a new person. Why, I've gained ten pounds in these few weeks." "Ah, Amy," sighed Fritz, "you are as practical and unsentimental as ever you were at Rockley. Yet you love old graveyards, and can write poetry. Here I would have saved you from fire and flood, could have kept your keys in my care, and still you say that by yourselves you have had a better time than if we had been with you!" "Oh, no, I didn't say that, only that we have had so pleasant a time that it couldn't have been better." Here Amy stopped. She saw that she had involved herself in a contradiction; so with Fritz's laughing voice ringing in her ears she hastened indoors to talk over with Mrs. Redmond the various arrangements for their departure from Acadia. THE END [Illustration] HELEN LEAH REED'S "BRENDA" BOOKS BRENDA, HER SCHOOL AND HER CLUB Illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith. 12mo. $1.50. _The Boston Herald_ says: "Miss Reed's girls have all the impulses and likes of real girls as their characters are developing, and her record of their thoughts and actions reads like a chapter snatched from the page of life. It is bright, genial, merry, wholesome, and full of good characterizations." BRENDA'S SUMMER AT ROCKLEY Illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith. 12mo. $1.50. A charming picture of vacation life along the famous North Shore of Massachusetts. The _Outlook_ says: "The author is one of the best equipped of our writers for girls of larger growth. Her stories are strong, intelligent, and wholesome." BRENDA'S COUSIN AT RADCLIFFE Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. 12mo. $1.50. A remarkably real and fascinating story of a college girl's career, excelling in interest Miss Reed's first "Brenda" book. The _Providence News_ says of it: "No better college story has been written." The author is a graduate of Radcliffe College which she describes. BRENDA'S BARGAIN Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50. "The fourth and last of the 'Brenda' books," says _The Bookman_, "deals with social settlement work, under conditions with which the author is familiar." The _Boston Transcript_ adds: "This book is by far the best of the series." LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, _Publishers_ 254 WASHINGTON ST., BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS _A Story for Younger Girls_ IRMA AND NAP By HELEN LEAH REED Author of "Amy in Acadia," The "Brenda" Books, etc. Illustrated by Clara E. Atwood. 12mo. $1.25 A brightly written story about children from eleven to thirteen years of age, who live in a suburban town, and attend a public grammar school. The book is full of incident of school and home life. [Illustration:] The story deals with real life, and is told in the simple and natural style which characterized Miss Reed's popular "Brenda" stories.--_Washington Post._ There are little people in this sweetly written story with whom all will feel at once that they have been long acquainted, so real do they seem, as well as their plans, their play, and their school and home and everyday life.--_Boston Courier._ Her children are real; her style also is natural and pleasing.--_The Outlook_, New York. Miss Reed's children are perfectly natural and act as real girls would under the same circumstances. Nap is a lively little dog, who takes an important part in the development of the story.--_Christian Register_, Boston. A clever story, not a bit preachy, but with much influence for right living in evidence throughout.--_Chicago Evening Post._ LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON ANNA CHAPIN RAY'S "TEDDY" STORIES Miss Ray's work draws instant comparison with the best of Miss Alcott's: first, because she has the same genuine sympathy with boy and girl life; secondly, because she creates real characters, individual and natural, like the young people one knows, actually working out the same kind of problems; and, finally, because her style of writing is equally unaffected and straightforward.--_Christian Register_, Boston. TEDDY: HER BOOK. A Story of Sweet Sixteen Illustrated by Vesper L. George. 12mo. $1.50. This bewitching story of "Sweet Sixteen," with its earnestness, impetuosity, merry pranks, and unconscious love for her hero, has the same spring-like charm.--_Kate Sanborn._ PHEBE: HER PROFESSION. A Sequel to "Teddy: Her Book" Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 12mo. $1.50. This is one of the few books written for young people in which there is to be found the same vigor and grace that one demands in a good story for older people.--_Worcester Spy._ TEDDY: HER DAUGHTER A Sequel to "Teddy: Her Book," and "Phebe: Her Profession" Illustrated by J. B. Graff. 12mo. $1.50. It is a human story, all the characters breathing life and activity.--_Buffalo Times._ NATHALIE'S CHUM Illustrated by Ellen Bernard Thompson. 12mo. $1.50. Nathalie is the sort of a young girl whom other girls like to read about.--_Hartford Courant._ URSULA'S FRESHMAN. A Sequel to "Nathalie's Chum" Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. 12mo. $1.50. The best of a series already the best of its kind.--_Boston Herald._ NATHALIE'S SISTER. A Sequel to "Ursula's Freshman" Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. 12mo. $1.50. Peggy, the heroine, is a most original little lady who says and does all sorts of interesting things. She has pluck and spirit, and a temper, but she is very lovable, and girls will find her delightful to read about.--_Louisville Evening Post._ New Illustrated Editions of Miss Alcott's Famous Stories THE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. Illustrated Edition. With eighty-four full-page plates from drawings especially made for this edition by Reginald B. Birch, Alice Barber Stephens, Jessie Willcox Smith, and Harriet Roosevelt Richards. 8 vols. Crown 8vo. Decorated cloth, gilt, in box, $16.00. Separately as follows: 1. LITTLE MEN: Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys With 15 full-page illustrations by Reginald B. Birch. $2.00. 2. LITTLE WOMEN: or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy With 15 full-page illustrations by Alice Barber Stephens. $2.00. 3. AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL With 12 full-page pictures by Jessie Willcox Smith. $2.00. 4. JO'S BOYS, and How They Turned Out A Sequel to "Little Men." With 10 full-page plates by Ellen Wetherald Ahrens. $2.00. 5. EIGHT COUSINS; or, the Aunt-Hill With 8 full-page pictures by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. 6. ROSE IN BLOOM A Sequel to "Eight Cousins." With 8 full-page pictures by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. $2.00. 7. UNDER THE LILACS With 8 original full-page pictures by Alice Barber Stephens. $2.00. 8. JACK AND JILL With 8 full-page pictures from drawings by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. $2.00. The artists selected to illustrate have caught the spirit of the originals and contributed a series of strikingly beautiful and faithful pictures of the author's characters and scenes.--_Boston Herald._ Alice Barber Stephens, who is very near the head of American illustrators, has shown wonderful ability in delineating the characters and costumes for "Little Women," They are almost startlingly realistic.--_Worcester Spy._ Miss Alcott's books have never before had such an attractive typographical dress as the present. They are printed in large type on heavy paper, artistically bound, and illustrated with many full-page drawings.--_Philadelphia Press_. LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY _Publishers_, 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS. Transcriber's Notes: Obsolete and alternate spellings were retained. Punctuation was standardized. Regional dialect was retained, e.g. 'tree' instead of 'three' 'hat' changed to 'that' ... think that she is no worse ... 'yo'd' changed to 'you'd' ... if you'd had to stay ... 
41296	----	ROSE À CHARLITTE [Illustration: "ROSE À CHARLITTE STOOD CONFRONTING THE NEWCOMER." (_See page 58_.)] ROSE À CHARLITTE +An Acadien Romance+ BY MARSHALL SAUNDERS AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL JOE," "THE HOUSE OF ARMOUR," ETC. +Illustrated by+ H. DE M. YOUNG [Illustration] BOSTON L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _Copyright, 1898_ BY L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_ +Colonial Press+: Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, U. S. A. +Dedication+ I inscribe this story of the Acadiens to one who was their warm friend and helper while administering the Public Systems of Education in Nova Scotia and in New Brunswick, to a man whose classic verse is rich in suggestion caught from the picturesque Evangeline land, and who is a valued and lifelong friend of my beloved father,-- TO +Theodore Harding Rand, D. C. L.+ OF McMASTER UNIVERSITY TORONTO CONTENTS. BOOK I. ROSE À CHARLITTE. CHAPTER PAGE I. VESPER L. NIMMO 11 II. A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 21 III. FROM BOSTON TO ACADIE 28 IV. THE SLEEPING WATER INN 47 V. AGAPIT THE ACADIEN 67 VI. VESPER SUGGESTS AN EXPLANATION 82 VII. A DEADLOCK 90 VIII. ON THE SUDDEN SOMETHING ILL 98 IX. A TALK ON THE WHARF 108 X. BACK TO THE CONCESSION 122 XI. NEWS OF THE FIERY FRENCHMAN 138 XII. AN UNHAPPY RIVER 154 XIII. AN ILLUMINATION 161 XIV. WITH THE OLD ONES 178 XV. THE CAVE OF THE BEARS 196 XVI. FOR THE HONOR OF THEIR RACE 210 XVII. THE SUBLIMEST THING IN THE WORLD 222 XVIII. NARCISSE GOES IN SEARCH OF THE ENGLISHMAN 236 XIX. AN INTERRUPTED MASS 251 XX. WITH THE WATERCROWS 262 XXI. A SUPREME ADIEU 281 BOOK II. BIDIANE. I. A NEW ARRIVAL AT SLEEPING WATER 303 II. BIDIANE GOES TO CALL ON ROSE À CHARLITTE 319 III. TAKEN UNAWARES 334 IV. AN UNKNOWN IRRITANT 353 V. BIDIANE PLAYS AN OVERTURE 361 VI. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS INTERFERES WITH THE EDUCATION OF MIRABELLE MARIE 372 VII. GHOSTS BY SLEEPING WATER 386 VIII. FAIRE BOMBANCE 404 IX. LOVE AND POLITICS 419 X. A CAMPAIGN BEGUN IN BRIBERY 434 XI. WHAT ELECTION DAY BROUGHT FORTH 451 XII. BIDIANE FALLS IN A RIVER 463 XIII. CHARLITTE COMES BACK 474 XIV. BIDIANE RECEIVES A SHOCK 483 XV. THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER GOES AWAY WITHOUT HER CAPTAIN 499 XVI. AN ACADIEN FESTIVAL 506 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE "ROSE À CHARLITTE STOOD CONFRONTING THE NEWCOMER" _Frontispiece_ "THEY WERE FRIENDS" 60 "'AGAPIT,' SHE MURMURED, 'CAN WE NOT TELL HIM?'" 229 "'MADEMOISELLE, I SALUTE YOUR RETURN'" 311 "'EITHER THAT MAN OR I MUST LEAVE THIS HOUSE'" 409 "THROWING HER ARM AROUND THE NECK OF HER RECOVERED CHILD" 513 BOOK I. ROSE À CHARLITTE CHAPTER I. VESPER L. NIMMO. "Hast committed a crime, and think'st thou to escape? Alas, my father!"--_Old Play._ "Evil deeds do not die," and the handsome young man stretched out in an easy chair by the fire raised his curly black head and gazed into the farthest corner of the comfortably furnished room as if challenging a denial of this statement. No one contradicted him, for he was alone, and with a slightly satirical smile he went on. "One fellow sows the seeds, and another has to reap them--no, you don't reap seeds, you reap what springs up. Deadly plants, we will say, nightshades and that sort of thing; and the surprised and inoffensive descendants of sinful sires have to drop their ordinary occupations and seize reaping-hooks to clean out these things that shoot up in their paths. Here am I, for example, a comparatively harmless product of the nineteenth century, confronted with a upas-tree planted by my great-grandfather of the eighteenth,--just one hundred and forty years ago. It was certainly very heedless in the old boy," and he smiled again and stared indolently at the leaping flames in the grate. The fire was of wood,--sections of young trees cut small and laid crosswise,--and from their slender stems escaping gases choked and sputtered angrily. "I am burning miniature trees," drawled the young man; "by the way, they seem to be assisting in my soliloquy. Perhaps they know this little secret," and with sudden animation he put out his hand and rang the bell beside him. A colored boy appeared. "Henry," said the young man, "where did you get this wood?" "I got it out of a schooner, sir, down on one of the wharves." "What port did the schooner hail from?" "From Novy Scoshy, sir." "Were the crew Acadiens?" "What, sir?" "Were there any French sailors on her?" "Yes, sir, I guess so. I heard 'em jabbering some queer kind of talk." "Listen to the wood in that fire,--what does it say to you?" Henry grinned broadly. "It sounds like as if it was laughing at me, sir." "You think so? That will do." The boy closed the door softly and went away, and the young man murmured, "Just what I thought. They do know. Now, Acadien treelets, gasping your last to throw a gleam of brightness into my lazy life, tell me, is anything worth while? If there had been a curse laid on your ancestors in the forest, would you devote your last five minutes to lifting it?" The angry gasping and sobbing in the fire had died away. Two of the topmost billets of wood rolled gently over and emitted a soft muttering. "You would, eh?" said the young man, with a sweet, subtle smile. "You would spend your last breath for the good of your race. You have left some saplings behind you in the forest. You hope that they will be happy, and should I, a human being, be less disinterested than you?" "Vesper," said a sudden voice, from the doorway, "are you talking to yourself?" The young man deliberately turned his head. The better to observe the action of the sticks of wood, and to catch their last dying murmurs, he had leaned forward, and sat with his hands on his knees. Now he got up, drew a chair to the fire for his mother, then sank back into his own. "I do not like to hear you talking to yourself," she went on, in a querulous, birdlike voice, "it seems like the habit of an old man or a crazy person." "One likes sometimes to have a little confidential conversation, my mother." "You always were secretive and unlike other people," she said, in acute maternal satisfaction and appreciation. "Of all the boys on the hill there was none as clever as you in keeping his own counsel." "So you think, but remember that I happened to be your son," he said, protestingly. "Others have remarked it. Even your teachers said they could never make you out," and her caressing glance swept tenderly over his dark curly head, his pallid face, and slender figure. His satirical yet affectionate eyes met hers, then he looked at the fire. "Mother, it is getting hot in Boston." "Hot, Vesper?" and she stretched out one little white hand towards the fireplace. "This is an exceptional day. The wind is easterly and raw, and it is raining. Remember what perfect weather we have had. It is the first of June; it ought to be getting warm." "I do not wish to leave Boston until the last of the month," said the little lady, decidedly, "unless,--unless," and she wistfully surveyed him, "it is better for your health to go away." "Suppose, before we go to the White Mountains, I take a trial trip by myself, just to see if I can get on without coddling?" "I could not think of allowing you to go away alone," she said, with a shake of her white head. "It would seriously endanger your health." "I should like to go," he said, shortly. "I am better now." He had made up his mind to leave her, and, after a brief struggle with herself, during which she clasped her hands painfully on her lap, the little lady yielded with a good grace. "Where do you wish to go?" "I have not decided. Do you know anything about Nova Scotia?" "I know where it is, on the map," she said, doubtfully. "I once had a housemaid from there. She was a very good girl." "Perhaps I will take a run over there." "I have never been to Nova Scotia," she said, gently. "If it is anything of a place, I will take you some other time. I don't know anything about the hotels now." "But you, Vesper," she said, anxiously, "you will suffer more than I would." "Then I shall not stay." "How long will you be gone?" "I do not know,--mother, your expression is that of a concerned hen whose chicken is about to have its first run. I have been away from you before." "Not since you have been ill so much," and she sighed, heavily. "Vesper, I wish you had a wife to go with you." "Really,--another woman to run after me with pill-boxes and medicine-bottles. No, thank you." Her face cleared. She did not wish him to get married, and he knew it. Slightly moving his dark head back and forth against the cushions of his chair, he averted his eyes from the widow's garments that she wore. He never looked at them without feeling a shock of sympathy for her, although her loss in parting from a kind and tender husband had not been equal to his in losing a father who had been an almost perfect being to him. His mother still had him,--the son who was the light of her frail little life,--and he had her, and he loved her with a kind, indulgent, filial affection, and with sympathy for her many frailties; but, when his heart cried out for his departed father, he quietly absented himself from her. And that father--that good, honorable, level-headed man--had ended his life by committing suicide. He had never understood it. It was a most bitter and stinging mystery to him even now, and he glanced at the box of dusty, faded letters on the floor beside him. "Vesper," said Mrs. Nimmo, "do you find anything interesting among those letters of your father?" "Not my father's. There is not one of his among them. Indeed, I think he never could have opened this box. Did you ever know of his doing so?" "I cannot tell. They have been up in the attic ever since I was married. He examined some of the boxes, then he asked you to do it. He was always busy, too busy. He worked himself to death," and a tear fell on her black dress. "I wish now that I had done as he requested," said the young man, gravely. "There are some questions that I should have asked him. Do you remember ever hearing him say anything about the death of my great-grandfather?" She reflected a minute. "It seems to me that I have. He was the first of your father's family to come to this country. There is a faint recollection in my mind of having heard that he--well, he died in some sudden way," and she stopped in confusion. "It comes back to me now," said Vesper. "Was he not the old man who got out of bed, when his nurse was in the next room, and put a pistol to his head?" "I daresay," said his mother, slowly. "Of course it was temporary insanity." "Of course." "Why do you ask?" she went on, curiously. "Do you find his name among the old documents?" Vesper understood her better than to make too great a mystery of a thing that he wished to conceal. "Yes, there is a letter from him." "I should like to read it," she said, fussily fumbling at her waist for her spectacle-case. Vesper indifferently turned his head towards her. "It is very long." Her enthusiasm died away, and she sank back in her rocking-chair. "My great-grandfather shot himself, and my grandfather was lost at sea," pursued the young man, dreamily. "Yes," she said, reluctantly; then she added, "my people all die in bed." "His ship caught on fire." She shuddered. "Yes; no one escaped." "All burnt up, probably; and if they took to their boats they must have died of starvation, for they were never heard of." They were both silent, and the same thought was in their minds. Was this very cool and calm young man, sitting staring into the fire, to end his days in the violent manner peculiar to the rugged members of his father's family, or was he to die according to the sober and methodical rule of the peaceful members of his mother's house? Out of the depths of a quick maternal agony she exclaimed, "You are more like me than your father." Her son gave her an assenting and affectionate glance, though he knew that she knew he was not at all like her. He even began to fancy, in a curious introspective fashion, whether he should have cared at all for this little white-haired lady if he had happened to have had another woman for a mother. The thought amused him, then he felt rebuked, and, leaning over, he took one of the white hands on her lap and kissed it gently. "We should really investigate our family histories in this country more than we do," he said. "I wish that I had questioned my father about his ancestors. I know almost nothing of them. Mother," he went on, presently, "have you ever heard of the expulsion of the Acadiens?" and bending over the sticks of wood neatly laid beside him, he picked up one and gazed at a little excrescence in the bark which bore some resemblance to a human face. "Oh, yes," she replied, with gentle rebuke, "do you not remember that I used to know Mr. Longfellow?" Vesper slowly, and almost caressingly, submitted the stick of wood to the leaping embrace of the flames that rose up to catch it. "What is your opinion of his poem 'Evangeline?'" "It was a pretty thing,--very pretty and very sad. I remember crying over it when it came out." "You never heard that our family had any connection with the expulsion?" "No, Vesper, we are not French." "No, we certainly are not," and he relapsed into silence. "I think I will run over to Nova Scotia, next week," he said, when she presently got up to leave the room. "Will you let Henry find out about steamers and trains?" "Yes, if you think you must go," she said, wistfully. "I daresay the steamer would be easier for you." "The steamer then let it be." "And if you must go I will have to look over your clothes. It will be cool there, like Maine, I fancy. You must take warm things," and she glided from the room. "I wish you would not bother about them," he said; "they are all right." But she did not hear him. CHAPTER II. A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. "The glossing words of reason and of song, To tell of hate and virtue to defend, May never set the bitter deed aright, Nor satisfy the ages with the wrong." J. F. HERBIN. "Now let me read this effusion of my thoughtless grandparent once more," said Vesper, and he took the top paper from the box and ran over its contents in a murmuring voice. I, John Matthew Nimmo, a Scotchman, born in Glasgow, at present a dying man, in the town of Halifax, Nova Scotia, leave this last message for my son Thomas Nimmo, now voyaging on the high seas. My son Thomas, by the will of God, you, my only child, are abroad at this time of great disease and distress with me. My eyes will be closed in death ere you return, and I am forced to commit to paper the words I would fain have spoken with living voice to you. You, my son, have known me as a hard and stern man. By the grace of God my heart is now humbled and like that of a little child. My son, my son, by the infinite mercies of our Saviour, let me supplicate you not to leave repentance to a dying bed. On the first day of the last week, I, being stricken down with paralysis, lay here on my couch. The room was quiet; I was alone. Suddenly I heard a great noise, and the weeping and wailing of women and children, and the groans of men. Then a heavy bell began to toll, and a light as of a bright fire sprang up against my wall. I entered into a great swoon, in which I seemed to be a young man again,--a stout and hearty man, a high liver, a proud swearer. I had on my uniform; there was a sword in my hand. I trod the deck of my stout ship, the _Confidence_. I heard the plash of waves against the sides, and I lifted my haughty eyes to heaven; I was afraid of none, no not the ruler of the universe. Down under the planks that my foot pressed were prisoners, to wit, the Acadiens, that we were carrying to the port of Boston. What mattered their sufferings to me? I did not think of them. I called for a bottle of wine, and looked again over the sea, and wished for a fair wind so that we might the sooner enter our prisoners at the port of Boston, and make merry with our friends. My son, as I, in my swoon, contemplated my former self, it is not in the power of mortal man to convey to you my awful scorn of what I then was,--my gross desires, my carnal wishes. I was no better than the beasts of the fields. After a time, as I trod the deck, a young Acadien was brought before me. My officers said that he had been endeavouring to stir up a mutiny among the prisoners, and had urged them to make themselves masters of the ship and to cast us into the sea. I called him a Papist dog. I asked him whether he wished to be thrown to the fishes. I could speak no French, but he knew somewhat of English, and he answered me proudly. He stretched out his hand to the smoking village of Grand Pré that we were leaving. He called to heaven for a judgment to be sent down on the English for their cruelty. I struck him to the deck. He could not rise. I thought he would not; but in a brief space of time he was dead, the last words on his lips a curse on me and my children, and a wish that in our dying moments we might suffer some of the torments he was then enduring. I had his body rolled into the sea, and I forgot him, my son. In the unrighteous work to which I had put my hand in the persecution of the French, a death more or less was a circumstance to be forgotten. I was then a young man, and in all the years that have intervened I have been oblivious of him. The hand of the Lord has been laid upon me; I have been despoiled of my goods; nothing that I have done has prospered; and yet I give you my solemn word I never, until now, in these days of dying, have reflected that a curse has been upon me and will descend to you, my son, and to your sons after you. Therefore, I leave this solemn request. Methinks I shall not lie easy in my narrow bed until that some of my descendants have made restitution to the seed of the Frenchman. I bethink me that he was one Le Noir, called the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pré, from a birthmark on his face, but of his baptismal name I am ignorant. That he was a married man I well know, for one cause of his complaint was that he had been separated from his wife and child, which thing was not of my doing, but by the orders of Governor Lawrence, who commanded the men and the women to be embarked apart. But seek them not in the city of Boston, my son, nor in that of Philadelphia, where his young wife was carried, but come back to this old Acadien land, whither the refugees are now tending. Ah me! it seems that I am yet a young man, that he is still alive,--the man whom I killed. Alas! I am old and about to die, but, my son, by the love and compassion of God, let me entreat you to carry out the wishes of your father. Seek the family of the Frenchman; make restitution, even to the half of your goods, or you will have no prosperity in this world nor any happiness in the world to come. If you are unable to carry out this, my last wish, let this letter be handed to your children. Eschew riotous living, and fold in your heart my saying, that the forcible dispossession of the Acadien people from their land and properties was an unrighteous and unholy act, brought about chiefly by the lust of hatred and greed on the part of that iniquitous man, Governor Lawrence, of this province, and his counsellors. May God have mercy on my soul. Your father, soon to be a clod of clay, JOHN MATTHEW NIMMO. HALIFAX, May 9, 1800. With a slight shudder Vesper dropped the letter back in the box and wiped the dust from his fingers. "Unhappy old man,--there is not the slightest evidence that his callous son Thomas paid any heed to his exhortations. I can imagine the contempt with which he would throw this letter aside; he would probably remark that his father had lost his mind. And yet was it a superstition about altering the fortunes of the family that made him shortly after exchange his father's grant of land in Nova Scotia for one in this State?" and he picked up another faded document, this one of parchment and containing a record of the transfer of certain estates in the vicinity of the town of Boston to Thomas Nimmo, removing from Halifax, Nova Scotia, to the State of Massachusetts. "Then Thomas got burnt for despising the commands of his father; but my poor sire,--where does his guilt come in? He did not know of the existence of this letter,--that I could swear, for with his kind heart and streak of romance he would have looked up this Acadien ghost and laid it. If I were also romantic, I should say it killed him. As it is, I shall stick to my present opinion that he killed himself by overwork. "Now, shall I be cynical and let this thing go, or shall I, like a knight of the Middle Ages, or an adventurous fool of the present, set out in quest of the seed of the Fiery Frenchman? _Ciel!_ I have already decided. It is a floating feather to pursue, an occupation just serious enough for my convalescent state. _En route_, then, for Acadie," and he closed his eyes and sank into a reverie, which was, after the lapse of an hour, interrupted by the entrance of the colored boy with a handful of papers. "Good boy, Henry," said his master, approvingly. "Mis' Nimmo, she tole me to hurry," said the boy, with a flash of his resplendent ivories, "'cause she never like you to wait for nothing. So I jus' run down to Washington Street." Vesper smiled, and took up one of the folders. "H'm, Evangeline route. The Nova Scotians are smart enough to make capital out of the poem--Henry, come rub my left ankle, there is some rheumatism in it. What is this? 'The Dominion Atlantic Railway have now completed their magnificent system to the Hub of the Universe by placing on the route between it and Nova Scotia a steamship named after one of the heirs-presumptive of the British throne.' Henry, where is the Hub of the Universe?" Henry looked up from the hearth-rug. "I dunno, sir; ain't it heaven?" "It ought to be," said the young man; and he went on, "'This steamship is a dream of beauty, with the lines of an exquisite yacht. Her appointments are as perfect as taste and science can suggest, in music-room, dining-room, smoking-room, parlor, staterooms, bathrooms, and all other apartments. The cabinet work is in solid walnut and oak, the softened light falling through domes and panels of stained glass, the upholstery is in figured and other velvets, the tapestries are of silk. There is a perfect _cuisine_, and a union of comfort and luxury throughout.'" The young man laid down the folder. "How would you like to go to sea in that royal craft, Henry?" "It sounds fine," said the boy, smacking his lips. "No mention is made of seasickness, nor of going to the bottom. A pity it would be to waste all that finery on the fishes--don't rub quite so hard. Let me see," and he took up the folder again. "What days does she leave? Go to-morrow to the office, Henry, and engage the most comfortable stateroom on this bit of magnificence for next Thursday." CHAPTER III. FROM BOSTON TO ACADIE. "For this is in the land of Acadie, The fairest place of all the earth and sea." J. F. H. It is always amusing to be among a crowd of people on the Lewis Wharf, in Boston, when a steamer is about to leave for the neighboring province of Nova Scotia. The provincials are so slow, so deliberate, so determined not to be hurried. The Americans are so brisk, so expeditious, so bewildering in the multitude of things they will accomplish in the briefest possible space of time. They surround the provincials, they attempt to hurry them, to infuse a little more life into their exercises of volition, to convince them that a busy wharf is not the place to weigh arguments for or against a proposed course of action, yet the provincials will not be hurried; they stop to plan, consider, deliberate, and decide, and in the end they arrive at satisfactory conclusions without one hundredth part of the worry and vexation of soul which shortens the lives of their more nervous cousins, the Americans. At noon, on the Thursday following his decision to go to Nova Scotia, Vesper Nimmo stood on the deck of the _Royal Edward_, a smile on his handsome face,--a shrewd smile, that deepened and broadened whenever he looked towards the place where stood his mother, with a fluffy white shawl wrapped around her throat, and the faithful Henry for a bodyguard. Express wagons, piled high with towers of Babel in the shape of trunks that shook and quivered and threatened to fall on unsuspecting heads, rattled down and discharged their contents on the already congested wharf, where intending passengers, escorting friends, custom officials, and wharf men were talking, gesticulating, admonishing, and escaping death in varied forms, such as by crushing, falling, squeezing, deaths by exhaustion, by kicks from nervous horse legs, or by fright from being swept into the convenient black pool of the harbor. However, scorning the danger, the crowd talked and jabbered on, until, finally, the last bit of freight, the last bit of luggage, was on board. A signal was given, the ambulance drew back,--the dark and mournful wagon from which, alas, at nearly every steamer's trip, a long, light box is taken, in which one Canadian is going home quite still and mute. A swarm of stewards from the steamer descended upon their quarry, the passengers, and a separation was made between the sheep and the foolish goats, in the company's eyes, who would not be persuaded to seek the fair Canadian pastures. Carefully the stewards herded and guarded their giddy sheep to the steamer, often turning back to recover one skipping behind for a last parley with the goats. At last they were all up the gangway, the gorgeous ship swung her princely nose to the stream, and Vesper Nimmo felt himself really off for Nova Scotia. He waved an adieu to his mother, then drew back to avoid an onset of stolid, red-cheeked Canadian sheep and lambs, who pressed towards the railing, some with damp handkerchiefs at their eyes, others cheerfully exhorting the goats to write soon. His eye fell on a delicate slip of a girl, with consumption written all over her shaking form; and, swinging on his heel, he went to stroll about the decks, and watch, with proud and passionate concealed emotion, the yellow receding dome of the State House. He had been brought up in the shadow of that ægis. It was almost as sacred to him as the blue sky above, and not until he could no longer see it did he allow his eyes to wander over other points of interest of the historic harbor. How many times his sturdy New England forefathers had dropped their hoes to man the ships that sailed over these blue waters, to hew down the Agag of Acadie! What a bloodthirsty set they were in those days! Indians, English, French,--how they harried, and worried, and bit, and tore at each other! He thoughtfully smoothed the little silky mustache that adorned his upper lip, and murmured, "Thank heaven, I go on a more peaceful errand." Once out of the harbor, and feeling the white deck beneath his feet gracefully dipping to meet the swell of the ocean, he found a seat and drew a guide-book from his pocket. Of ancient Acadie he knew something, but of this modern Acadie he had, strange to say, felt no curiosity, although it lay at his very doors, until he had discovered the letter of his great-grandfather. The day was warm and sunshiny. It was the third of June, and for some time he sat quietly reading and bathed in golden light. Then across his calm, peaceful state of content, stole a feeling scarcely to be described, and so faint that it was barely perceptible. He was not quite happy. The balm had gone from the air; the spirit of the writer, who so eloquently described the lure of the Acadien land, no longer communed with his. He read on, knowing what was coming, yet resolved not to yield until he was absolutely forced to do so. In half an hour he had flung down his book, and was in his stateroom, face downward, his window wide open, his body gently swaying to and fro with the motion of the steamer, the salt air deliciously lapping his ears, the back of his neck, and his hands, but unable to get at his face, obstinately buried in the pillow. "Sick, sir?" inquired a brisk voice, with a delicate note of suggestion. Vesper uncovered one eye, and growled, "No,--shut that door." The steward disappeared, and did not return for some hours, while Vesper's whole sensitive system passed into a painless agony, the only movement he made being to turn himself over on his back, where he lay, apparently calm and happy, and serenely staring at the white ceiling of his dainty cell. "Can I do anything for you, sir?" asked the steward's voice once more. Vesper, who would not have spoken if he had been offered the _Royal Edward_ full of gold pieces, did not even roll an eyeball at him, but kept on gravely staring upward. "Your collar's choking you, sir," said the man, coming forward; and he deftly slipped a stud from its place and laid it on the wash-stand. "Shall I take off your boots?" Vesper submitted to having his boots withdrawn, and his feet covered, with as much indifference as if they belonged to some other man, and continued to spend the rest of the day and the night in the same state of passivity. Towards morning he had a vague wish to know the time, but it did not occur to him, any more than it would have occurred to a stone image, to put up his hand to the watch in his breast pocket. Daylight came, then sunlight streaming into his room, and cheery sounds of voices without, but he did not stir. Not until the thrill of contact with the land went through the steamer did he spring to his feet, like a man restored to consciousness by galvanic action. He was the first passenger to reach the wharf, and the steward, who watched him going, remarked sarcastically that he was glad to see "that 'ere dead man come to life." Vesper was himself again when his feet touched the shore. He looked about him, saw the bright little town of Yarmouth, black rocks, a blue harbor, and a glorious sky. His contemplation of the landscape over, he reflected that he was faint from hunger. He turned his back on the steamer, where his fellow passengers had recently breakfasted at fine tables spread under a ceiling of milky white and gold, and hurried to a modest eating-house near by from which a savory smell of broiled steak and fried potatoes floated out on the morning air. He entered it, and after a hasty wash and brush-up ate his breakfast with frantic appetite. He now felt that he had received a new lease of life, and buttoning his collar up around his neck, for the temperature was some degrees lower than that of his native city, he hurried back to the wharf, where the passengers and the customs men were quarrelling as if they had been enemies for life. With ingratiating and politic calmness he pointed out his trunk and bicycle, assured the suspicious official that although he was an American he was honest and had nothing to sell and nothing dutiable in the former, and that he had not the slightest objection to paying the thirty per cent deposit required on the latter; then, a prey to inward laughter at the enlivening spectacle of open trunks and red faces, he proceeded to the railway station, looking about him for other signs that he was in a foreign country. Nova Scotia was very like Maine so far. Here were the Maine houses, the Maine trees and rocks, even the Maine wild flowers by the side of the road. He thoughtfully boarded the train, scrutinized the comfortable parlor-car, and, after the lapse of half an hour, decided that he was not in Maine, for, if he had been, the train would certainly have started. As he was making this reflection, a dapper individual, in light trousers, a shiny hat, and with the indescribable air of being a travelling salesman, entered the car where Vesper sat in solitary grandeur. Vesper slightly inclined his head, and the stranger, dropping a neat leather bag in the seat next him, observed, "We had a good passage." "Very good," replied Vesper. "Nobody sick," pursued the dapper individual, taking off his hat, brushing it, and carefully replacing it on his head. "I should think not," returned Vesper; then he consulted his watch. "We are late in starting." "We're always late," observed the newcomer, tartly. "This is your first trip down here?" Vesper, with the reluctance of his countrymen to admit that they have done or are doing something for the first time, did not contradict his statement. "I've been coming to this province for ten years," said his companion. "I represent Stone and Warrior." Vesper knew Stone and Warrior's huge dry-goods establishment, and had due respect for the opinion of one of their travellers. "And when we start we don't go," said the dry-goods man. "This train doesn't dare show its nose in Halifax before six o'clock, so she's just got to put in the time somewhere. Later in the season they'll clap on the Flying Bluenose, which makes them think they're flying through the air, because she spurts and gets in two hours earlier. How far are you going?" "I don't know; possibly to Grand Pré." "A pretty country there, but no big farms,--kitchen-gardening compared with ours." "That is where the French used to be." "Yes, but there ain't one there now. The most of the French in the province are down here." Vesper let his surprised eyes wander out through the car window. "Pretty soon we'll begin to run through the woods. There'll be a shanty or two, a few decent houses and a station here and there, and you'd think we were miles from nowhere, but at the same time we're running abreast of a village thirty-five miles long." "That is a good length." "The houses are strung along the shores of this Bay," continued the salesman, leaning over and tapping the map spread on Vesper's knee. "The Bay is forty miles long." "Why didn't they build the railway where the village is?" "That's Nova Scotia," said the salesman, drily. "Because the people were there, they put the railroad through the woods. They beat the Dutch." "Can't they make money?" "Like the mischief, if they want to," and the salesman settled back in his seat and put his hands in his pockets. "It makes me smile to hear people talking about these green Nova Scotians. They'll jump ahead of you in a bargain as quick as a New Yorker when they give their minds to it. But I'll add 'em up in one word,--they don't care." Vesper did not reply, and, after a minute's pause his companion went on, with waxing indignation. "They ought to have been born in the cannibal isles, every man Jack of 'em, where they could sit outdoors all day and pick up cocoanuts or eat each other. Upon my life, you can stand in the middle of Halifax, which is their capital city, and shy a stone at half a dozen banks and the post-office, and look down and see grass growing between the bricks at your feet." "Very unprogressive," murmured Vesper. The salesman relented. "But I've got some good chums there, and I must say they've got a lot of soft soap,--more than we have." "That is, better manners?" "Exactly; but"--and he once more hardened his heart against the Nova Scotians,--"they've got more time than we have. There ain't so many of 'em. Look at our Boston women at a bargain-counter,--you've got a lot of curtains at four dollars a pair. You can't sell 'em. You run 'em up to six dollars and advertise, 'Great drop on ten-dollar curtains.' The women rush to get 'em. How much time have they to be polite? About as much as a pack of wolves." "What is the population of Halifax?" asked Vesper. "About forty thousand," said the salesman, lolling his head on the back of the seat, and running his sentences as glibly from his lips as if he were reciting a lesson, "and a sly, sleepy old place it is, with lots of money in it, and people pretending they are poor. Suburbs fine, but the city dirty from the soft coal they burn. A board fence around every lot you could spread a handkerchief on,--so afraid neighbors will see into their back yards. If they'd knock down their fences, pick up a little of the trash in the streets, and limit the size of their hotel keys, they'd get on." "Are there any French people there?" The salesman was not interested in the French. "No," he said, "not that I ever heard of. They could make lots of money there," he went on, with enthusiasm, "if they'd wake up. You know there's an English garrison, and our girls like the military; but these blamed provincials, though they've got a big pot of jam, won't do anything to draw our rich flies, not even as much as to put up a bathing-house. They don't care a continental. "There's a hotel beyond Halifax where a big excursion from New York used to go every year. Last year the manager said, 'If you don't clean up your old hotel, and put a decent boat on the lake, you'll never see me again.' The hotel proprietor said, 'I guess this house is clean enough for us, and we haven't been spilt out of the boat yet, and you and your excursion can go to Jericho.' So the excursion goes to Jericho now, and the hotel man gets more time for sleep." "Have you ever been in this French village?" asked Vesper. "No," and the salesman stifled a yawn. "I only call at the principal towns, where the big stores are. Good Lord! I wish those stick-in-the-muds would come up from the wharf. If I knew how to run an engine I'd be off without 'em," and he strolled to the car door. "It's as quiet as death down there. The passengers must have chopped up the train-hands and thrown 'em in the water. If my wife made up her mind to move to this province, I'd die in ten days, for I'd have so much time to think over my sins. Glory hallelujah, here they come!" and he returned to his seat. "The whole tribe of 'em, edging along as if they were a funeral procession and we were the corpses on ahead. We're off," he said, jocularly, to Vesper, and he kicked out his little dapper legs, stuck his ticket in the front of his shiny hat, and sank into a seat, where he was soon asleep. Vesper was rather out of his reckoning. It had not occurred to him, in spite of Longfellow's assurance about naught but tradition remaining of the beautiful village of Grand Pré, that no French were really to be found there. Now, according to the salesman, he should look for the Acadiens in this part of the province. However, if the French village was thirty-five miles long there was no hurry about leaving the train, and he settled back and watched his fellow passengers leisurely climbing the steps. Among those who entered the parlor-car was a stout, gentlemanly man, gesticulating earnestly, although his hands were full of parcels, and turning every instant to look with a quick, bright eye into the face of his companion, who was a priest. The priest left him shortly after they entered the car, and the stout man sat down and unfolded a newspaper on which the name and place of publication--_L'Évangéline, Journal Hebdomadaire, Weymouth_--met Vesper's eye with grateful familiarity. The title was, of course, a pathetic reminder of the poem. Weymouth, and he glanced at his map, was in the line of villages along the bay. The gentleman for a time read the paper intently. Then his nervous hands flung it down, and Vesper, leaning over, politely asked if he would lend it to him. It was handed to him with a bow, and the young American was soon deep in its contents. It had been founded in the interests of the Acadiens of the Maritime Provinces, he read in fluent modern French, which greatly surprised him, as he had expected to be confronted by some curious _patois_ concocted by this remnant of a foreign race isolated so long among the English. He read every word of the paper,--the cards of professional men, the advertisements of shopkeepers, the remarks on agriculture, the editorials on Canadian politics, the local news, and the story by a Parisian novelist. Finally he returned _L'Évangéline_ to its owner, whose quick eyes were looking him all over in mingled curiosity and gratification, which at last culminated in the remark that it was a fine morning. Vesper, with slow, quiet emphasis, which always imparted weight and importance to his words, assented to this, with the qualification that it was chilly. "It is never very warm here until the end of June," said the stout gentleman, with a courteous gesture, "but I find this weather most agreeable for wheeling. I am shortly to leave the train and take to my bicycle for the remainder of my journey." Vesper asked him whether there was a good road along the shores of the Bay. "The best in the province, but I regret to say that the roads to it from the stations are cut up by heavy teaming." "And the hotels,--are they good?" "According to the guide-books there are none in Frenchtown," said the gentleman, with lively sarcasm. "I know of one or two where one can be comfortable. Here, for instance," and one of his facile hands indicated a modest advertisement in _L'Évangéline_. Sleeping Water Inn. This inn, well patronized in the past, is still the rendezvous for tourists, bicyclists, etc. The house is airy, and the table is good. A trustworthy teamster is always at the train to carry trunks and valises to the inn. Rose de Forêt, Proprietress. Vesper looked up, to find his neighbor smiling involuntarily. "Pardon me," he said, with contrition, "I am thinking that you would find the house satisfactory." "It is kept by a woman?" "Yes," said the stranger, with preternatural gravity; "Rose à Charlitte." Vesper said nothing, and his face was rarely an index of his thoughts, yet the stranger, knowing in some indefinable way that he wished for further information, continued. "On the Bay, the friendly fashion prevails of using only the first name. Rose à Charlitte is rarely called Madame de Forêt." Vesper saw that some special interest attached to the proprietress of the Acadien inn, yet did not see his way clear to find out what it was. His new acquaintance, however, had a relish for his subject of conversation, and pursued it with satisfaction. "She is very remarkable, and makes money, yet I hope that fate will intervene to preserve her from a life which is, perhaps, too public for a woman of her stamp. A rich uncle, one Auguste Le Noir, whose beautiful home among orange and fig trees on the Bayou Vermillon in Louisiana I visited last year, may perhaps rescue her. Not that she does anything at all out of the way," he added, hastily, "but she is beautiful and young." Vesper repressed a slight start at the mention of the name Le Noir, then asked calmly if it was a common one among the Acadiens. The Le Noirs and Le Blancs, the gentleman assured him, were as plentiful as blackberries, while as to Melançons, there were eighty families of them on the Bay. "This has given rise to the curious house-that-Jack-built system of naming," he said. "There is Jean à Jacques Melançon, which is Jean, the son of Jacques,--Jean à Basile, Jean à David, and sometimes Jean à Martin à Conrade à Benoit Melançon, but"--and he checked himself quickly--"I am, perhaps, wearying you with all this?" He was as a man anxious, yet hesitating, to impart information, and Vesper hastened to assure him that he was deeply interested in the Acadiens. The cloud swept from the face of the vivacious gentleman. "You gratify me. The old prejudice against my countrymen still lingers in this province in the shape of indifference. I rarely discuss them unless I know my listener." "Have I the pleasure of addressing an Acadien?" asked Vesper. "I have the honor to be one," said the stout gentleman, and his face flushed like that of a girl. Vesper gave him a quick glance. This was the first Acadien that he had ever seen, and he was about as far removed from the typical Acadien that he had pictured to himself as a man could be. This man was a gentleman. He had expected to find the Acadiens, after all the trials they had gone through in their dispossession of property and wanderings by sea and land, degenerated into a despoiled and poverty-stricken remnant of peasantry. Curiously gratified by the discovery that here was one who had not gone under in the stress of war and persecution, he remarked that his companion was probably well-informed on the subject of the expulsion of his countrymen from this province. "The expulsion,--ah!" said the gentleman, in a repressed voice. Then, unable to proceed, he made a helpless gesture and turned his face towards the window. The younger man thought that there were tears in his eyes, and forbore to speak. "One mentions it so calmly nowadays," said the Acadien, presently, looking at him. "There is no passion, no resentment, yet it is a living flame in the breast of every true Acadien, and this is the reason,--it is a tragedy that is yet championed. It is commonly believed that the deportation of the Acadiens was a necessity brought about by their stubbornness." "That is the view I have always taken of it," said Vesper, mildly. "I have never looked into the subject exhaustively, but my conclusion from desultory reading has been that the Acadiens were an obstinate set of people who dictated terms to the English, which, as a conquered race, they should not have done, and they got transported for it." "Then let me beg you, my dear sir, to search into the matter. If you happen to visit the Sleeping Water Inn, ask for Agapit Le Noir. He is an enthusiast on the subject, and will inform you; and if at any time you find yourself in our beautiful city of Halifax, may I not beg the pleasure of a call? I shall be happy to lay before you some historical records of our race," and he offered Vesper a card on which was engraved, Dr. Bernardin Arseneau, Barrington Street, Halifax. Vesper took the card, thanked him, and said, "Shall I find any of the descendants of the settlers of Grand Pré among the Acadiens on this Bay?" "Many, many of them. When the French first came to Nova Scotia, they naturally selected the richest portions of the province. At the expulsion these farms were seized. When, through incredible hardships, they came struggling back to this country that they so much loved, they could not believe that their lands would not be restored to them. Many of them trudged on foot to fertile Grand Pré, to Port Royal, and other places. They looked in amazement at the settlers who had taken their homes. You know who they were?" "No, I do not," said Vesper. "They were your own countrymen, my dear sir, if, as I rightly judge, you come from the United States. They came to this country, and found waiting for them the fertile fields whose owners had been seized, imprisoned, tortured, and carried to foreign countries, some years before. Such is the justice of the world. For their portion the returned Acadiens received this strip of forest on the Bay Saint-Mary. You will see what they have made of it," and, with a smile at once friendly and sad, the stout gentleman left the train and descended to a little station at which they had just pulled up. CHAPTER IV. THE SLEEPING WATER INN. "Montrez-moi votre menu et je vous montrerai mon coeur." A few minutes later, the train had again entered the forest, and Vesper, who had a passion for trees and ranked them with human beings in his affections, allowed the mystery and charm of these foreigners to steal over him. In dignified silence and reserve the tall pines seemed to draw back from the rude contact of the passing train. The more assertive firs and spruces stood still, while the slender hackmatacks, most beautiful of all the trees of the wood, writhed and shook with fright, nervously tossing their tremulous arms and tasselled heads, and breathing long odoriferous sighs that floated after, but did not at all touch the sympathies of the roaring monster from the outer world who so often desecrated their solitude. Vesper's delicate nostrils dilated as the spicy odors saluted them, and he thought, with tenderness, of the home trees that he loved, the elms of the Common and those of the square where he had been born. How many times he had encircled them with admiring footsteps, noting the individual characteristics of each tree, and giving to each one a separate place in his heart. Just for an instant he regretted that for to-night he could not lie down in their shadow. Then he turned irritably to the salesman, who was stretching and shaking out his legs, and performing other calisthenic exploits as accompaniments of waking. "Haven't we come to Great Scott yet?" he asked, getting up, and sauntering to Vesper's window. Vesper consulted his folder. Among the French names he could discover nothing like this, unless it was Grosses Coques, so called, his guide-book told him, because the Acadiens had discovered enormous clams there. The salesman settled the question by dabbing at the name with his fat forefinger. "Confound these French names, and thank the Lord they're beginning to give them up. This Sleeping Water we're coming to used to be _L'Eau Dormante_. If I had my way, I'd string up on these pines every fellow that spoke a word of this gibberish. That would cure 'em. Why can't they have one language, as we do?" "How would you like to talk French?" asked Vesper, quietly. The little man laughed shrewdly, and not unkindly. "Every man to his liking. I guess it's best not to fight too much." "I get off here," said Vesper, gathering up his papers. "Happy you,--you won't have to wait for all of Evangeline's heifers to step off the track between here and Halifax." Vesper nodded to him, and, swinging himself from the car, went to find the conductor. There was ample time to get that gentlemanly official's consent to have his wheel and trunk put off at this station, instead of at Grand Pré, and ample time for Vesper to give a long look at the names in the line of cars, which were, successively, Basil the Blacksmith, Benedict the Father, René the Notary, and Gabriel the Lover, before the locomotive snuffed its nostrils and, panting and heaving, started off to trail its romantic appendages through the country of Evangeline. When the train had disappeared, Vesper looked about him. He was no longer in the heart of the forest. An open country and scattering houses appeared in the distance, and here he could distinctly feel a mischievous breeze from the Bay that playfully ruffled his hair, and tossed back the violets at his feet every time that they bent over to look at their own sweet faces in the black, mirror-like pool of water set in a mossy bed beside them. He stooped and picked one of the wistful purple blossoms, then stepped up on the platform of the gabled station-house. Inside the kitchen, a woman, sitting with her back to the passing trains, was spinning, and at the same time rocking a cradle, while near the door stood an individual who, to Vesper's secret amusement, might have posed either as a member of the human species, or as one of the class _aves_. He had many times seen the fellows of this white-haired, smooth-faced old man, in the Southern States in the shape of cardinal-birds. Those resplendent creatures in the male sex are usually clothed in gay red jackets. This male's plumage was also red, but, unlike the cardinal-birds, it had a trimming of pearl buttons and white lace. The bird's high and conical crest was expressed in the man by a pointed red cap. The bird is nondescript as to the legs,--so also was the man; and the loud and musical note of the Southern songster was reproduced in the fife-like tones of the Acadien, when he presently spoke. He was an official, and carried in his hand a locked bag containing her Majesty's mail for her Acadien subjects of the Bay. Vesper had seen the mail-carriers along the route, tossing their bags to the passing train, and receiving others in return, but none as gorgeous as this one, and he was wondering why the gentle-faced septuagenarian made himself so peculiar, when he was addressed in a sweet, high voice. "Sir," said the bird-man, in French,--for was he not Emmanuel Victor De la Rive, lineal descendant of a French marquis who had married a queen's maid of honor, and had subsequently bequeathed his bones and his large family of children to his adored Acadie?--"Sir, is it possible that you are a guest for the inn?" "It is possible," said Vesper, gravely. "Alas!" said the old man, turning to the dark-eyed woman, who had left her cradle and spinning-wheel, "is it not always so? When Rose à Charlitte does not send, there are arrivals. When she does, there are not. She will be in despair. Sir, shall I have the honor of taking you over in my road-cart?" "I have a wheel," said Vesper, pointing to the bicycle, leaning disconsolately against his trunk. The black-eyed woman immediately put out her hand for his checks. "Then may I have the honor of showing you the way?" said Monsieur De la Rive, bowing before Vesper as if he were a divinity. "There are sides of the road which it is well to avoid." "I shall be most happy to avail myself of your offer." "I will send the trunk over," said the station woman. "There is a constant going that way." Vesper thanked her, and left the station in the wake of the cardinal-bird, who sat perched on his narrow seat as easily as if it were a branch of a tree, turning his crested head at frequent intervals to look anxiously at the mail-bag which, for reasons best known to himself, he carried slung to a nail in the back of his cart. At frequent intervals, too, he piped shrill and sweet remarks to Vesper. "Courage; the road will soon improve. It is the ox-teams that cut it up. They load schooners in the Bay. Here at last is a good spot. Monsieur can mount now. Beware of the sharp stones. All the bones of the earth stick up in places. Does monsieur intend to stay long in Sleeping Water? Was it monsieur that Rose à Charlitte expected when she drove through the pouring rain to the station, two days since? What did he say in the letter that he sent yesterday in explanation of his change of plans? Did monsieur come from Halifax, or Boston? Did he know Mrs. de la Rive, laundress, of Cambridge Street? Had he samples of candy or tobacco in that big box of his? How much did he charge a pound for his best peppermints?" Vesper, fully occupied with keeping his wheel out of the ruts in the road, and in maintaining a safe distance from the cart, which pressed him sore if he went ahead and waited for him if he dallied behind, answered "yes" and "no" at random, until at length he had involved himself in such a maze of contradictions that Monsieur de la Rive felt himself forced to pull up his brown pony and remonstrate. "But it is impossible, monsieur, that you should have seen Mrs. de la Rive, who has been dying for weeks, dancing at the wedding of the daughter of her step-uncle, the baker, and yet you say 'yes' when I remark that she was not there." The stop and the remonstrance were so birdlike and so quick, that Vesper, taken aback, fell off his wheel and broke his cyclometer. He picked himself out of the dust, swearing under his breath, and Monsieur de la Rive, being a gentleman, and seeing that this quiet young stranger was disinclined for conversation, suddenly whipped up his pony and sped madly on ahead, the tails of his red coat streaming out behind him, the tip of his pointed cap fluttering and nodding over his thick white locks of hair. After the lapse of a few minutes, Vesper had recovered his composure, and was looking calmly about him. The road was better now, and they were nearing the Bay, that lay shimmering and shining like a great sea-serpent coiled between purple hills. He did not know what Grand Pré was like, and was therefore unaware of the extent of the Acadiens' loss in being driven from it; but this was by no means a barren country. On either side of him were fairly prosperous farms, each one with a light painted wooden house, around which clustered usually a group of children, presided over by a mother, who, as the mail-driver dashed by, would appear in the doorway, thrusting forth her matronly face, often partly shrouded by a black handkerchief. These black handkerchiefs, _la cape Normande_ of old France, were almost universal on the heads of women and girls. He could see them in the fields and up and down the roads. They and the vivacious sound of the French tongue gave the foreign touch to his surroundings, which he found, but for these reminders, might once again have been those of an out-of-the-way district in some New England State. He noticed, with regret, that the forest had all been swept away. The Acadiens, in their zeal for farming, had wielded their axes so successfully that scarcely a tree had been left between the station and the Bay. Here and there stood a lonely guardian angel, in the shape of a solitary pine, hovering over some Acadien roof-tree, and turning a melancholy face towards its brothers of the forest,--rugged giants primeval, now prostrate and forlorn, and being trailed slowly along towards the waiting schooners in the Bay. The most of these fallen giants were loaded on rough carts drawn by pairs of sleek and well-kept oxen who were yoked by the horns. The carts were covered with mud from the bad roads of the forest, and muddy also were the boots of the stalwart Acadien drivers, who walked beside the oxen, whip in hand, and turned frankly curious faces towards the stranger who flashed by their slow-moving teams on his shining wheel. The road was now better, and Vesper quickly attained to the top of the last hill between the station and the Bay. Ah! now the fields did not appear bare, the houses naked, the whole country wind-swept and cold, for the wide, regal, magnificent Bay lay spread out before him. It was no longer a thread of light, a sea-serpent shining in the distance, but a great, broad, beautiful basin, on whose placid bosom all the Acadien, New England, and Nova Scotian fleets might float with never a jostle between any of their ships. A fire of admiration kindled in his calm eyes, and he allowed himself to glide rapidly down the hill towards this brilliant blue sweep of water, along whose nearer shores stretched, as far as his gaze could reach, the curious dotted line of the French village. The country had become flat, as flat as Holland, and the fields rolled down into the water in the softest, most exquisite shades of green, according to the different kinds of grass or grain flourishing along the shores. The houses were placed among the fields, some close together, some far apart, all, however, but a stone's throw from the water's edge, as if the Acadiens, fearful of another expulsion, held themselves always in readiness to step into the procession of boats and schooners moored almost in their dooryards. At the point where Vesper found himself threatened with precipitation into the Bay, they struck the village line. Here, at the corner, was the general shop and post-office of Sleeping Water. The cardinal-bird fluttered his mail-bag in among the loafers at the door, saw the shopkeeper catch it, then, swelling out his vermilion breast with importance, he nimbly took the corner with one wheel in the air and pulled up before the largest, whitest house on the street, and flourished a flaming wing in the direction of a swinging sign,--"The Sleeping Water Inn." Vesper, biting his lip to restrain a smile, rounded the corner after him, and leisurely stepped from his wheel in front of the house. "Ring, sir, and enter," piped the bird, then, wishing him _bonne chance_ (good luck), he flew away. Vesper pulled the bell, and, as no one answered his summons, he sauntered through the open door into the hall. So this was an Acadien house,--and he had expected a log hut. He could command a view from where he stood of a staircase, a smoking-room, and a parlor,--all clean, cool, and comfortably furnished, and having easy chairs, muslin curtains, books, and pictures. He smiled to himself, murmured "I wonder where the dining-room is? These flies will probably know," and followed a prosperous-looking swarm sailing through the hall to a distant doorway. A table, covered by a snowy cloth and set ready for a meal, stood before him. He walked around it, rapped on a door, behind which he heard a murmur of voices, and was immediately favored with a sight of an Acadien kitchen. This one happened to be large, lofty, and of a grateful irregularity in shape. The ceiling was as white as snow, and a delicate blue and cream paper adorned the walls. The floor was of hard wood and partly covered with brightly colored mats, made by the skilful fingers of Acadien women. There were several windows and doors, and two pantries, but no fireplace. An enormous Boston cooking range took its place. Every cover on it glistened with blacking, every bit of nickel plating was polished to the last degree, and, as if to show that this model stove could not possibly be malevolent enough to throw out impurities in the way of soot and ashes, there stood beside it a tall clothes-horse full of white ironed clothes hung up to air. But the most remarkable thing in this exquisitely clean kitchen was the mistress of the inn,--tall, willowy Mrs. Rose à Charlitte, who stood confronting the newcomer with a dish-cover in one hand and a clean napkin in the other, her pretty oval face flushed from some sacrifice she had been offering up on her huge Moloch of a stove. [Illustration: "ROSE À CHARLITTE STOOD CONFRONTING THE NEWCOMER."] "Can you give me some lunch?" asked Vesper, and he wondered whether he should find a descendant of the Fiery Frenchman in this placid beauty, whose limpid blue eyes, girlish, innocent gaze, and thick braid of hair, with the little confusion of curls on the forehead, reminded him rather of a Gretchen or a Marguerite of the stage. "But yes," said Mrs. Rose à Charlitte, in uncertain yet pretty English, and her gentle and demure glance scrutinized him with some shrewdness and accurate guessing as to his attainments and station in life. "Can you give it to me soon?" he asked. "I can give it soon," she replied, and as she spoke she made an almost imperceptible motion of her head in the direction of the neat maid-servant behind her, who at once flew out to the garden for fresh vegetables, while, with her foot, which was almost as slender as her hand, Mrs. Rose à Charlitte pulled out a damper in the stove that at once caused a still more urgent draft to animate the glowing wood inside. "Can you let me have a room?" pursued Vesper. "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Rose, and she turned to the third occupant of the kitchen, a pale child with a flowerlike face and large, serious eyes, who sat with folded hands in a little chair. "Narcisse," she said, in French, "wilt thou go and show the judge's room?" The child, without taking his fascinated gaze from Vesper, responded, in a sweet, drawling voice, "_Ou-a-a-y, ma ma-r-re_" (yes, my mother). Then, rising, he trotted slowly through the dining-room and up the staircase to a hall above, where he gravely threw open the door of a good-sized chamber, whose chief ornament was a huge white bed. "Why do you call this the judge's room?" asked Vesper, in French. The child answered him in unintelligible childish speech, that made the young man observe him intently. "I believe you look like me, you black lily," he said, at last. There was, indeed, a resemblance between their two heads. Both had pale, inscrutable faces, dark eyes, and curls like midnight clustering over their white foreheads. Both were serious, grave, and reserved in expression. The child stared up at Vesper, then, seizing one of his hands, he patted it gently with his tiny fingers. They were friends. [Illustration: "THEY WERE FRIENDS."] Vesper allowed the child to hold his hand until he plunged his head into a basin of cold water. Then, with water dripping from his face, he paused to examine a towel before he would press it against his sensitive skin. It was fine and perfectly clean, and, with a satisfied air, he murmured: "So far, Doctor Arseneau has not led me astray." The child waited patiently until the stranger had smoothed down his black curls, then, stretching out a hand, he mutely invited him to descend to the parlor. Upon arriving there, he modestly withdrew to a corner, after pointing out a collection of photographs on the table. Vesper made a pretence of examining them until the entrance of his landlady with the announcement that his lunch was served. She shyly set before him a plate of soup, and a dish which she called a little _ragoût_, "not as good as the _ragoûts_ of Boston, and yet eatable." "How do you know that I am from Boston?" asked Vesper. "I do not know," she murmured, with a quick blush. "Monsieur is from Halifax, I thought. He seems English. I speak of Boston because it was there that I learned to cook." Vesper said nothing, but his silence seemed to invite a further explanation, and she went on, modestly: "When I received news that my husband had died of yellow fever in the West Indies, neighbors said, 'What will you do?' My stepmother said, 'Come home;' but I answered, 'No; a child that has left its father's roof does not return. I will keep hotel. My house is of size. I will go to Boston and learn to cook better than I know.' So I went, and stayed one week." "That was a short time to learn cooking," observed Vesper, politely. "I did not study. I bought _cuisine_ books. I went to grand hotels and regarded the tables and tasted the dishes. If I now had more money, I would do similar," and she anxiously surveyed her modest table and the aristocratic young man seated at it; "but not many people come, and the money lacks. However, our Lord knows that I wish to educate my child. Strangers will come when he is older. "And," she went on, after a time, with mingled reluctance and honesty, "I must not hide from you that I have already in the bank two hundred dollars. It is not much; not so much as the Gautreaus, who have six hundred, and Agapit, who has four, yet it is a starting." Vesper slightly wrinkled his forehead, and Mrs. Rose, fearful that her cooking displeased him, for he had scarcely tasted the _ragoût_ and had put aside a roast chicken, hastened to exclaim, "That pudding is but overheated, and I did wrong to place it before you. Despise it if you care, and it will please the hens." "It is a very good pudding," said Vesper, composedly, and he proceeded to finish it. "Here is a custard which is quite fresh," said his landlady, feverishly, "and bananas, and oranges, and some coffee." "Thank you. No cream--may I ask why you call that room you put me in the judge's room?" "Because we have court near by, every year. The judge who comes exists in that room. It is a most stirabout time, for many witnesses and lawyers come. Perhaps monsieur passed the court-house and saw a lady looking through the bars?" "No, I did not. Who is the lady?" "A naughty one, who sold liquor. She had no license, she could not pay her fine, therefore she must look through those iron bars," and Mrs. Rose à Charlitte shuddered. Vesper looked interested, and presently she went on: "But Clothilde Dubois has some mercies,--one rocking-chair, her own feather bed, some dainties to eat, and many friends to visit and talk through the bars." "Is there much drinking among the Acadiens on this Bay?" asked Vesper. "They do not drink at all," she said, stoutly. "Really,--then you never see a drunken man?" "I never see a drunken man," rejoined his pretty hostess. "Then I suppose there are no fights." "There are no fights among Acadiens. They are good people. They go to mass and vespers on Sunday. They listen to their good priests. In the evening one amuses oneself, and on Monday we rise early to work. There are no dances, no fights." Vesper's meditative glance wandered through the window to a square of grass outside, where some little girls in pink cotton dresses were playing croquet. He was drinking his coffee and watching their graceful behavior, when his attention was recalled to the room by hearing Mrs. Rose à Charlitte say to her child, "There, Narcisse, is a morsel for thy trees." The little boy had come from the corner where he had sat like a patient mouse, and, with some excitement, was heaping a plate with the food that Vesper had rejected. "Not so fast, little one," said his mother, with an apologetic glance at the stranger. "Take these plates to the pantry, it will be better." "Ah, but they will have a good dinner to-day," said the child. "I will give most to the French willows, my mother. In the morning it will all be gone." "But, my treasure, it is the dogs that get it, not the trees." "No, my mother," he drawled, "you do not know. In the night the long branches stretch out their arms; they sweep it up," and he clasped his tiny hands in ecstasy. Vesper's curiosity was aroused, although he had not understood half that the child had said. "Does he like trees?" he asked. Rose à Charlitte made a puzzled gesture. "Sir, to him the trees, the flowers, the grass, are quite alive. He will not play croquet with those dear little girls lest his shoes hurt the grass. If I would allow, he would take all the food from the house and lay under the trees and the flowers. He often cries at night, for he says the hollyhocks and sunflowers are hungry, because they are tall and lean. He suffers terribly to see the big spruces and pines cut down and dragged to the shore. The doctor says he should go away for awhile, but it is a puzzle, for I cannot endure to have him leave me." Vesper gave more attention than he yet had done to the perusal of the child's sensitive yet strangely composed face. Then he glanced at the mother. Did she understand him? She did. In her deep blue eyes he could readily perceive the quick flash of maternal love and sympathy whenever her boy spoke to her. She was young, too, extremely young, to have the care of rearing a child. She must have been married in her cradle, and with that thought in mind he said, "Do Acadien women marry at an early age?" "Not more so than the English," said Mrs. Rose, with a shrug of her graceful, sloping shoulders, "though I was but young,--but seventeen. But my husband wished it so. He had built this house. He had been long ready for marriage," and she glanced at the wall behind Vesper. The young man turned around. Just behind him hung the enlarged photograph of a man of middle age,--a man who must have been many years older than his young wife, and whose death had, evidently, not left a permanent blank in her affections. In a naïve, innocent way she imparted a few more particulars to Vesper with regard to her late husband, and, as he rose from the table, she followed him to the parlor and said, gently, "Perhaps monsieur will register." Vesper sat down before the visitors' book on the table, and, taking up a pen, wrote, "Vesper L. Nimmo, _The Evening News_, Boston." After he had pressed the blotting-paper on his words, and pushed the book from him, his landlady stretched out her hand in childlike curiosity. "Vesper," she said,--"that name is beautiful; it is in a hymn to the blessed virgin; but _Evening News_,--surely it means not a journal?" Vesper assured her that it did. The young French widow's face fell. She gazed at him with a sudden and inexplicable change of expression, in which there was something of regret, something of reproach. "_Il faut que je m'en aille_" (I must go away), she murmured, reverting to her native language, and she swiftly withdrew. Vesper lifted his level eyebrows and languidly strolled out to the veranda. "The Acadienne evidently entertains some prejudice against newspaper men. If my dear father were here he would immediately proceed, in his inimitable way, to clear it from her mind. As for me, I am not sufficiently interested," and he listlessly stretched himself out on a veranda settle. "Monsieur," said a little voice, in deliberate French, "will you tell me a story about a tree?" Vesper understood Narcisse this time, and, taking him on his knee, he pointed to the wooded hills across the Bay and related a wonderful tale of a city beyond the sun where the trees were not obliged to stand still in the earth from morning till night, but could walk about and visit men and women, who were their brothers and sisters, and sometimes the young trees would stoop down and play with the children. CHAPTER V. AGAPIT, THE ACADIEN. "The music of our life is keyed To moods that sweep athwart the soul; The strain will oft in gladness roll, Or die in sobs and tears at need; But sad or gay, 'tis ever true That, e'en as flowers from light take hue, The key is of our mood the deed." AMINTA. CORNELIUS O'BRIEN, _Archbishop of Halifax_. After Mrs. Rose à Charlitte left Vesper she passed through the kitchen, and, ascending an open stairway leading to regions above, was soon at the door of the highest room in the house. Away up there, sitting at a large table drawn up to the window which commanded an extensive view of the Bay, sat a sturdy, black-haired young man. As Mrs. Rose entered the room she glanced about approvingly--for she was a model housekeeper--at the neatly arranged books and papers on tables and shelves, and then said, regretfully, and in French, "There is another of them." "Of them,--of whom?" said the young man, peevishly, and in the same language. "Of the foolish ones who write," continued Mrs. Rose, with gentle mischief; "who waste much time in scribbling." "There are people whose brains are continually stewing over cooking-stoves," said the young man, scornfully; "they are incapable of rising higher." "La, la, Agapit," she said, good-naturedly. "Do not be angry with thy cousin. I came to warn thee lest thou shouldst talk freely to him and afterward be sorry." The young man threw his pen on the table, pushed back his chair, and, springing to his feet, began to pace excitedly up and down the room, gesticulating eagerly as he talked. "When fine weather comes," he exclaimed, "strangers flock to the Bay. We are glad to see them,--all but these abominable idiots. Therefore when they arrive let the frost come, let us have hail, wind, and snow to drive them home, that we may enjoy peace." "But unfortunately in June we have fine weather," said Mrs. Rose. "I will insult him," said her black-haired cousin, wildly. "I will drive him from the house," and he stood on tiptoe and glared in her face. "No, no; thou wilt do nothing of the sort, Agapit." "I will," he said, distractedly. "I will, I will, I will." "Agapit," said the young woman, firmly, "if it were not for the strangers I should have only crusts for my child, not good bread and butter, therefore calm thyself. Thou must be civil to this stranger." "I will not," he said, sullenly. Mrs. Rose à Charlitte's temper gave way. "Pack up thy clothes," she said, angrily; "there is no living with thee,--thou art so disagreeable. Take thy old trash, thy papers so old and dusty, and leave my house. Thou wilt make me starve,--my child will not be educated. Go,--I cast thee off." Agapit became calm as he contemplated her wrathful, beautiful face. "Thou art like all women," he said, composedly, "a little excitable at times. I am a man, therefore I understand thee," and pushing back his coat he stuck his thumbs in the armholes and majestically resumed his walk about the room. "Come now, cease thy crying," he went on, uneasily, after a time, when Rose, who had thrown herself into a chair and had covered her face with her hands, did not look at him. "I shall not leave thee, Rose." "He is very distinguished," she sobbed, "very polite, and his finger nails are as white as thy bedspread. He is quite a gentleman; why does he write for those wicked journals?" "Thou hast been talking to him, Rose," said her cousin, suspiciously, stopping short and fixing her with a fiery glance; "with thy usual innocence thou hast told him all that thou dost know and ever wilt know." Rose shuddered, and withdrew her hands from her eyes. "I told him nothing, not a word." "Thou didst not tell him of thy wish to educate thy boy, of thy two hundred dollars in the bank, of thy husband, who teased thy stepmother till she married thee to him, nor of me, for example?" and his voice rose excitedly. His cousin was quite composed now. "I told him nothing," she repeated, firmly. "If thou didst do so," he continued, threateningly, "it will all come out in a newspaper,--'Melting Innocence of an Acadien Landlady. She Tells a Reporter in Five Minutes the Story of Her Life.'" "It will not appear," said Mrs. Rose, hastily. "He is a worthy young man, and handsome, too. There is not on the Bay a handsomer young man. I will ask him to write nothing, and he will listen to me." "Oh, thou false one," cried the young man, half in vexation, half in perplexity. "I wish that thou wert a child,--I would shake thee till thy teeth chattered!" Mrs. Rose ran from the room. "He is a pig, an imbecile, and he terrifies me so that I tell what is not true. What will Father Duvair say to me? I will rise at six to-morrow, and go to confession." Vesper went early to bed that night, and slept soundly until early the next morning, when he opened his eyes to a vision of hazy green fields, a wide sheet of tremulous water, and a quiet, damp road, bordered by silent houses. He sprang from his bed, and went to the open window. The sun was just coming from behind a bank of clouds. He watched the Bay lighting up under its rays, the green fields brightening, the moisture evaporating; then hastily throwing on his clothes, he went down-stairs, unlatched the front door, and hurried across the road into a hay-field, where the newly cut grass, dripping with moisture, wet his slippered but stockingless feet. Down by the rocks he saw a small bathing-house. He slipped off his clothes, and, clad only in a thin bathing-suit, stood shivering for an instant at the edge of the water. "It will be frightfully cold," he muttered. "Dare I--yes, I do," and he plunged boldly into the deliciously salt waves, and swam to and fro, until he was glowing from head to foot. As he was hurrying up to the inn, a few minutes later, he saw, coming down the road, a small two-wheeled cart, in which was seated Mrs. Rose à Charlitte. She was driving a white pony, and she sat demure, charming, with an air of penitence about her, and wearing the mourning garb of Acadien women,--a plain black dress, a black shawl, and a black silk handkerchief, drawn hood-wise over her flaxen mop of hair and tied under her chin. The young man surveyed her approvingly. She seemed to belong naturally to the cool, sweet dampness of the morning, and he guessed correctly that she had been to early mass in the white church whose steeple he could see in the distance. He was amused with the shy, embarrassed "_Bon jour_" (good morning) that she gave him as she passed, and murmuring, "The shadow of _The Evening News_ is still upon her," he went to his room, and made his toilet for breakfast. An hour later, a loud bell rang through the house, and Vesper, in making his way to the dining-room, met a reserved, sulky-faced young man in the hall, who bowed coolly and stepped aside for him to pass. "H'm, Agapit LeNoir," reflected Vesper, darting a critical glance at him. "The Acadien who was to unbosom himself to me. He does not look as if he would enjoy the process," and he took his seat at the table, where Mrs. Rose à Charlitte, grown strangely quiet, served his breakfast in an almost unbroken silence. Vesper thoughtfully poured some of the thick yellow cream on his porridge, and enjoyably dallied over it, but when his landlady would have set before him a dish of smoking hot potatoes and beefsteak, he said, "I do not care for anything further." Rose à Charlitte drew back in undisguised concern. "But you have eaten nothing. Agapit has taken twice as much as this." "That is the young man I met just now?" "Yes, he is my cousin; very kind to me. His parents are dead, and he was brought up by my stepmother. He is so clever, so clever! It is truly strange what he knows. His uncle, who was a priest, left him many papers, and all day, when Agapit does not work, he sits and writes or reads. Some day he will be a learned man--" Rose paused abruptly. In her regret at the stranger's want of appetite she was forgetting that she had resolved to have no further conversation with him, and in sudden confusion she made the excuse that she wished to see her child, and melted away like a snowflake, in the direction of the kitchen, where Vesper had just heard Narcisse's sweet voice asking permission to talk to the Englishman from Boston. The young American wandered out to the stable. Two Acadiens were there, asking Agapit for the loan of a set of harness. At Vesper's approach they continued their conversation in French, although he had distinctly heard them speaking excellent English before he joined them. These men were employing an almost new language to him. This was not the French of _L'Évangéline_, of Doctor Arseneau, nor of Rose à Charlitte. Nor was it _patois_ such as he had heard in France, and which would have been unintelligible to him. This must be the true Acadien dialect, and he listened with pleasure to the softening and sweetening of some syllables and the sharpening and ruining of others. They were saying _ung houmme_, for a man. This was not unmusical; neither was _persounne_, for nobody; but the _ang_ sound so freely interspersing their sentences was detestable; as was also the reckless introduction of English phrases, such as "all right," "you bet," "how queer," "too proud," "funny," "steam-cars," and many others. Their conversation for some time left the stable, then it returned along the line of discussion of a glossy black horse that stood in one of the stalls. "_Ce cheval est de bounne harage_" (this horse is well-bred), said one of the Acadiens, admiringly, and Vesper's thoughts ran back to a word in the Latin grammar of his boyhood. _Hara_, a pen or stable. _De bonne race_, a modern Frenchman would be likely to say. Probably these men were speaking the language brought by their ancestors to Acadie; without doubt they were. On this Bay would be presented to him the curious spectacle of the descendants of a number of people lifted bodily out of France, and preserving in their adopted country the tongue that had been lost to the motherland. In France the language had drifted. Here the Acadiens were using the same syllables that had hung on the lips of kings, courtiers, poets, and wits of three and four hundred years ago. With keen interest, for he had a passion for the study of languages, he carefully analyzed each sentence that he heard, until, fearing that his attitude might seem impertinent to the Acadiens, he strolled away. His feet naturally turned in the direction of the corner, the most lively spot in Sleeping Water. In the blacksmith's shop a short, stout young Acadien with light hair, blue eyes, and a dirty face and arms, was striking the red-hot tip of a pickax with ringing blows. He nodded civilly enough to Vesper when he joined the knot of men who stood about the wide door watching him, but no one else spoke to him. A farmer was waiting to have a pair of cream white oxen shod, a stable-keeper, from another part of _la ville française_, was impatiently chafing and fretting over the amount of time required to mend his sulky wheel, and conversing with him were two well-dressed young men, who appeared to be Acadiens from abroad spending their holidays at home. Vesper's arrival had the effect of dispersing the little group. The stable-man moved away to his sulky, as if he preferred the vicinity of his roan horse, who gazed at him so benevolently, to that of Vesper, who surveyed him so indifferently. The farmer entered the shop and sat down on a box in a dark corner, while the Acadien young men, after cold glances at the newcomer, moved away to the post-office. After a time Vesper remembered that he must have some Canadian stamps, and followed them. Outside the shop five or six teams were lined up. They were on their way to the wharf below, and were loaded with more of the enormous trees that he had seen the day before. Probably their sturdy strength, hoarded through long years in Acadien forests, would be devoted to the support of some warehouse or mansion in his native Puritan city, whose founders had called so loudly for the destruction of the French. Vesper cast a regretful glance in the direction of the trees, and entered the little shop, whose well-stocked shelves were full of rolls of cotton and flannel, and boxes of groceries, confectionery, and stationery. The drivers of the ox-teams were inside, doing their shopping. They were somewhat rougher in appearance than the inhabitants of Sleeping Water, and were louder and noisier in their conversation. Vesper saw a young Acadien whisper a few words to one of them, and the teamster in return scowled fiercely at him, and muttered something about "a goddam Yankee." The young American stared coolly at him, and, going up to the counter, purchased his stamps from a fat man in shirt-sleeves, who served him with exquisite and distant courtesy. Then, leaving the shop, he shrugged his shoulders, and went back the way he had come, murmuring, in amused curiosity, "I must solve this mystery of _The Evening News_. My friend Agapit is infecting all who come within the circle of his influence." He walked on past the inn, staring with interest at the houses bordering the road. A few were very small, a few very old. He could mark the transition of a family in some cases from their larval state in a low, gray, caterpillar-like house of one story to a gay-winged butterfly home of two or three stories. However, on the whole, the dwellings were nearly all of the same size,--there were no sharp distinctions between rich and poor. He saw no peasants, no pampered landlords. These Acadiens all seemed to be small farmers, and all were on an equality. The creaking of an approaching team caught his attention. It was drawn by a pair of magnificent red oxen, groomed as carefully as if they had been horses, and beside them walked an old man, who was holding an ejaculatory conversation with them in English; for the Acadiens of the Bay Saint-Mary always address their oxen and horses as if they belonged to the English race. "I wonder whether this worthy man in homespun has been informed that I am a kind of leper," reflected Vesper, as he uttered a somewhat guarded "_Bon jour_." "_Bon jour_," said the old man, delightedly, and he halted and admonished his companions to do the same. "_Il fait beau_" (it is a fine day), pursued Vesper, cautiously. "_Oui, mais je crais qu'il va mouiller_" (yes, but I think it is going to rain), said the Acadien, with gentle affability; then he went on, apologetically, and in English, "I do not speak the good French." "It is the best of French," said Vesper, "for it is old." "And you," continued the old man, not to be outdone in courtesy, "you speak like the sisters of St. Joseph who once called at my house. Their words were like round pebbles dropping from their mouths." Vesper smoothed his mustache, and glanced kindly at his aged companion, who proceeded to ask him whether he was staying at the inn. "Ah, it is a good inn," he went on, "and Rose à Charlitte is _très-smart, très-smart_. Perhaps you do not understand my English," he added, when Vesper did not reply to him. "On the contrary, I find that you speak admirably." "You are kind," said the old man, shaking his head, "but my English langwidge is spiled since my daughter went to Bostons, for I talk to no one. She married an Irish boy; he is a nusser." "An usher,--in a theatre?" "No, sir, in a cross-spittal. He nusses sick people, and gets two dollars a day." "Oh, indeed." "Do you come from Bostons?" asked the old man. "Yes, I do." "And do you know my daughter?" "What is her name?" The Acadien reflected for some time, then said it was MacCraw, whereupon Vesper assured him that he had never had the pleasure of meeting her. "Is your trade an easy one?" asked the old man, wistfully. "No; very hard." "You are then a farmer." "No; I wish I were. My trade is taking care of my health." The Acadien examined him from head to foot. "Your face is beautifuller than a woman's, but you are poorly built." Vesper drew up his straight and slender figure. He was not surprised that it did not come up to the Acadien's standard of manly beauty. "Let us shake hands lest we never meet again," said the old man, so gently, so kindly, and with so much benevolence, that Vesper responded, warmly, "I hope to see you some other time." "Perhaps you will call. We are but poor, yet if it would please you--" "I shall be most happy. Where do you live?" "Near the low down brook, way off there. Demand Antoine à Joe Rimbaut," and, smiling and nodding farewell, the old man moved on. "A good heart," said Vesper, looking after him. "Caw, caw," said a solemn voice at his elbow. He turned around. One of the blackest of crows sat on a garden fence that surrounded a neat pink cottage. The cottage was itself smothered in lilacs, whose fragrant blossoms were in their prime, although the Boston lilacs had long since faded and died. "Do not be afraid, sir," said a woman in the inevitable handkerchief, who jumped up from a flower bed that she was weeding, "he is quite tame." "_Un corbeau apprivoisé_" (a tame crow), said Vesper, lifting his cap. "_Un corbeau privé_, we say," she replied, shyly. "You speak the good French, like the priests out of France." She was not a very young woman, nor was she very pretty, but she was delightfully modest and retiring in her manner, and Vesper, leaning against the fence, assured her that he feared the Acadiens were lacking in a proper appreciation of their ability to speak their own language. After a time he looked over the fields behind her cottage, and asked the name of a church crowning a hill in the distance. "It is the Saulnierville church," she replied, "but you must not walk so far. You will stay to dinner?" While Vesper was politely declining her invitation, a Frenchman with a long, pointed nose, and bright, sharp eyes, came around the corner of the house. "He is my husband," said the woman. "Edouard, this gentleman speaks the good French." The Acadien warmly seconded the invitation of his wife that Vesper should stay to dinner, but he escaped from them with smiling thanks and a promise to come another day. "They never saw me before, and they asked me to stay to dinner. That is true hospitality,--they have not been infected. I will make my way back to the inn, and interview that sulky beggar." CHAPTER VI. VESPER SUGGESTS AN EXPLANATION. "Glad of a quarrel straight I clap the door; Sir, let me see you and your works no more." POPE. At twelve o'clock Mrs. Rose à Charlitte was standing in her cold pantry deftly putting a cap of icing on a rich rounded loaf of cake, when she heard a question asked, in Vesper's smooth neutral tones, "Where is madame?" She stepped into the kitchen, and found that he was interrogating her servant Célina. "I should like to speak to that young man I saw this morning," he said, when he saw her. "He has gone out, monsieur," she replied, after a moment's hesitation. "Which is his room?" "The one by the smoking-room," she answered, with a deep blush. Vesper's white teeth gleamed through his dark mustache, and, seeing that he was laughing at her, she grew confused, and hung her head. "Can I get to it by this staircase?" asked Vesper, exposing her petty deceit. "I think I can by going up to the roof, and dropping down." Mrs. Rose lifted her head long enough to flash him a scrutinizing glance. Then, becoming sensible of the determination of purpose under his indifference of manner, she said, in scarcely audible tones, "I will show you." "I have only a simple question to ask him," said Vesper, reassuringly, as he followed her towards the staircase. "Agapit is quick like lightning," she said, over her shoulder, "but his heart is good. He helps to keep our grandmother, who spends her days in bed." "That is exemplary. I would be the last one to hurt the feelings of the prop of an aged person," murmured Vesper. Rose à Charlitte was not satisfied. She unwillingly mounted the stairs, and pointed out the door of her cousin's room, then withdrew to the next one, and listened anxiously in case there might be some disturbance between the young men. There was none; so, after a time, she went down-stairs. Agapit, at Vesper's entrance, abruptly pushed back his chair from the table and, rising, presented a red and angry face to his visitor. "I have interrupted you, I fear," said Vesper, smoothly. "I will not detain you long. I merely wish to ask a question." "Will you sit down?" said Agapit, sulkily, and he forced himself to offer the most comfortable chair in the room to his caller. Vesper did not seat himself until he saw that Agapit was prepared to follow his example. Then he looked into the black eyes of the Acadien, which were like two of the deep, dark pools in the forest, and said, "A matter of business has brought me to this Bay. I may have some inquiries to make, in which I would find myself hampered by any prejudice among persons I might choose to question. I fancy that some of the people here look on me with suspicion. I am quite unaware of having given offence in any way. Possibly you can explain,--I am not bent on an explanation, you understand. If you choose to offer one, I shall be glad to listen." He spoke listlessly, tapping on the table with his fingers, and allowing his eyes to wander around the room, rather than to remain fixed on Agapit's face. The young Acadien could scarcely restrain a torrent of words until Vesper had finished speaking. "Since you ask, I will explain,--yes, I will not be silent. We are not rude here,--oh, no. We are too kind to strangers. Vipers have crept in among us. They have stolen heat and warmth from our bosoms"--he paused, choking with rage. "And you have reason to suppose that I may prove a viper?" asked Vesper, indolently. "Yes, you also are one. You come here, we receive you. You depart, you laugh in your sleeve,--a newspaper comes. We see it all. The meek and patient Acadiens are once more held up to be a laughing-stock." Vesper wrinkled his level eyebrows. "Perhaps you will characterize this viperish conduct?" Agapit calmed himself slightly. "Wait but an instant. Control your curiosity, and I will give you something to read," and he went on his knees, and rummaged among some loose papers in an open box. "Look at it," he said, at last, springing up and handing his caller a newspaper; "read, and possibly you will understand." Vesper's quick eye ran over the sheet that he held up. "This is a New York weekly paper. Yes, I know it well. What is there here that concerns you?" "Look, look here," said Agapit, tapping a column in the paper with an impatient gesture. "Read the nonsense, the drivel, the insanity of the thing--" "Ah,--'Among the Acadiens, Quaintness Unrivalled, Archaic Forms of Speech, A Dance and a Wedding, The Spirit of Evangeline, Humorous Traits, If You Wish a Good Laugh Go Among Them!'" "She laughed in print, she screamed in black ink!" exclaimed Agapit. "The silly one,--the witch." "Who was she,--this lady viper?" asked Vesper, briefly. "She was a woman--a newspaper woman. She spent a summer among us. She gloomed about the beach with a shawl on her shoulders; a small dog followed her. She laid in bed. She read novels, and then," he continued, with rising voice, "she returned home, she wrote this detestability about us." "Why need you care?" said Vesper, coolly. "She had to reel off a certain amount of copy. All correspondents have to do so. She only touched up things a little to make lively reading." "Not touching up, but manufacturing," retorted Agapit, with blazing eyes. "She had nothing to go on, nothing--nothing--nothing. We are just like other people," and he ruffled his coal-black hair with both his hands, and looked at his caller fiercely. "Do you not find us so?" "Not exactly," said Vesper, so dispassionately and calmly, and with such statuesque repose of manner, that he seemed rather to breathe the words than to form them with his lips. "And you will express that in your paper. You will not tell the truth. My countrymen will never have justice,--never, never. They are always misrepresented, always." "What a firebrand!" reflected Vesper, and he surveyed, with some animation, the inflamed, suspicious face of the Frenchman. "You also will caricature us," pursued Agapit; "others have done so, why should not you?" Vesper's lips parted. He was on the point of imparting to Agapit the story of his great-grandfather's letter. Then he closed them. Why should he be browbeaten into communicating his private affairs to a stranger? "Thank you," he said, and he rose to leave the room. "I am obliged for the information you have given me." Agapit's face darkened; he would dearly love to secure a promise of good behavior from this stranger, who was so non-committal, so reserved, and yet so strangely attractive. "See," he said, grandly, and flinging his hand in the direction of his books and papers. "To an honest man, really interested in my people, I would be pleased to give information. I have many documents, many books." "Ah, you take an interest in this sort of thing," said Vesper. "An interest--I should die without my books and papers; they are my life." "And yet you were cut out for a farmer," thought Vesper, as he surveyed Agapit's sturdy frame. "I suppose you have the details of the expulsion at your fingers' ends," he said, aloud. "Ah, the expulsion," muttered Agapit, turning deathly pale, "the abominable, damnable expulsion!" "Your feelings run high on the subject," murmured Vesper. "It suffocates me, it chokes me, when I reflect how it was brought about. You know, of course, that in the eighteenth century there flourished a devil,--no, not a devil," contemptuously. "What is that for a word? Devil, devil,--it is so common that there is no badness in it. Even the women say, 'Poor devil, I pity him.' Say, rather, there was a god of infamy, the blackest, the basest, the most infernal of created beings that our Lord ever permitted to pollute this earth--" For a minute he became incoherent, then he caught his breath. "This demon, this arch-fiend, the misbegotten Lawrence that your historian Parkman sets himself to whitewash--" "I know of Parkman," said Vesper, coldly, "he was once a neighbor of ours." "Was he!" exclaimed Agapit, in a paroxysm of excitement. "A fine neighbor, a worthy man! Parkman,--the New England story-teller, the traducer, who was too careless to set himself to the task of investigating records." Vesper was not prepared to hear any abuse of his countryman, and, turning on his heel, he left the room, while Agapit, furious to think that, unasked, he had been betrayed into furnishing a newspaper correspondent with some crumbs of information that might possibly be dished up in appetizing form for the delectation of American readers, slammed the door behind him, and went back to his writing. CHAPTER VII. A DEADLOCK. "I found the fullest summer here Between these sloping meadow-hills and yon; And came all beauty then, from dawn to dawn, Whether the tide was veiled or flowing clear." J. F. H. Three days later, Vesper had only two friends in Sleeping Water,--that is, only two open friends. He knew he had a secret one in Mrs. Rose à Charlitte, who waited on him with the air of a sorrowing saint. The open friends were the child Narcisse, and Emmanuel Victor de la Rive, the mail-driver. Rose could not keep her child away from the handsome stranger. Narcisse had fallen into a passionate adoration for him, and even in his dreams prattled of the Englishman from Boston. On the third night of Vesper's stay in Sleeping Water a violent thunder-storm arose. Lying in his bed and watching the weird lighting up of the Bay under the vivid discharges of electricity, he heard a fumbling at his door-knob, and, upon unlocking the door, discovered Narcisse, pale and seraphic, in a long white nightgown, and with beads of distress on his forehead. "Mr. Englishman," he said to Vesper, who now understood his childish lingo, "I come to you, for my mother sleeps soundly, and she cannot tell me when she wakes,--the trees and the flowers, are they not in a terrible fright?" and, holding up his gown with one hand, he went swiftly to the window, and pointed out towards the willows, writhing and twisting in the wind, and the gentle flowers laid low on the earth. A yellow glare lighted up the room, a terrible peal of thunder shook the house, but the child did not quail, and stood waiting for an answer to his question. "Come here," said Vesper, calmly, "and I will explain to you that the thunder does not hurt them, and that they have a way of bending before the blast." Narcisse immediately drew his pink heels up over the side of Vesper's bed. He was unspeakably soothed by the merest word of this stranger, in whose nervous sensitiveness and reserve he found a spirit more congenial to his own than in that of his physically perfect mother. Vesper talked to him for some time, and the child at last fell asleep, his tiny hand clasping a scapulary on his breast, his pretty lips murmuring to the picture on it, "Good St. Joseph, Mr. Englishman says that only a few of the trees and flowers are hurt by the storm. Watch over the little willows and the small lilies while I sleep, and do not let them be harmed." Vesper at first patiently and kindly endured the pressure of the curly head laid on his arm. He would like to have a beautiful child like this for his own. Then thoughts of his childhood began to steal over him. He remembered climbing into his father's bed, gazing worshipfully into his face, and stroking his handsome head. "O God, my father!" he muttered, "I have lost him," and, unable to endure the presence of the child, he softly waked him. "Go back to your mother, Narcisse. She may miss you." The child sleepily obeyed him, and went to continue his dreams by his mother's side, while Vesper lay awake until the morning, a prey to recollections at once tender and painful. Vesper's second friend, the mail-driver, never failed to call on him every morning. If one could put a stamp on a letter it was permissible at any point on the route to call, "_Arrête-toi_" (stop), to the crimson flying bird. If one could not stamp a letter, it was illegal to detain him. Vesper never had, however, to call "_Arrête-toi_." Of his own accord Emmanuel Victor de la Rive, upon arriving before the inn, would fling the reins over his pony's back, and spring nimbly out. He was sure to find Vesper lolling on the seat under the willows, or lying in the hammock, with Narcisse somewhere near, whereupon he would seat himself for a few minutes, and in his own courteous and curious way would ask various and sundry questions of this stranger, who had fascinated him almost as completely as he had Narcisse. On the morning after the thunder-storm he had fallen into an admiration of Vesper's beautiful white teeth. Were they all his own, and not artificial? With such teeth he could marry any woman. He was a bachelor now, was he not? Did he always intend to remain one? How much longer would he stay in Sleeping Water? And Vesper, parrying his questions with his usual skill, sent him away with his ears full of polite sentences that, when he came to analyze them, conveyed not a single item of information to his surprised brain. However, he felt no resentment towards Vesper. His admiration rose superior to any rebuffs. It even soared above the warning intimations he received from many Acadiens to the effect that he was laying himself open to hostile criticism by his intercourse with the enemy within the camp. Vesper was amused by him, and on this particular morning, after he left, he lay back in the hammock, his mind enjoyably dwelling on the characteristics of the volatile Acadien. Narcisse, who stood beside him in the centre of the bare spot on the lawn, by the hammock, in vain begged for a story, and at last, losing patience, knelt down and put his head to the ground. The Englishman had told him that each grass-blade came up from the earth with a tale on the tip of its quivering tongue, and that all might hear who bent an ear to listen. Narcisse wished to get news of the storm in the night, and really fancied that the grass-blades told him it had prevailed in the bowels of the earth. He sprang up to impart the news to Vesper, and Agapit, who was passing down the lane by the house to the street, scowled, disapprovingly, at the pretty, wagging head and animated gestures. Vesper gazed after him, and paid no attention to Narcisse. "I wonder," he murmured, languidly, "what spell holds me in the neighborhood of this Acadien demagogue who has turned his following against me. It must be the Bay," and in a trance of pleasure he surveyed its sparkling surface. Always beautiful,--never the same. Was ever another sheet of water so wholly charming, was ever another occupation so fitted for unstrung nerves as this placid watching of its varying humors and tumults? This morning it was like crystal. A fleet of small boats was dancing out to the deep sea fishing-grounds, and three brown-sailed schooners were gliding up the Bay to mysterious waters unknown to him. As soon as he grew stronger, he must follow them up to the rolling country and the fertile fields beyond Sleeping Water. Just now the mere thought of leaving the inn filled him with nervous apprehension, and he started painfully and irritably as the sharp clang of the dinner-bell rang out through the open windows of the house. Followed by Narcisse, he sauntered to the table, where he caused Rose à Charlitte's heart a succession of pangs and anxieties. "He does not like my cooking; he eats nothing," she said, mournfully, to Agapit, who was taking a substantial dinner at the kitchen table. "I wish that he would go away," said Agapit, "I hate his insolent face." "But he is not insolent," said Rose, pleadingly. "It is only that he does not care for us; he is likely rich, and we are but poor." "Do many millionaires come to thy quiet inn?" asked Agapit, ironically. Rose reluctantly admitted that, so far, her patrons had not been people of wealth. "He is probably a beggar," said Agapit. "He has paid thee nothing yet. I dare say he has only old clothes in that trunk of his. Perhaps he was forced to leave his home. He intends to spend the rest of his life here." "If he would work," said Rose, timidly, "he could earn his board. If thou goest away, I shall need a man for the stable." "Look at his white hands," said Agapit, "he is lazy,--and dost thou think I would leave thee with that young sprig? His character may be of the worst. What do we know of him?" and he tramped out to the stable, while Mrs. Rose confusedly withdrew to her pantry. An hour later, while Agapit was grooming Toochune, the thoroughbred black horse that was the wonder of the Bay, Narcisse came and stood in the stable door, and for a long time silently watched him. Then he heaved a small sigh. He was thinking neither of the horse nor of Agapit, and said, wistfully, "The Englishman from Boston sleeps as well as my mother. I have tried to wake him, but I cannot." Agapit paid no attention to him, but the matter was weighing on the child's mind, and after a time he continued, "His face is very white, as white as the breast of the ducks." "His face is always white," growled Agapit. Narcisse went away, and sat patiently down by the hammock, while Agapit, who kept an eye on him despite himself, took occasion a little later to go to the garden, ostensibly to mend a hole in the fence, in reality to peer through the willows at Vesper. What he saw caused him to drop his knife, and go to the well, where Célina was drawing a bucket of water. "The Englishman has fainted," he said, and he took the bucket from her. Célina ran after him, and watched him thrust Narcisse aside and dash a handful of water in Vesper's marble, immobile face. Narcisse raised one of his tiny fists and struck Agapit a smart blow, and, in spite of their concern for the Englishman, both the grown people turned and stared in surprise at him. For the first time they saw the sweet-tempered child in a rage. "Go away," he said, in a choking voice, "you shall not hurt him." "Hush, little rabbit," said the young man. "I try to do him good. Christophe! Christophe!" and he hailed an Acadien who was passing along the road. "Come assist me to carry the Englishman into the house. This is something worse than a faint." CHAPTER VIII. ON THE SUDDEN SOMETHING ILL. "Dull days had hung like curtained mysteries, And nights were weary with the starless skies. At once came life, and fire, and joys untold, And promises for violets to unfold; And every breeze had shreds of melodies, So faint and sweet." J. F. HERBIN. One midnight, three weeks later, when perfect silence and darkness brooded over Sleeping Water, and the only lights burning were the stars up aloft, and two lamps in two windows of the inn, Vesper opened his eyes and looked about him. He saw for some dreamy moments only a swimming curtain of black, with a few familiar objects picked out against the gloom. He could distinguish his trunk sailing to and fro, a remembered mirror before which he had brushed his hair, a book in a well-known binding, and a lamp with a soft yellow globe, that immediately took him to a certain restaurant in Paris, and made him fancy that he was dining under the yellow lights in its ceiling. Where was he,--in what country had he been having this long, dreamless sleep? And by dint of much brain racking, which bathed his whole body in a profuse perspiration, he at length retraced his steps back into his life, and decided that he was in the last place that he remembered before he fell into this disembodied-spirit condition of mind,--his room in the Sleeping Water Inn. There was the open window, through which he had so often listened to the soothing murmur of the sea; there were the easy chairs, the chest of drawers, the little table, that, as he remembered it last, was not covered with medicine-bottles. The child's cot was a wholly new object. Had the landlady's little boy been sharing his quarters? What was his name? Ah, yes, Narcisse,--and what had they called the sulky Acadien who had hung about the house, and who now sat reading in a rocking-chair by the table? Agapit--that was it; but why was he here in his room? Some one had been ill. "I am that person," suddenly drifted into his tortured mind. "I have been very ill; perhaps I am going to die." But the thought caused him no uneasiness, no regret; he was conscious only of an indescribably acute and nervous torture as his weary eyes glued themselves to the unconscious face of his watcher. Agapit would soon lift his head, would stare at him, would utter some exclamation; and, in mute, frantic expectation, Vesper waited for the start and the exclamation. If they did come he felt that they would kill him; if they did not, he felt that nothing less than a sudden and immediate felling to the floor of his companion would satisfy the demands of his insane and frantic agitation. Fortunately Agapit soon turned his anxious face towards the bed. He did not start, he did not exclaim: he had been too well drilled for that; but a quick, quiet rapture fell upon him that was expressed only by the trembling of his finger tips. The young American had come out of the death-like unconsciousness of past days and nights; he now had a chance to recover; but while a thanksgiving to the mother of angels was trembling on his lips, his patient surveyed him in an ecstasy of irritation and weakness that found expression in hysterical laughter. Agapit was alarmed. He had never heard Vesper laugh in health. He had rarely smiled. Possibly he might be calmed by the offer of something to eat, and, picking up a bowl of jelly, he approached the bed. Vesper made a supreme effort, slightly moved his head from the descending spoon, and uttered the worst expression that he could summon from his limited vocabulary of abuse of former days. Agapit drew back, and resignedly put the jelly on the table. "He remembers the past," he reflected, with hanging head. Vesper did not remember the past; he was conscious of no resentment. He was possessed only of a wild desire to be rid of this man, whose presence inflamed him to the verge of madness. After sorrowfully surveying him, while retreating further and further from his inarticulate expressions of rage, Agapit stepped into the hall. In a few minutes he returned with Rose, who looked pale and weary, as if she, too, were a watcher by a sick-bed. She glanced quickly at Vesper, suppressed a smile when he made a face at Agapit, and signed to the latter to leave the room. Vesper became calm. Instead of sitting down beside him, or staring at him, she had gone to the window, and stood with folded hands, looking out into the night. After some time she went to the table, took up a bottle, and, carefully examining it, poured a few drops into a spoon. Vesper took the liquid from her, with no sense of irritation; then, as she quickly turned away, he felt himself sinking down, down, through his bed, through the floor, through the crust of the earth, into regions of infinite space, from which he had come back to the world for a time. The next time he waked up, Agapit was again with him. The former pantomime would have been repeated if Agapit had not at once precipitated himself from the room, and sent Rose to take his place. This time she smiled at Vesper, and made an effort to retain his attention, even going so far as to leave the room and reënter with a wan effigy of Narcisse in her arms,--a pale and puny thing that stared languidly at him, and attempted to kiss his hand. Vesper tried to speak to the child, lost himself in the attempt, then roused his slumbering fancy once more and breathed a question to Mrs. Rose,--"My mother?" "Your mother is well, and is here," murmured his landlady. "You shall see her soon." Vesper's periods of slumber after this were not of so long duration, and one warm and delicious afternoon, when the sunlight was streaming in and flooding his bed, he opened his eyes on a frail, happy figure fluttering about the room. "Ah, mother," he said, calmly, "you are here." She flew to the bed, she hovered over him, embraced him, turned away, came back to him, and finally, rigidly clasping her hands to ensure self-control, sat down beside him. At first she would not talk, the doctor would not permit it; but after some days her tongue was allowed to take its course freely and uninterruptedly. "My dear boy, what a horrible fright you gave me! Your letters came every day for a week, then they stopped. I waited two days, thinking you had gone to some other place, then I telegraphed. You were ill. You can imagine how I hurried here, with Henry to take care of me. And what do you think I found? Such a curious state of affairs. Do you know that these Acadiens hated you at first?" "Yes, I remember that." "But when you fell ill, that young man, Agapit, installed himself as your nurse. They spoke of getting a Sister of Charity, but had some scruples, thinking you might not like it, as you are a Protestant. Mrs. de Forêt closed her inn; she would receive no guests, lest they might disturb you. She and her cousin nursed you. They got an English doctor to drive twelve miles every day,--they thought you would prefer him to a French one. Then her little boy fell ill; he said the young man Agapit had hurt you. They thought he would die, for he had brain fever. He called all the time for you, and when he had lucid intervals, they could only convince him you were not dead by bringing him in, and putting him in this cot. Really, it was a most deplorable state of affairs. But the charming part is that they thought you were a pauper. When I arrived, they were thunderstruck. They had not opened your trunk, which you left locked, though they said they would have done so if I had not come, for they feared you might die, and they wanted to get the addresses of your friends, and every morning, my dear boy, for three days after you were taken ill, you started up at nine o'clock, the time that queer, red postman used to come,--and wrote a letter to me." Mrs. Nimmo paused, hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. "It almost broke my heart when I heard it,--to think of you rousing yourself every day from your semi-unconsciousness to write to your mother. I cannot forgive myself for letting you go away without me." "Why did they not write from here to you?" asked Vesper. "They did not know I was your mother. I don't think they looked at the address of the letters you had sent. They thought you were poor, and an adventurer." "Why did they not write to _The Evening News_?" "My dear boy, they were doing everything possible for you, and they would have written in time." "You have, of course, told them that they shall suffer no loss by all this?" "Yes, yes; but they seem almost ashamed to take money from me. That charming landlady says, 'If I were rich I would pay all, myself.' Vesper, she is a wonderful woman." "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I never saw any one like her. My darling, how do you feel? Mayn't I give you some wine? I feel as if I had got you back from the grave, I can never be sufficiently thankful. The doctor says you may be carried out-of-doors in a week, if you keep on improving, as you are sure to do. The air here seems to suit you perfectly. You would never have been ill if you had not been run down when you came. That young man Agapit is making a stretcher to carry you. He is terribly ashamed of his dislike for you, and he fairly worships you now." "I suppose you went through my trunk," said Vesper, in faint, indulgent tones. "Well, yes," said Mrs. Nimmo, reluctantly. "I thought, perhaps, there might be something to be attended to." "And you read my great-grandfather's letter?" "Yes,--I will tell you exactly what I did. I found the key the second day I came, and I opened the trunk. When I discovered that old yellow letter, I knew it was something important. I read it, and of course recognized that you had come here in search of the Fiery Frenchman's children. However, I did not think you would like me to tell these Acadiens that, so I merely said, 'How you have misunderstood my son! He came here to do good to some of your people. He is looking for the descendants of a poor unhappy man. My son has money, and would help you.'" Vesper tried to keep back the little crease of amusement forming itself about his wasted lips. He had rarely seen his mother so happy and so excited. She prattled on, watching him sharply to see the effect of her words, and hovering over him like a kind little mother-bird. In some way she reminded him curiously enough of Emmanuel de la Rive. "I simply told them how good you are, and how you hate to have a fuss made over you. The young Acadien man actually writhed, and Mrs. de Forêt cried like a baby. Then they said, 'Oh, why did he put the name of a paper after his name?' 'How cruel in you to say that!' I replied to them. 'He does that because it reminds him of his dead father, whom he adored. My husband was editor and proprietor of the paper, and my son owns a part of it.' You should have seen the young Acadien. He put his head down on his arms, then he lifted it, and said, 'But does your son not write?' 'Write!' I exclaimed, indignantly, 'he hates writing. To me, his own mother, he only sends half a dozen lines. He never wrote a newspaper article in his life.' They would have been utterly overcome if I had not praised them for their disinterestedness in taking care of you in spite of their prejudice against you. Vesper, they will do anything for you now; and that exquisite child,--it is just like a romance that he should have fallen ill because you did." "Is he better?" "Almost well. They often bring him in when you are asleep. I daresay it would amuse you to have him sit on your bed for awhile." Vesper was silent, and, after a time, his mother ran on: "This French district is delightfully unique. I never was in such an out-of-the-world place except in Europe. I feel as if I had been moved back into a former century, when I see those women going about in their black handkerchiefs. I sit at the window and watch them going by,--I should never weary of them." Vesper said nothing, but he reflected affectionately and acutely that in a fortnight his appreciative but fickle mother would be longing for the rustle of silks, the flutter of laces, and the hum of fashionable conversation on a veranda, which was her idea of an enjoyable summer existence. CHAPTER IX. A TALK ON THE WHARF. "Long have I lingered where the marshlands are, Oft hearing in the murmur of the tide The past, alive again and at my side, With unrelenting power and hateful war." J. F. H. "There goes the priest of the parish in his buggy," said Mrs. Nimmo. "He must have a sick call." She sat on a garden chair, crocheting a white shawl and watching the passers-by on the road. "And there are some Sisters of Charity from one of the convents and an old Indian with a load of baskets is begging from them--Don't you want to look at these bicyclists, Vesper? One, two, three, four, five, six. They are from Boston, I know, by the square collars on their jerseys. The Nova Scotians do not dress in that way." Vesper gave only a partial though pleased attention to his mother, who had picked up an astonishing amount of neighborhood news, and as he lay on a rug at her feet, with his hat pulled over his brows, his mind soared up to the blue sky above him. During his illness he had always seemed to be sinking down into blackness and desolation. With returning health and decreased nervousness his soul mounted upward, and he would lie for hours at a time bathed in a delicious reverie and dreaming of "a nest among the stars." "And there is the blacksmith from the corner," continued Mrs. Nimmo, "who comes here so often to borrow things that a blacksmith is commonly supposed to have. Yesterday he wanted a hammer. 'Not a hammer,' said Célina to me, 'but a wife.'" Vesper's brain immediately turned an abrupt somersault in a descent from the sky to earth. "What did you say, mother?" "Merely that the blacksmith wishes to marry our landlady. It will be an excellent match for her. Don't you think so?" "In some respects,--yes." "She is too young, and too handsome, to remain a widow. Célina says that she has had a great many admirers, but she has never seemed to fancy any one but the blacksmith. She went for a drive with him last Sunday evening. You know that is the time young Acadiens call on the girls they admire. You see them walking by, or driving in their buggies. If a girl's _fiancé_ did not call on her that evening she would throw him over--There she is now with your beef tea," and Mrs. Nimmo admiringly watched Rose coming from the kitchen and carefully guarding a dainty china cup in her hand. Vesper got up and took it from her. "Don't you think it is nonsense for me to be drinking this every morning?" he asked. Rose looked up at him as he stood, tall, keen-eyed, interested, and waiting for her answer. "What does madame, your mother, say?" she asked, indicating Mrs. Nimmo, by a pretty gesture. "His mother says," remarked Mrs. Nimmo, indulgently, "that her son should take any dose, no matter how disagreeable, if it has for its object the good of his health." Vesper glanced sharply at her, then poured the last few drops of his tea on the ground. "Ah," said Mrs. Rose, anxiously, "I feared that I had not put in enough salt. Now I know." "It was perfect," said Vesper. "I am only offering a libation to those pansies," and he inclined his dark head towards Narcisse, who was seated cross-legged in the hammock. Rose took the cup, smiled innocently and angelically on her child and the young man and his mother, and returned to the house. Agapit presently came hurrying by the fence. "Ah, that is good!" he exclaimed, when he saw Vesper sauntering to and fro; "do you not think you could essay a walk to the wharf?" "Yes," said Vesper, while his mother anxiously looked up from her work. "Then come,--let me have the honor of escorting you," and Agapit showed his big white teeth in an ecstatic smile. Vesper extended a hand to Narcisse, and, lifting his cap to his mother, went slowly down the lane to the road. Agapit could scarcely contain his delight. He grinned broadly at every one they met, tried to accommodate his pace to Vesper's, kept forgetting and striding ahead, and finally, cramming his hands in his pockets, fell behind and muttered, "I feel as if I had known you a hundred years." "You didn't feel that way six weeks ago," said Vesper, good-humoredly. "I blush for it,--I am ashamed, but can you blame me? Since days of long ago, Acadiens have been so much maligned. You do not find that we are worse than others?" "Well, I think you would have been a pretty ticklish fellow to have handled at the time of the expulsion." "Our dear Lord knew better than to bring me into the world then," said Agapit, naïvely. "I should have urged the Acadiens to take up arms. There were enough of them to kill those devilish English." "Do all the Acadiens hate the English as much as you do?" "_I_ hate the English?" cried Agapit. "How grossly you deceive yourself!" "What do you mean then by that strong language?" Agapit threw himself into an excited attitude. "Let you dare--you youthful, proud young republic,--to insult our Canadian flag. You would see where stands Agapit LeNoir! England is the greatest nation in the world," and proudly swelling out his breast, he swept his glance over the majestic Bay before them. "Yes, barring the United States of America." "I cannot quarrel with you," said Agapit, and the fire left his glance, and moisture came to his eyes. "Let us each hold to our own opinion." "And suppose insults not forthcoming,--give me some further explanation meantime." "My quarrel is not with the great-minded," said Agapit, earnestly, "the eagerly anxious-for-peace Englishmen in years gone by, who reinforced the kings and queens of England. No,--I impeach the low-born upstarts and their colonial accomplices. Do you know, can you imagine, that the diabolical scheme of the expulsion of the Acadiens was conceived by a barber, and carried into decapitation by a house painter?" "Not possible," murmured Vesper. "Yes, possible,--let me find you a seat. I shall not forgive myself if I weary you, and those women will kill me." They had reached the wharf, and Agapit pointed to a pile of boards against the wooden breastwork that kept the waves from dashing over in times of storm. "That infamous letter is always like a scroll of fire before me," he exclaimed, pacing restlessly to and fro before Vesper and the child. "In it the once barber and footman, Craggs, who was then secretary of state, wrote to the governor of Nova Scotia: 'I see you do not get the better of the Acadiens. It is singular that those people should have preferred to lose their goods rather than be exposed to fight against their brethren. This sentimentality is stupid.' Ah, let it be stupid!" exclaimed Agapit, breaking off. "Let us once more have an expulsion. The Acadiens will go, they will suffer, they will die, before they give up sentimentality." "Hear, hear!" observed Vesper. Agapit surveyed him with a glowing eye. "Listen to further words from this solemn official, this barber secretary: 'These people are evidently too much attached to their fellow countrymen and to their religion ever to make true Englishmen.' Of what are true Englishmen made, Mr. Englishman from Boston?" "Of poor Frenchmen, according to the barber." "Now hear more courtly language from the honorable Craggs: 'It must be avowed that your position is deucedly critical. It was very difficult to prevent them from departing after having left the bargain to their choice--'" "What does he mean by that?" asked Vesper. "Call to your memory the terms of the treaty of Utrecht." "I don't remember a word of it,--bear in mind, my friend, that I am not an Acadien, and this question does not possess for me the moving interest it does for you. I only know Longfellow's 'Evangeline,'--which, until lately, has always seemed to me to be a pretty myth dressed up to please the public, and make money for the author,--some magazine articles, and Parkman, my favorite historian, whom you, nevertheless, seem to dislike." Agapit dropped on a block of wood, and rocked himself to and fro, as if in distress. "I will not characterize Parkman, since he is your countryman; but I would dearly love--I would truly admire to say what I think of him. Now as to the treaty of Utrecht; think just a moment, and you will remember that it transferred the Acadiens as the subjects of Louis XIV. of France to the good Queen Anne of England." Vesper, instead of puzzling his brain with historical reminiscences, immediately began to make preparations for physical comfort, and stretched himself out on the pile of boards, with his arm for a pillow. "Do not sleep, but conversate," said Agapit, eagerly. "It is cool here, you possibly would get cold if you shut your eyes. I will change this matter of talk,--there is one I would fain introduce." Vesper, in inward diversion, found that a new solemnity had taken possession of the young Acadien. He looked unutterable things at the Bay, indescribable things at the sky, and mysterious things at the cook of the schooner, who had just thrust his head through a window in his caboose. At last he gave expression to his emotion. "Would this not be a fitting time to talk of the wonderful letter of which madame, your mother, hinted?" Vesper, without a word, drew a folded paper from his pocket, and handed it to him. Agapit took it reverently, swayed back and forth while devouring its contents, then, unable to restrain himself, sprang up, and walked, or rather ran, to and fro while perusing it a second time. At last he came to a dead halt, and breathing hard, and with eyes aflame, ejaculated, "Thank you, a thousand, thousand time for showing me this precious letter." Then pressing it to his breast, he disappeared entirely from Vesper's range of vision. After a time he came back. Some of his excitement had gone from his head through his heels, and he sank heavily on a block of wood. "You do not know, you cannot tell," he said, "what this letter means to us." "What does it mean?" "It means--I do not know that I can say the word, but I will try--cor-rob-oration." "Explain a little further, will you?" "In the past all was for the English. Now records are being discovered, old documents are coming to light. The guilty colonial authorities suppressed them. Now these records declare for the Acadiens." "So--this letter, being from one on the opposite side, is valuable." "It is like a diamond unearthed," said Agapit, turning it over; "but,"--in sudden curiosity,--"this is a copy mutilated, for the name of the captain is not here. From whom did you have it, if I am permitted to ask?" "From the great-grandson of the old fellow mentioned." "And he does not wish his name known?" "Well, naturally one does not care to shout the sins of one's ancestors." "The noble young man, the dear young man," said Agapit, warmly. "He will atone for the sins of his fathers." "Not particularly noble, only business-like." "And has he much money, that he wishes to aid this family of Acadiens?" "No, not much. His father's family never succeeded in making money and keeping it. His mother is rich." "I should like to see him," exclaimed Agapit, and his black eyes flashed over Vesper's composed features. "I should love him for his sensitive heart." "There is nothing very interesting about him," said Vesper. "A sick, used-up creature." "Ah,--he is delicate." "Yes, and without courage. He is a college man and would have chosen a profession if his health had not broken down." "I pity him from my heart; I send good wishes to his sick-bed," said Agapit, in a passion of enthusiasm. "I will pray to our Lord to raise him." "Can you give him any assistance?" asked Vesper, nodding towards the letter. "I do not know; I cannot tell. There are many LeNoirs. But I will go over my papers; I will sit up at night, as I now do some writing for the post-office. You know I am poor, and obliged to work. I must pay Rose for my board. I will not depend on a woman." Vesper half lifted his drooping eyelids. "What are you going to make of yourself?" "I wish to study law. I save money for a period in a university." "How old are you?" "Twenty-three." "Your cousin looks about that age." "She is twenty-four,--a year older; and you,--may I ask your age?" "Guess." Agapit studied his face. "You are twenty-six." "No." "I daresay we are both younger than Rose," said Agapit, ingenuously, "and she has less sense than either." "Did your ancestors come from the south of France?" asked Vesper, abruptly. "Not the LeNoirs; but my mother's family was from Provence. Why do you ask?" "You are like a Frenchman of the south." "I know that I am impetuous," pursued Agapit. "Rose says that I resemble the tea-kettle. I boil and bubble all the time that I am not asleep, and"--uneasily--"she also says that I speak too hastily of women; that I do not esteem them as clever as they are. What do you think?" Vesper laughed quickly. "Southerners all have a slight contempt for women. However, they are frank about it. Is there one thought agitating your bosom that you do not express?" "No; most unfortunately. It chagrins me that I speak everything. I feel, and often speak before I feel, but what can one do? It is my nature. Rose also follows her nature. She is beautiful, but she studies nothing, absolutely nothing, but the science of cooking." "Without which philosophers would go mad from indigestion." "Yes; she was born to cook and to obey. Let her keep her position, and not say, 'Agapit, thou must do so and so,' as she sometimes will, if I am not rocky with her." "Rocky?" queried Vesper. "Firmy, firm," said Agapit, in confusion. "The words twist in my mind, unless my blood is hot, when I speak better. Will you not correct me? Upon going out in the world I do not wish to be laughed." "To be laughed at," said his new friend. "Don't worry yourself. You speak well enough, and will improve." Agapit grew pale with emotion. "Ah, but we shall miss you when you go! There has been no Englishman here that we so liked. I hope that you will be long in finding the descendants of the Fiery Frenchman." "Perhaps I shall find some of them in you and your cousin," said Vesper. "Ah, if you could, what joy! what bliss!--but I fear it is not so. Our forefathers were not of Grand Pré." Vesper relapsed into silence, only occasionally rousing himself to answer some of Agapit's restless torrent of remarks about the ancient letter. At last he grew tired, and, sitting up, laid a caressing hand on the head of Narcisse, who was playing with some shells beside him. "Come, little one, we must return to the house." On the way back they met the blacksmith. Agapit snickered gleefully, "All the world supposes that he is making the velvet paw to Rose." "She drives with him," said Vesper, indifferently. "Yes, but to obtain news of her sister who flouts him. She is down the Bay, and Rose receives news of her. She will no longer drive with him if she hears this gossip." "Why should she not?" "I do not know, but she will not. Possibly because she is no coquette." "She will probably marry some one." "She cannot," muttered Agapit, and he fell into a quiet rage, and out of it again in the duration of a few seconds. Then he resumed a light-hearted conversation with Vesper, who averted his curious eyes from him. CHAPTER X. BACK TO THE CONCESSION. "And Nature hath remembered, for a trace Of calm Acadien life yet holds command, Where, undisturbed, the rustling willows stand, And the curved grass, telling the breeze's pace." J. F. H. Mrs. Rose à Charlitte served her dinner in the middle of the day. The six o'clock meal she called supper. With feminine insight she noticed, at supper, on a day a week later, that her guest was more quiet than usual, and even dull in humor. Agapit, who was nearly always in high spirits, and always very much absorbed in himself, came bustling in,--sobered down for one minute to cross himself, and reverently repeat a _bénédicité_, then launched into a voluble and enjoyable conversation on the subject of which he never tired,--his beloved countrymen, the Acadiens. Rose withdrew to the innermost recesses of her pantry. "Do you know these little berries?" she asked, coming back, and setting a glass dish, full of a thick, whitish preserve, before Vesper. "No," he said, absently, "what are they?" "They are _poudabre_, or _capillaire_,--waxen berries that grow deep in the woods. They hide their little selves under leaves, yet the children find them. They are expensive, and we do not buy many, yet perhaps you will find them excellent." "They are delicious," said Vesper, tasting them. "Give me also some," said Agapit, with pretended jealousy. "It is not often that we are favored with _poudabre_." "There are yours beside your plate," said Rose, mischievously; "you have, if anything, more than Mr. Nimmo." She very seldom mentioned Vesper's name. It sounded foreign on her lips, and he usually liked to hear her. This evening he paid no attention to her, and, with a trace of disappointment in her manner, she went away to the kitchen. After Vesper left the table she came back. "Agapit, the young man is dull." "I assure thee," said Agapit, in French, and very dictatorially, "he is as gay as he usually is." "He is never gay, but this evening he is troubled." Agapit grew uneasy. "Dost thou think he will again become ill?" Rose's brilliant face became pale. "I trust not. Ah, that would be terrible!" "Possibly he thinks of something. Where is his mother?" "Above, in her room. Some books came from Boston in a box, and she reads. Go to him, Agapit; talk not of the dear dead, but of the living. Seek not to find out in what his dullness consists, and do not say abrupt things, but gentle. Remember all the kind sayings that thou knowest about women. Say that they are constant if they truly love. They do not forget." Agapit's fingers remained motionless in the bowl of the big pipe that he was filling with tobacco. "_Ma foi_, but thou art eloquent. What has come over thee?" "Nothing, nothing," she said, hurriedly, "I only wonder whether he thinks of his _fiancée_." "How dost thou know he has a _fiancée_?" "I do not know, I guess. Surely, so handsome a young man must belong already to some woman." "Ah,--probably. Rose, I am glad that thou hast never been a coquette." "And why should I be one?" she asked, wonderingly. "Why, thou hast ways,--sly ways, like most women, and thou art meek and gentle, else why do men run after thee, thou little bleating lamb?" Rose made him no answer beyond a shrug of her shoulders. "But thou wilt not marry. Is it not so?" he continued, with tremulous eagerness. "It is better for thee to remain single and guard thy child." She looked up at him wistfully, then, as solemnly as if she were taking a vow, she murmured, "I do not know all things, but I think I shall never marry." Agapit could scarcely contain his delight. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and exclaimed, "My good little cousin!" Then he lighted his pipe and smoked in ecstatic silence. Rose occupied herself with clearing the things from the table, until a sudden thought struck Agapit. "Leave all that for Célina. Let us take a drive, you and I and the little one. Thou hast been much in the house lately." "But Mr. Nimmo--will it be kind to leave him?" "He can come if he will, but thou must also ask madame. Go then, while I harness Toochune." "I am not ready," said Rose, shrinking back. "Ready!" laughed Agapit. "I will make thee ready," and he pulled her shawl and handkerchief from a peg near the kitchen door. "I had the intention of wearing my hat," faltered Rose. "Absurdity! keep it for mass, and save thy money. Go ask the young man, while I am at the stable." Rose meekly put on the shawl and the handkerchief, and went to the front of the house. Vesper stood in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. She could only see his curly head, a bit of his cheek, and the tip of his mustache. At the sound of her light step he turned around, and his face brightened. "Look at the sunset," he said, kindly, when she stood in embarrassment before him. "It is remarkable." It was indeed remarkable. A blood-red sun was shouldering his way in and out of a wide dull mass of gray cloud that was unrelieved by a single fleck of color. Rose looked at the sky, and Vesper looked at her, and thought of a grieving Madonna. She had been so gay and cheerful lately. What had happened to call that expression of divine tenderness and sympathy to her face? He had never seen her so ethereal and so spiritually beautiful, not even when she was bending over his sick-bed. What a rest and a pleasure to weary eyes she was, in her black artistic garments, and how pure was the oval of her face, how becoming the touch of brownness on the fair skin. The silk handkerchief knotted under her chin and pulled hood-wise over the shock of flaxen hair combed up from the forehead, which two or three little curls caressed daintily, gave the finishing touch of quaintness and out-of-the-worldness to her appearance. "You are feeling slightly blue this evening, are you not?" he asked. "Blue,--that means one's thoughts are black?" said Rose, bringing her glance back to him. "Yes." "Then I am a very little blue," she said, frankly. "This inn is like the world to me. When those about me are sad, I, too, am sad. Sometimes I grieve when strangers go,--for days in advance I have a weight at heart. When they leave, I shut myself in my room. For others I do not care." "And are you melancholy this evening because you are thinking that my mother and I must soon leave?" Her eyes filled with tears. "No; I did not think of that, but I do now." "Then what was wrong with you?" "Nothing, since you are again cheerful," she said, in tones so doleful that Vesper burst into one of his rare laughs, and Rose, laughing with him, brushed the tears from her face. "There was something running in my mind that made me feel gloomy," he said, after a short silence. "It has been haunting me all day." Her eager glance was a prayer to him to share the cause of his unhappiness with her, and he recited, in a low, penetrating voice, the lines: "Mon Dieu, pour fuir la mort n'est-il aucun moyen? Quoi? Dans un jour peut-être immobile et glacé.... Aujourd'hui avenir, le monde, la pensée Et puis, demain, ... plus rien." Rose had never heard anything like this, and she was troubled, and turned her blue eyes to the sky, where a trailing white cloud was soaring above the dark cloud-bank below. "It is like a soul going up to our Lord," she murmured, reverently. Vesper would not shock her further with his heterodoxy. "Forget what I said," he went on, lightly, "and let me beg you never to put anything on your head but that handkerchief. You Acadien women wear it with such an air." "But it is because we know how to tie it. Look,--this is how the Italian women in Boston carry those colored ones," and, pulling the piece of silk from her head, she arranged it in severe lines about her face. "A decided difference," Vesper was saying, when Agapit came around the corner of the house, driving Toochune, who was attached to a shining dog-cart. "Are you going with us?" he called out. "I have not yet been asked." "Thou naughty Rose," exclaimed Agapit; but she had already hurried up-stairs to invite Mrs. Nimmo to accompany them. "Madame, your mother, prefers to read," she said, when she came back, "therefore Narcisse will come." "Mount beside me," said Agapit to Vesper; "Rose and Narcisse will sit in the background." "No," said Vesper, and he calmly assisted Rose to the front seat, then extended a hand to swing Narcisse up beside her. The child, however, clung to him, and Vesper was obliged to take him in the back seat, where he sat nodding his head and looking like a big perfumed flower in his drooping hat and picturesque pink trousers. "You smile," said Agapit, who had suddenly twisted his head around. "I always do," said Vesper, "for the space of five minutes after getting into this cart." "But why?" "Well--an amusing contrast presents itself to my mind." "And the contrast, what is it?" "I am driving with a modern Evangeline, who is not the owner of the rough cart that I would have fancied her in, a few weeks ago, but of a trap that would be an ornament to Commonwealth Avenue." "Am I the modern Evangeline?" said Agapit, in his breakneck fashion. "To my mind she was embodied in the person of your cousin," and Vesper bowed in a sidewise fashion towards his landlady. Rose crimsoned with pleasure. "But do you think I am like Evangeline,--she was so dark, so beautiful?" "You are passable, Rose, passable," interjected Agapit, "but you lack the passion, the fortitude of the heroine of Mr. Nimmo's immortal countryman, whom all Acadiens venerate. Alas! only the poets and story-tellers have been true to Acadie. It is the historians who lie." "Why do you think your cousin is lacking in passion and fortitude?" asked Vesper, who had either lost his gloomy thoughts, or had completely subdued them, and had become unusually vivacious. "She has never loved,--she cannot. Rose, did you love your husband as I did _la belle Marguerite_?" "My husband was older,--he was as a father," stammered Rose. "Certainly I did not tear my hair, I did not beat my foot on the ground when he died, as you did when _la belle_ married the miller." "Have you ever loved any man?" pursued Agapit, unmercifully. "Oh, shut up, Agapit," muttered Vesper; "don't bully a woman." Agapit turned to stare at him,--not angrily, but rather as if he had discovered something new and peculiar in the shape of young manhood. "Hear what she always says when young men, and often old men, drive up and say, 'Rose à Charlitte, will you marry me?' She says, 'Love,--it is all nonsense. You make all that.' Is it not so, Rose?" "Yes," she replied, almost inaudibly; "I have said it." "You make all that," repeated Agapit, triumphantly. "They can rave and cry,--they can say, 'My heart is breaking;' and she responds, 'Love,--there is no such thing. You make all that.' And yet you call her an Evangeline, a martyr of love who laid her life on its holy altar." Rose was goaded into a response, and turned a flushed and puzzled face to her cousin. "Agapit, I will explain that lately I do not care to say 'You make all that.' I comprehend--possibly because the blacksmith talks so much to me of his wish towards my sister--that one does not make love. It is something that grows slowly, in the breast, like a flower. Therefore, do not say that I am of ice or stone." "But you do not care to marry,--you just come from telling me so." "Yes; I am not for marriage," she said, modestly, "yet do not say that I understand not. It is a beautiful thing to love." "It is," said Agapit, "yet do not think of it, since thou dost not care for a husband. Let thy thoughts run on thy cooking. Thou wert born for that. I think that thou must have arrived in this world with a little stew-pan in thy hand, a tasting fork hanging at thy girdle. Do not wish to be an Evangeline or to read books. Figure to yourself, Mr. Nimmo,"--and he turned his head to the back seat,--"that last night she came to my room, she begged me for an English book,--she who says often to Narcisse, 'I will shake thee, my little one, if thou usest English words.' She says now that she wishes to learn,--she finds herself forgetful of many things that she learned in the convent. I said, 'Go to bed, thou silly fool. Thy eyes are burning and have black rings around them the color of thy stove,' and she whimpered like a baby." "Your cousin is an egotist, Mrs. Rose," said Vesper, over his shoulder. "I will lend you some books." "Agapit is as a brother," she replied, simply. "I have been a good brother to thee," he said, "and I will never forget thee; not even when I go out into the world. Some day I will send for thee to live with me and my wife." "Perhaps thy wife will not let me," she said, demurely. "Then she may leave me; I detest women who will not obey." For some time the cousins chattered on and endeavored to snatch a glimpse, in "time's long and dark prospective glass," of Agapit's future wife, while Vesper listened to them with as much indulgence as if they had been two children. He was just endeavoring to fathom the rationale of their curious interchange of _thou_ and _you_, when Agapit said, "If it is agreeable to you, we will drive back in the woods to the Concession. We have a cousin who is ill there,--see, here we pass the station," and he pointed his whip at the gabled roof near them. The wheels of the dog-cart rolled smoothly over the iron rails, and they entered upon a road bordered by sturdy evergreens that emitted a deliciously resinous odor and occasioned Mrs. Rose to murmur, reverently, "It is like mass; for from trees like these the altar boys get the gum for incense." Wild gooseberry and raspberry bushes lined the roadside, and under their fruit-laden branches grew many wild flowers. A man who stopped Agapit to address a few remarks to him gathered a handful of berries and a few sprays of wild roses and tossed them in Narcisse's lap. The child uttered a polite, "_Merci, monsieur_" (thank you, sir), then silently spread the flowers and berries on the lap rug and allowed tears from his beautiful eyes to drop on them. Vesper took some of the berries in his hand, and carefully explained to the sorrowing Narcisse that the sensitive shrubs did not shiver when their clothes were stripped from them and their hats pulled off. They were rather shaking their sides in laughter that they could give pleasure to so good and gentle a boy. And the flowers that bowed so meekly when one wished to behead them, were trembling with delight to think that they should be carried, for even a short time, by one who loved them so well. Narcisse at last was comforted, and, drying his tears, he soberly ate the berries, and presented the roses to his mother in a brilliant nosegay, keeping only one that he lovingly fastened in his neck, where it could brush against his cheek. Soon they were among the clearings in the forest. Back of every farm stood grim trees in serried rows, like soldiers about to close in on the gaps made in their ranks by the diligent hands of the Acadien farmers. The trees looked inexorable, but the farmers were more so. Here in the backwoods so quiet and still, so favorable for farming, the forest must go as it had gone near the shore. About every farmhouse, men and women were engaged in driving in cows, tying up horses, shutting up poultry, feeding pigs, and performing the hundred and one duties that fall to the lot of a farmer's family. Everywhere were children. Each farmer seemed to have a quiver full of these quiet, well-behaved little creatures, who gazed shyly and curiously at the dog-cart as it went driving by. When they came to a brawling, noisy river, having on its banks a saw-mill deserted for the night, Agapit exclaimed, "We are at last arrived!" Close to the mill was a low, old-fashioned house, situated in the midst of an extensive apple orchard in which the fruit was already taking on size and color. "They picked four hundred barrels from it last year," said Agapit, "our cousins, the Kessys, who live here. They are rich, but very simple," and springing out, he tied Toochune's head to the gatepost. "Now let us enter," he said, and he ushered Vesper into a small, dull room where an old woman of gigantic stature sat smoking by an open fireplace. Another tall woman, with soft black eyes, and wearing on her breast a medal of the congregation of St. Anne, took Rose away to the sick-room, while Agapit led Vesper and Narcisse to the fireplace. "Cousin grandmother, will you not tell this gentleman of the commencement of the Bay?" The old woman, who was nearly sightless, took her pipe from her mouth, and turned her white head. "Does he speak French?" "Yes, yes," said Agapit, joyfully. A light came into her face,--a light that Vesper noticed always came into the faces of Acadiens, no matter how fluent their English, if he addressed them in their mother tongue. "I was born _en haut de la Baie_" (up the Bay), she began, softly. "Further than Sleeping Water,--towards Digby," said Agapit, in an undertone. "Near Bleury," she continued, "where there were only eight families. In the morning my mother would look out at the neighbors' chimneys; where she saw smoke she would send me, saying, 'Go, child, and borrow fire.' Ah! those were hard days. We had no roads. We walked over the beach fifteen miles to Pointe à l'Eglise to hear mass sung by the good Abbé. "There were plenty of fish, plenty of moose, but not so many boats in those days. The hardships were great, so great that the weak died. Now when my daughter sits and plays on the organ, I think of it. David Kessy, my father, was very big. Once our wagon, loaded with twenty bushels of potatoes, stuck in the mud. He put his shoulder against it and lifted it. Nowadays we would rig a jack, but my father was strong, so strong that he took insults, though he trembled, for he knew a blow from his hand would kill a man." The Acadienne paused, and fell into a gentle reverie, from which Agapit, who was stepping nimbly in and out of the room with jelly and other delicacies that he had brought for the invalid, soon roused her. "Tell him about the derangement, cousin grandmother," he vociferated in her ear, "and the march from Annapolis." CHAPTER XI NEWS OF THE FIERY FRENCHMAN. "Below me winds the river to the sea, On whose brown slope stood wailing, homeless maids; Stood exiled sons; unsheltered hoary heads; And sires and mothers dumb in agony. The awful glare of burning homes, where free And happy late they dwelt, breaks on the shades, Encompassing the sailing fleet; then fades, With tumbling roof, upon the night-bound sea. How deep is hope in sorrow sunk! How harsh The stranger voice; and loud the hopeless wail! Then silence came to dwell; the tide fell low; The embers died. On the deserted marsh, Where grain and grass stirred only to the gale, The moose unchased dare cross the Gaspereau." J. F. HERBIN. An extraordinary change came over the aged woman at Agapit's words. Some color crept to her withered cheeks. She straightened herself, and, no longer leaning on her cane, said, in a loud, firm voice, to Vesper, "The Acadiens were not all stolen from Annapolis at the derangement. Did you think they were?" "I don't know that I ever thought about it, madame," he said, courteously; "but I should like to know." "About fifty families ran to the wood," she said, with mournful vivacity; "they spent the winter there; I have heard the old people talk of it when I was young. They would sit by the fire and cry. I would try not to cry, but the tears would come. They said their good homes were burnt. Only at night could they revisit them, lest soldiers would catch them. They dug their vegetables from the ground. They also got one cow and carried her back. Ah, she was a treasure! There was one man among them who was only half French, and they feared him, so they watched. One day he went out of the woods,--the men took their guns and followed. Soon he returned, fifty soldiers marching behind him. 'Halt!' cried the Acadiens. They fired, they killed, and the rest of the soldiers ran. 'Discharge me! discharge me!' cried the man, whom they had caught. 'Yes, we will discharge you,' they said, and they put his back against a tree, and once more they fired, but very sadly. At the end of the winter some families went away in ships, but the Comeaus, Thibaudeaus, and Melançons said, 'We cannot leave Acadie; we will find a quiet place.' So they began a march, and one could trace them by the graves they dug. I will not tell you all, for why should you be sad? I will say that the Indians were good, but sometimes the food went, and they had to boil their moccasins. One woman, who had a young baby, got very weak. They lifted her up, they shook the pea-straw stuffing from the sack she lay on, and found her a handful of peas, which they boiled, and she got better. "They went on and on, they crossed streams, and carried the little ones, until they came here to the Bay,--to Grosses Coques,--where they found big clams, and the tired women said, 'Here is food; let us stay.' "The men cut a big pine and hollowed a boat, in which they went to the head of the Bay for the cow they had left there. They threw her down, tied her legs, and brought her to Grosses Coques. Little by little they carried also other things to the Bay, and made themselves homes. "Then the families grew, and now they cover all the Bay. Do you understand now about the march from Annapolis?" "Thank you, yes," said Vesper, much moved by the sight of tears trickling down her faded face. "What reason did the old people give for this expulsion from their homes?" "Always the same, always, always," said Madame Kessy, with energy. "They would not take the oath, because the English would not put in it that they need not fight against the French." "But now you are happy under English rule?" "Yes, now,--but the past? What can make up for the weeping of the old people?" Nothing could, and Vesper hastened to introduce a new subject of conversation. "I have heard much about the good Abbé that you speak of. Did you ever see him?" "See him,--ah, sir, he was an angel of God, on this Bay, and he a gentleman out of France. We were all his children, even the poor Indians, whom he gathered around him and taught our holy religion, till their fine voices would ring over the Bay, in hymns to the ever blessed Virgin. He denied himself, he paid our doctors' bills, even to twenty pounds at a time,--ah, there was mourning when he died. When my bans were published in church the good Abbé rode no more on horseback along the Bay. He lay a corpse, and I could scarcely hold up my head to be married." "In speaking of those old days," said Vesper, "can you call to mind ever hearing of a LeNoir of Grand Pré called the Fiery Frenchman?" "Of Etex LeNoir," cried the old woman, in trumpet tones, "of the martyr who shamed an Englishman, and was murdered by him?" "Yes, that is the man." "I have heard of him often, often. The old ones spoke of it to me. His heart was broken,--the captain, who was more cruel than Winslow, called him a papist dog, and struck him down, and the sailors threw him into the sea. He laid a curse on the wicked captain, but I cannot remember his name." "Did you ever hear anything of the wife and child of Etex LeNoir?" "No," she said, absently, "there was only the husband Etex that I had heard of. Would not his wife come back to the Bay? I do not know," and she relapsed into the dullness from which her temporary excitement had roused her. "He was called the Fiery Frenchman," she muttered, presently, but so low that Vesper had to lean forward to hear her. "The old ones said that there was a mark like flame on his forehead, and he was like fire himself." "Agapit, is it not time that we embark?" said Rose, gliding from an inner room. "It will soon be dark." Agapit sprang up. Vesper shook hands with Madame Kessy and her daughter, and politely assured them, in answer to their urgent request, that he would be sure to call again, then took his seat in the dog-cart, where in company with his new friends he was soon bowling quickly over a bit of smooth and newly repaired road. Away ahead, under the trees, they soon heard snatches of a lively song, and presently two young men staggered into view supporting each other, and having much difficulty in keeping to their side of the road. Agapit, with angry mutterings, drove furiously by the young men, with his head well in the air, although they saluted him as their dear cousin from the Bay. Rose did not speak, but she hung her head, and Vesper knew that she was blushing to the tips of the white ears inside her black handkerchief. No one ventured a remark until they reached a place where four roads met, when Agapit ejaculated, desperately, "The devil is also here!" Vesper turned around. The sun had gone down, the twilight was nearly over, but he possessed keen sight and could plainly discover against the dull blue evening sky the figures of a number of men and boys, some of whom were balancing themselves on the top of a zigzag fence, while others stood with hands in their pockets,--all vociferously laughing and jeering at a man who staggered to and fro in their midst with clenched fists, and light shirt-sleeves spotted with red. "This is abominable," said Agapit, in a rage, and he was about to lay his whip on Toochune's back when Vesper suggested mildly that he was in danger of running down some of his countrymen. Agapit pulled up the horse with a jerk, and Rose immediately sprang to the road and ran up to the young man, who had plainly been fighting and was about to fight again. Vesper slipped from his seat and stood by the wheel. "Do not follow her," exclaimed Agapit; "they will not hurt her. They would beat you." "I know it." "She is my cousin, thou impatient one," pursued Agapit, irritably. "I would not allow her to be insulted." "I know that, too," said Vesper, calmly, and he watched the young men springing off the fences and hurrying up to Rose, who had taken the pugilist by the hand. "Isidore," she said, sorrowfully, and as unaffectedly as if they had been alone, "hast thou been fighting again?" "It is her second cousin," growled Agapit; "that is why she interferes." "_Écoute-moi, écoute-moi_, Rose" (listen to me), stammered the young man in the blood-stained shirt. "They all set upon me. I was about to be massacred. I struck out but a little, and I got some taps here and there. I was drunk at first, but I am not very drunk now." "Poor Isidore, I will take thee home; come with me." The crowd of men and boys set up a roar. They were quarrelsome and mischievous, and had not yet got their fill of rowdyism. "_Va-t'ang, va-t'ang_" (go away), "Rose à Charlitte. We want no women here. Go home about thy business. If Big Fists wishes to fight, we will fight." Among all the noisy, discordant voices this was the only insulting one, and Rose turned and fixed her mild gaze on the offender, who was one of the oldest men present, and the chief mischief-maker of the neighborhood. "But it is not well for all to fight one man," she said, gently. "We fight one by one. Isidore is big,--he has never enough. Go away, or there will yet be a bigger row," and he added a sentence of gross abuse. Vesper made a step forward, but Isidore, the young bully, who was of immense height and breadth, and a son of the old Acadienne that they had just quitted, was before him. "You wish to fight, my friends," he said, jocularly; "here, take this," and, lifting his big foot, he quickly upset the offender, and kicked him towards some men in the crowd who were also relatives of Rose. One of them sprang forward, and, with his dark face alight with glee at the chance to avenge the affront offered to his kinswoman, at once proceeded to beat the offender calmly and systematically, and to roll him under the fence. Rose, in great distress, attempted to go to his rescue, but the young giant threw his arm around her. "This is only fun, my cousin. Thou must not spoil everything. Come, I will return with thee." "_Nâni_" (no), cried Agapit, furiously, "thou wilt not. Fit company art thou for strangers!" Isidore stared confusedly at him, while Vesper settled the question by inviting him in the back seat and installing Rose beside him. Then he held out his arms to Narcisse, who had been watching the disturbance with drowsy interest, fearful only that the Englishman from Boston might leave him to take a hand in it. As soon as Vesper mounted the seat beside him, Agapit jerked the reins, and set off at a rapid pace; so rapid that Vesper at first caught only snatches of the dialogue carried on behind him, that was tearful on the part of Rose, and meek on that of Isidore. Soon Agapit sobered down, and Rose's words could be distinguished. "My cousin, how canst thou? Think only of thy mother and thy wife; and the good priest,--suppose he had come!" "Then thou wouldst have seen running like that of foxes," replied Isidore, in good-natured, semi-interested tones. "Thou wast not born a drunkard. When sober thou art good, but there could not be a worse man when drunk. Such a pile of cursing words to go up to the sky,--and such a volley of fisting. Ah, how thou wast wounding Christ!" Isidore held on tightly, for Agapit was still driving fast, and uttered an inaudible reply. "Tell me where thou didst get that liquor," said Rose. "It was a stolen cask, my cousin." "Isidore!" "But I did not steal it. It came from thy charming Bay. Thou didst not know that, shortly ago, a captain sailed to Sleeping Water with five casks of rum. He hired a man from the Concession to help him hide them, but the man stole one cask. Imagine the rage of the captain, but he could not prosecute, for it was smuggled. Since then we have fun occasionally." "Who is that bad man? If I knew where was his cask, I would take a little nail and make a hole in it." "Rose, couldst thou expect me to tell thee?" "Yes," she said, warmly. Then, remembering that she had been talking English to his French, she suddenly relapsed into low, swift sentences in her own tongue, which Vesper could not understand. He caught their import, however. She was still inveighing against the sin of drunkenness and was begging him to reform, and her voice did not flag until they reached his home, where his wife--a young woman with magnificent eyes and a straight, queenly figure--stood by the gate. "_Bon soir_ (good evening), Claudine," called out Agapit. "We have brought home Isidore, who, hearing that a distinguished stranger was about to pass through the Concession, thoughtfully put himself on exhibition at the four roads. You had better keep him at home until _La Guerrière_ goes back to Saint Pierre." "It was _La Guerrière_ that brought the liquor," said Rose, suddenly, to Isidore. He did not contradict her, and she said, firmly, "Never shall that captain darken my doors again." The young Acadien beauty gave Vesper a fleeting glance, then she said, bitterly, "It should rather be Saint Judas, for from there the evil one sends stuff to torture us women--Here enter," and half scornfully, half affectionately, she extended a hand to her huge husband, who was making a wavering effort to reach the gateway. He clung to her as if she had been an anchor, and when she asked him what had happened to his shirt he stuttered, regretfully, "Torn, Claudine,--torn again." "How many times should one mend a shirt?" she asked, turning her big blazing eyes on Rose. "Charlitte never became drunk," said Rose, in a plaintive voice, "but I have mended the shirts of my brothers at least a hundred times." "Then I have but one more time," said the youthful Madame Kessy. "After that I shall throw it in the fire. Go into the house, my husband. I was a fool to have married thee," she added, under her breath. Isidore stood tottering on his feet, and regarded her with tipsy gravity. "And thou shalt come with me, my pretty one, and make me a hot supper and sing me a song." "I will not do that. Thou canst eat cold bread, and I will sing thee a song with my tongue that will not please thee." "The priest married us," said Isidore, doggedly, and in momentary sobriety he stalked to the place where she stood, picked her up, and, putting her under his arm, carried her into the house, she meanwhile protesting and laughing hysterically while she shrieked out something to Rose about the loan of a sleeve pattern. "Yes, yes, I understand," called Rose, "the big sleeve, with many folds; I will send it. Make thy husband his supper and come soon to see me." "Rose," said Agapit, severely, as they drove away, "is it a good thing to make light of that curse of curses?" "To make light of it! _Mon Dieu_, you do not understand. It is men who make women laugh even when their hearts are breaking." Agapit did not reply, and, as they were about to enter a thick wood, he passed the reins to Vesper and got out to light the lamps. While he was fidgeting with them, Rose moved around so that she could look into the front seat. "Your child is all right," said Vesper, gazing down at the head laid confidingly against his arm. "He is sound asleep,--not a bit alarmed by that fuss." "It does not frighten him when human beings cry out. He only sorrows for things that have no voices, and he is always right when with you. It is not that; I wish to ask you--to ask you to forgive me." "For what?" "But you know--I told you what was not true." "Do not speak of it. It was a mere bagatelle." "It is not a bagatelle to make untruths," she said, wearily, "but I often do it,--most readily when I am frightened. But you did not frighten me." Vesper did not reply except by a reassuring glance, which in her preoccupation she lost, and, catching her breath, she went on, "I think so often of a sentence from an Englishman that the sisters of a convent used to say to us,--it is about the little lies as well as the big ones that come from the pit." "Do you mean Ruskin?" said Vesper, curiously, "when he speaks of 'one falsity as harmless, and another as slight, and another as unintended,--cast them all aside; they may be light and accidental, but they are ugly soot from the smoke of the pit for all that?'" "Yes, yes, it is that,--will you write it for me?--and remember," she continued, hurriedly, as she saw Agapit preparing to reënter the cart, "that I did not say what I did to make a fine tale, but for my people whom I love. You were a stranger, and I supposed you would linger but a day and then proceed, and it is hard for me to say that the Acadiens are no better than the English,--that they will get drunk and fight. I did not imagine that you would see them, yet I should not have told the story," and with her flaxen head drooping on her breast she turned away from him. "When is lying justifiable?" asked Vesper of Agapit. The young Acadien plunged into a long argument that lasted until they reached the top of the hill overlooking Sleeping Water. Then he paused, and as he once more saw above him the wide expanse of sky to which he was accustomed, and knew that before him lay the Bay, wide, open, and free, he drew a long breath. "Ah, but I am glad to arrive home. When I go to the woods it is as if a large window through which I had been taking in the whole world had been closed." No one replied to him, and he soon swung them around the corner and up to the inn door. Rose led her sleepy boy into the kitchen, where bright lights were burning, and where the maid Célina seemed to be entertaining callers. Vesper took the lantern and followed Agapit to the stable. "Is it a habit of yours to give your hotel guests drives?" he asked, hanging the lantern on a hook and assisting Agapit in unbuckling straps. "Yes, whenever it pleases us. Many, also, hire our horse and pony. You see that we have no common horse in Toochune." "Yes, I know he is a thoroughbred." "Rose, of course, could not buy such an animal. He was a gift from her uncle in Louisiana. He also sent her this dog-cart and her organ. He is rich, very rich. He went South as a boy, and was adopted by an old farmer; Rose is the daughter of his favorite sister, and I tell her that she will inherit from him, for his wife is dead and he is alone, but she says not to count on what one does not know." Vesper had already been favored with these items of information by his mother, so he said nothing, and assisted Agapit in his task of making long-legged Toochune comfortable for the night. Having finished, and being rewarded by a grateful glance from the animal's lustrous eyes, they both went to the pump outside and washed their hands. "It is too fine for the house," said Agapit. "Are you too fatigued to walk? If agreeable I will take you to Sleeping Water River, where you have not yet been, and tell you how it accumulated its name. There is no one inside," he continued, as Vesper cast a glance at the kitchen windows, "but the miller and his wife, in whom I no longer take pleasure, and the mail-driver who tells so long stories." "So long that you have no chance." "Exactly," said Agapit, fumbling in his pocket. "See what I bought to-day of a travelling merchant. Four cigars for ten cents. Two for you, and two for me. Shall we smoke them?" Vesper took the cigars, slipped them in his pocket, and brought out one of his own, then with Agapit took the road leading back from the village to the river. CHAPTER XII. AN UNHAPPY RIVER. "Pools and shadows merge Beneath the branches, where the rushes lean And stumble prone; and sad along the verge The marsh-hen totters. Strange the branches play Above the snake-roots in the dark and wet, Adown the hueless trunks, this summer day. Strange things the willows whisper." J. F. H. "There is a story among the old people," said Agapit, "that a band of Acadiens, who evaded the English at the time of the expulsion, sailed into this Bay in a schooner. They anchored opposite Sleeping Water, and some of the men came ashore in a boat. Not knowing that an English ship lay up yonder, hidden by a point of land, they pressed back into the woods towards Sleeping Water Lake. Some of the English, also, were on their way to this lake, for it is historic. The Acadiens found traces of them and turned towards the shore, but the English pursued over the marshes by the river, which at last the Acadiens must cross. They threw aside their guns and jumped in, and, as one head rose after another, the English, standing on the bank, shot until all but one were killed. This one was a Le Blanc, a descendant of René Le Blanc, that one reads of in 'Evangeline.' Rising up on the bank, he found himself alone. Figure the anguish of his heart,--his brothers and friends were dead. He would never see them again, and he turned and stretched out a hand in a supreme adieu. The English, who would not trouble to swim, fired at him, and called, 'Go to sleep with your comrades in the river.' "'They sleep,' he cried, 'but they will rise again in their children,' and, quite untouched by their fire, he ran to his boat, and, reaching the ship, set sail to New Brunswick; and in later years his children and the children of the murdered ones came back to the Bay, and began to call the river Sleeping Water, and, in time, the lake, which was Queen Anne's Lake, was also changed to Sleeping Water Lake." "And the soldiers?" "Ah! you look for vengeance, but does vengeance always come? Remember the Persian distich: "'They came, conquered, and burned, Pillaged, murdered, and went.'" "I do not understand this question thoroughly," said Vesper, with irritation, "yet from your conversation it seems not so barbarous a thing that the Acadiens should have been transported as that those who remained should have been so persecuted." "Now is your time to read 'Richard.' I have long been waiting for your health to be restored, for it is exciting." "That is the Acadien historian you have spoken of?" "Yes; and when you read him you will understand my joy at the venerable letter you showed me. You will see why we blame the guilty Lawrence and his colleagues, and not England herself, for the wickedness wrought her French children." Vesper smoked out his cigar in silence. They had left the village street some distance behind them, and were now walking along a flat, narrow road, having a thick, hedge-like border of tangled bushes and wild flowers that were agitated by a gentle breeze, and waved out a sweet, faint perfume on the night air. On either side of them were low, grassy marshes, screened by clumps of green. "We are arrived at last," said Agapit, pausing on a rustic bridge that spanned the road; "and down there," he went on, in a choking voice, "is where the bones of my countrymen lie." Vesper leaned over the railing. What a sluggish, silent, stealthy river! He could perceive no flow in its reluctant waters. A few willows, natives, not French ones, swayed above it, and close to its edge grew the tall grasses, rustling and whispering together as if imparting guilty secrets concerning the waters below. "Which way does it go?" murmured Vesper; but Agapit did not hear him, for he was eagerly muttering: "A hateful river,--I never see a bird drink from it, there are no fishes in it, the lilies will not grow here, and the children fall in and are drowned; and, though it has often been sounded, they can find no bottom to it." Vesper stared below in silence, only making an involuntary movement when his companion's cap fell off and struck the face of the dull black mirror presented to them. "Let it go," exclaimed Agapit, with a shudder. "Poor as I am, I would not wear it now. It is tainted," and flinging back the dark locks from his forehead, he turned his face towards the shore. "No, I will talk no more about the Acadiens," he said, when Vesper tried to get him to enter upon his favorite theme, "for, though you are polite, I fear I shall weary you; we will speak of other things." The night was a perfect one, and for an hour the two young men walked up and down the quiet road before the inn, talking at first of the fishing that was over, and the hunting that would in a few weeks begin. Vesper would have enjoyed seeking big game in the backwoods, if his health had permitted, and he listened with suppressed eagerness to Agapit's account of a moose hunt. The world of sport disposed of, their conversation drifted to literature, to science and art in general,--to women and love affairs, and Agapit rambled on excitedly and delightedly, while Vesper, contenting himself with the briefest of rejoinders, extracted an acute and amused interest from the entirely novel and out-of-the-way opinions presented to him. "Ah! but I enjoy this," said Agapit, at last; "it is the fault of my countrymen that they do not read enough and study,--their sole fault. I meet with so few who will discuss, yet I must not detain you. Come in, come in, and I will give you my 'Richard.' Begin not to read him to-night, for you could not sleep. I believe," and he raised his brown, flushed face to the stars above, "that he has done justice to the Acadien people; but remember, we do not complain now. We are faithful to our sovereign and to our country,--as faithful as you are to your Union. The smart of the past is over. We ask only that the world may believe that the Acadiens were loyal and consistent, and that we do not wish for reparation from England except, perhaps--" and he hesitated and looked down at the shabby sleeve of his coat, while tears filled his eyes. "_Mon Dieu!_ I will not speak of the pitiful economies that I am obliged to practise to educate myself. And there are other young men more poor. If the colonial government would give us some help, I would go to college; for now I hesitate lest I should save my money for my family. If the good lands that were taken from us were now ours, we should be rich--" Vesper liked the young Acadien best in his quiet moods. "Don't worry," he said, consolingly; "something will turn up. Get me that book, will you?" Vesper paused for an instant when he entered his room. On a table by his bed was placed a tray, covered by a napkin. Lifting the napkin, he discovered a wing of cold chicken with jelly, thin slices of bread and butter, and a covered pitcher of chocolate. He poured himself out a cup of the chocolate, and murmuring, "Here's to the Lady of the Sleeping Water Inn," seized one of the two volumes that Agapit had given him, and, throwing himself into an easy chair, began to read. One by one the hours slipped away, but he did not move in his chair, except to put out a hand at regular intervals and turn a leaf. Shortly before daybreak a chill wind blew up the Bay, and came floating in the window. He threw down the book, rose slowly to his feet, and looked about him in a dreamy way. He had been transported to a previous century and to another atmosphere than this peaceful one. He shivered sensitively, and, going to the window, closed it, and stood gazing at the faint flush in the sky. "O God! it is true," he muttered, drearily, "we are sent into this world to enact hell. Goethe understood that. And what a hell of long years was enacted on these shores!" "The devils," he went on, in youthful, generous indignation; "they had no pity, not even after years of suffering on the part of their victims." His eyes smarted, his head ached. He put his hand to his eyes, and, when it came away wet, he curled his lip. He had not shed tears since he was a boy. Then he threw himself on his bed, and thoughts of his father mingled with those of the Acadiens. An invincible melancholy took possession of him, and burying his face in his arms, he lay for a long time with his whole frame quivering in emotion. CHAPTER XIII. AN ILLUMINATION. "Sait-on où l'on va?" "What a sleeper, what a lover of his bed!" exclaimed Agapit, the next morning, as he rapped vigorously on Vesper's door. "Is he never going to rise?" "What do you want?" said a voice from within. "I, Agapit, latest and warmest of your friends, apologize for disturbing you, but am forced to ask a question." "Come in; the door is not locked." Agapit thrust his head in. "Did you sit late reading my books?" Vesper lifted his closely cropped curly head from the pillow. "Yes." "And did not your heart stir with pity for the unfortunate Acadiens?" "I found the history interesting." "I wept over it at my first reading,--I gnashed my teeth; but come,--will you not go to the picnic with us? All the Bay is going, as the two former days of it were dull." "I had forgotten it. Does my mother wish to go?" "Madame, your mother, is already prepared. See from your window, she talks to the mail-driver, who never tires of her adorable French. Do you know, this morning he came herding down the road three shy children, who were triplets. She was charmed, having never seen more than twins." Vesper raised himself on his elbow and glanced through the window at Monsieur de la Rive, who, with his bright wings folded close to his sides, was cheeping voluble remarks to Mrs. Nimmo. "All right, I will go," he said. Agapit hurried down-stairs, and Vesper began to dress himself in a leisurely way, stopping frequently to go to the window and gaze dreamily out at the Bay. Soon Rose came to the kitchen door to feed her hens. She looked so lovely, as she stood with her resplendent head in a blaze of sunlight, that Vesper's fingers paused in the act of fastening his necktie, and he stood still to watch her. Presently the mail-driver went streaking down the road in fiery flight, and Mrs. Nimmo, seeing Rose alone, came tripping towards her. To her son, who understood her perfectly, there were visible in Mrs. Nimmo's manner some sure and certain signs of an inward disturbance. Rose, however, perceived nothing, and continued feeding her hens with her usual grace and composure. "Are you not going to the picnic?" asked Mrs. Nimmo, and her eye ran over the simple cotton gown that Rose always wore in the morning. "Yes, madame, but first I do my work." "You will be glad to see your friends there,--and your family?" "Ah, yes, madame,--it is such a pleasure." "I should like to see your sister, Perside." "I will present her, madame; she will be honored." "And it is she that the blacksmith is going to marry? Do you know," and Mrs. Nimmo laughed tremulously, "I have been thinking all the time that it was you." "Now I get at the cause of your discontent," soliloquized Vesper, above, "my poor little mother." Rose surveyed her companion in astonishment: "I thought all the Bay knew." "But I am not the Bay," said Mrs. Nimmo, with attempted playfulness; "I am Boston." A shadow crossed Rose's face. "Yes, madame, I know. I might have told you, but I did not think; and you are delicate,--you would not ask." "No, I am not delicate," said Mrs. Nimmo, honestly. "I am inclined to be curious, or interested in other people, we will say,--I think you are very kind to be making matrimonial plans for other young women, and not to think of yourself." "Madame?" "You do not know that long word. It means pertaining to marriage." "Ah! marriage, I understand that. But, lately, I resolve not to marry," and Rose turned her deep blue eyes, in which there was not a trace of craft or deceit, on her nervously apprehensive interlocutor, while Vesper murmured in the window above, "She is absolutely guileless, my mother; cast out of your mind that vague and formless suspicion." Mrs. Nimmo, however, preferred to keep the suspicion, and not only to keep it, but to foster the stealthy creeping thing until it had taken on the rudiments of organized reflection. "Some young people do not care for marriage," she said, after a long pause. "My son never has." "May the Lord forgive you for that," ejaculated her son, piously. Then he listened for Rose's response, which was given with deep respect and humility. "He is devoted to you, madame. It is pleasant to see a son thus." "He is a dear boy, and it would kill me if he were to leave me. I am glad that you appreciate him, and that he has found this place so interesting. We shall hate to leave here." "Must you go soon, madame?" "Pretty soon, I think; as soon as my son finishes this quest of his. You know it is very quiet here. You like it because it is your home, but we, of course, are accustomed to a different life." "I know that, madame," said Rose, sadly, "and it will seem yet more quiet when we do not see you. I dread the long days." "I daresay we may come back sometime. My son likes to revisit favorite spots, and the strong air of the Bay certainly agrees wonderfully with him. He is sleeping like a baby this morning. I must go now and see if he is up. Thank you for speaking so frankly to me about yourself. Do you know, I believe you agree with me,"--and Mrs. Nimmo leaned confidentially towards her,--"that it is a perfectly wicked thing for a widow to marry again," and she tripped away, folding about her the white shawl she always wore. Rose gazed after her retreating form with a face that was, for a time, wholly mystified. By degrees, her expression became clearer. "Good heavens! she understands," muttered Vesper; "now let us see if there will be any resentment." There was none. A vivid, agonized blush overspread Rose's cheeks. She let the last remnant of food slip to the expectant hens from her two hands, that suddenly went out in a gesture of acute distress; but the glance that she bestowed on Mrs. Nimmo, who was just vanishing around the corner of the house, was one of saintly magnanimity, with not a trace of pride or rebellion in it. Vesper shrugged his shoulders and left the window. "Strange that the best of women will worry each other," and philosophically proceeding with his toilet, he shortly after went down-stairs. After a breakfast that was not scanty, as his breakfasts had been before his illness, but one that was comprehensive and eaten with good appetite, he made his way to the parlor, where his mother was sitting among a number of vivacious Acadiens. Rose, slim and elegant in a new black gown, and having on her head a small straw hat, with a dotted veil drawn neatly over her pink cheeks and mass of light hair, was receiving other young men and women who were arriving, while Agapit, burly, and almost handsome in his Sunday suit of black serge, was bustling about, and, immediately pouncing upon Vesper, introduced him to each member of the party. The young American did not care to talk. He returned to the doorway, and, loitering there, amused himself by comparing the Acadiens who had remained at home with those who had gone out into the world. The latter were dressed more gaily; they had more assurance, and, in nearly every case, less charm of manner than the former. There was Rose's aunt,--white-haired Madame Pitre. She was like a sweet and demure little owl in her hood-like handkerchief and plain gown. Amandine, her daughter who had never left the Bay, was a second little owl; but the sisters Diane and Lucie, factory girls from Worcester, were overdressed birds of paradise, in their rustling silk blouses, big plumed hats, and self-conscious manners. "Here, at last, is the wagon," cried Agapit, running to the door, as a huge, six-seated vehicle, drawn by four horses, appeared. He made haste to assist his friends and relatives into it, then, darting to Vesper, who stood on the veranda, exclaimed, "The most honorable seat beside me is for madame, your mother." "Do you care to go?" asked Vesper, addressing her. "I should like to go to the picnic, but could you not drive me?" "But certainly he can," exclaimed Agapit. "Toochune is in the stable. Possibly this big wagon would be noisy for madame. I will go and harness." "You will do nothing of the kind," said Vesper, laying a detaining hand on his shoulder. "You go on. We will follow." Agapit nodded gaily, and sprang to the box, while Rose bent her flushed face over Narcisse, who set up a sudden wail of despair. "He is coming, my child. Thou knowest he does not break his promises." Narcisse raised his fist as if to strike her; he was in a fury at being restrained, and, although ordinarily a shy child, he was at present utterly regardless of the strangers about him. "Stop, stop, Agapit!" cried Diane; "he will cast himself over the wheel!" Agapit pulled up the horses, and Vesper, hearing the disturbance, and knowing the cause, came sauntering after the wagon, with a broad smile on his face. He became grave, however, when he saw Rose's pained expression. "I think it better not to yield," she said, in a low voice. "Calm thyself, Narcisse, thou shalt not get out." "I will," gasped the child. "You are a bad mother. The Englishman may run away if I leave him. You know he is going." "Let me have him for a minute," said Vesper. "I will talk to him," and, reaching out his arms, he took the child from the blacksmith, who swung him over the side of the wagon. "Come get a drink of water," said the young American, good-humoredly. "Your little face is as red as a turkey-cock's." Narcisse pressed his hot forehead to Vesper's cheek, and meekly allowed himself to be carried into the house. "Now don't be a baby," said Vesper, putting him on the kitchen sink, and holding a glass of water to his lips; "I am coming after you in half an hour." "Will you not run away?" "No," said Vesper, "I will not." Narcisse gave him a searching look. "I believe you; but my mother once said to me that I should have a ball, and she did not give it." "What is it that the Englishman has done to the child?" whispered Madame Pitre to her neighbor, when Vesper brought back the quiet and composed Narcisse and handed him to his mother. "It is like magic." "It is rather that the child needs a father," replied the young Acadienne addressed. "Rose should marry." "I wish the Englishman was poor," muttered Madame Pitre, "and also Acadien; but he does not think of Rose, and Acadiens do not marry out of their race." Vesper watched them out of sight, and then he found that Agapit had spoken truly when he said that all the Bay was going to the picnic. Célina's mother, a brown-faced, vigorous old woman who was to take charge of the inn for the day, was the only person to be seen, and he therefore went himself to the stable and harnessed Toochune to the dog-cart. Célina's mother admiringly watched the dog-cart joining the procession of bicycles, buggies, two-wheeled carts, and big family wagons going down the Bay, and fancied that its occupants must be extremely happy. Mrs. Nimmo, however, was not happy, and nothing distracted her attention from her own teasing thoughts. She listened abstractedly to the merry chatter of French in the air, and gazed disconsolately at the gloriously sunny Bay, where a few distant schooner sails stood up sharp against the sky like the white wings of birds. At last she sighed heavily, and said, in a plaintive voice, "Vesper, are you not getting tired of Sleeping Water?" He flicked his whip at a fly that was torturing Toochune, then said, calmly, "No, I am not." "I never saw you so interested in a place," she observed, with a fretful side glance. "The travelling agents and loquacious peasants never seem to bore you." "But I do not talk to the agents, and I do not find the others loquacious; neither would I call them peasants." "It doesn't matter what you call them. They are all beneath you." Vesper looked meditatively across the Bay at a zigzag, woolly trail of smoke made by a steamer that was going back and forth in a distressed way, as if unable to find the narrow passage that led to the Bay of Fundy. "The Checkertons have gone to the White Mountains," said Mrs. Nimmo, in a vexed tone, as if the thought gave her no pleasure. "I should like to join them there." "Very well, we can leave here to-morrow." Her face brightened. "But your business?" "I can send some one to look after it, or Agapit would attend to it." "And you would not need to come back?" "Not necessarily. I might do so, however." "In the event of some of the LeNoirs being found?" "In the event of my not being able to exist without--the Bay." "Give me the Charles River," said Mrs. Nimmo, hastily. "It is worth fifty Bays." "To me also," said Vesper; "but there is one family here that I should like to transplant to the banks of the Charles." Mrs. Nimmo did not speak until they had passed through long Comeauville and longer Saulnierville, and were entering peaceful Meteghan River with its quietly flowing stream and grassy meadows. Then having partly subdued the first shock of having a horror of such magnitude presented to her, she murmured, "Are you sure that you know your own mind?" "Quite sure, mother," he said, earnestly and affectionately; "but now, as always, my first duty is to you." Tears sprang to her eyes, and ran quietly down her cheeks. "When you lay ill," she said, in a repressed voice, "I sat by you. I prayed to God to spare your life. I vowed that I would do anything to please you, yet, now that you are well, I cannot bear the idea of giving you up to another woman." Vesper looked over his shoulder, then guided Toochune up by one of the gay gardens before the never-ending row of houses in order to allow a hay-wagon to pass them. When they were again in the middle of the road, he said, "I, too, had serious thoughts when I was ill, but you know how difficult it is for me to speak of the things nearest my heart." "I know that you are a good son," she said, passionately. "You would give up the woman of your choice for my sake, but I would not allow it, for it would make you hate me,--I have seen so much trouble in families where mothers have opposed their sons' marriages. It does no good, and then--I do not want you to be a lonely old man when I'm gone." "Mother," he said, protestingly. "How did it happen?" she asked, suddenly composing herself, and dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. Vesper's face grew pale, and, after a short hesitation, he said, dreamily, "I scarcely know. She has become mixed up with my life in an imperceptible way, and there is an inexpressible something about her that I have never found in any other woman." Mrs. Nimmo struggled with a dozen conflicting thoughts. Then she sighed, miserably, "Have you asked her to marry you?" "No." "But you will?" "I do not know," he said, reluctantly. "I have nothing planned. I wish to tell you, to save misunderstandings." "She has some crotchet against marriage,--she told me so this morning. Do you know what it is?" "I can guess." Mrs. Nimmo pondered a minute. "She has fallen in love with you," she said at last, "and because she thinks you will not marry her, she will have no other man." "I think you scarcely understand her. She does not understand herself." Mrs. Nimmo uttered a soft, "Nonsense!" under her breath. "Suppose we drop the matter for a time," said Vesper, in acute sensitiveness. "It is in an incipient state as yet." "I know you better than to suppose that it will remain incipient," said his mother, despairingly. "You never give anything up. But, as you say, we had better not talk any more about it. It has given me a terrible shock, and I will need time to get over it,--I thank you for telling me, however," and she silently directed her attention to the distant red cathedral spire, and the white houses of Meteghan,--the place where the picnic was being held. They caught up with the big wagon just before it reached a large brown building, surrounded by a garden and pleasure-grounds, and situated some distance from the road. This was the convent, and Vesper knew that, within its quiet walls, Rose had received the education that had added to her native grace the gentle _savoir faire_ that reminded him of convent-bred girls that he had met abroad, and that made her seem more like the denizen of a city than the mistress of a little country inn. In front of the convent the road was almost blocked by vehicles. Rows of horses stood with their heads tied to its garden fence, and bicycles by the dozen were ranged in the shadow of its big trees. Across the road from it a green field had been surrounded by a hedge of young spruce trees, and from this enclosure sounds of music and merrymaking could be heard. A continual stream of people kept pouring in at the entrance-gate, without, however, making much diminution in the crowd outside. Agapit requested his passengers to alight, then, accompanied by one of the young men of his party, who took charge of Vesper's horse, he drove to a near stable. Five minutes later he returned, and found his companions drawn up together watching Acadien boys and girls flock into the saloon of a travelling photographer. "There is now no time for picture-taking," he vociferated; "come, let us enter. See, I have tickets," and he proudly marshalled his small army up to the gate, and entered the picnic grounds at their head. They found Vesper and his mother inside. This ecclesiastical fair going on under the convent walls, and almost in the shadow of the red cathedral, reminded them of the fairs of history. Here, as there, no policemen were needed among the throngs of buyers and sellers, who strolled around and around the grassy enclosure, and examined the wares exhibited in verdant booths. Good order was ensured by the presence of several priests, who were greeted with courtesy and reverence by all. Agapit, who was a devout Catholic, stood with his hat in his hand until his own parish priest had passed; then his eyes fell on the essentially modern and central object in the fair grounds,--a huge merry-go-round from Boston, with brightly painted blue seats, to which a load of Acadien children clung in an ecstasy of delight, as they felt themselves being madly whirled through the air. "Let us all ride!" he exclaimed. "Come, showman, give us the next turn." The wheezing, panting engine stopped, and they all mounted, even Madame Pitre, who shivered with delicious apprehension, and Mrs. Nimmo, who whispered in her son's ear, "I never did such a thing before, but in Acadie one must do as the Acadiens do." Vesper sat down beside her, and took the slightly dubious Narcisse on his knee, holding him closely when an expression of fear flitted over his delicate features, and encouraging him to sit upright when at last he became more bold. "Another turn," shouted Agapit, when the music ceased, and they were again stationary. The whistle blew, and they all set out again; but no one wished to attempt a third round, and, giddily stumbling over each other, they dismounted and with laughing remarks wandered to another part of the grounds, where dancing was going on in two spruce arbors. "It is necessary for all to join," he proclaimed, at the top of his voice, but his best persuasions failed to induce either Rose or Vesper to step into the arbors, where two young Acadiens sat perched up in two corners, and gleefully tuned their fiddles. "She will not dance, because she wishes to make herself singular," reflected Mrs. Nimmo, bitterly, and Vesper, who felt the unspoken thought as keenly as if it had been uttered, moved a step nearer Rose, who modestly stood apart from them. Agapit flung down his money,--ten cents apiece for each dance,--and, ordering his associates to choose their partners, signed to the fiddlers to begin. Mrs. Nimmo forgot Rose for a time, as she watched the dancers. The girls were shy and demure; the young men danced lustily, and with great spirit, emphasizing the first note of each bar by a stamp on the floor, and beating a kind of tattoo with one foot, when not taking part in the quadrille. "Do you have only square dances?" she asked Madame Pitre, when a second and a third quadrille were succeeded by a fourth. "Yes," said the Acadienne, gravely. "There is no sin in a quadrille. There is in a waltz." "Come seek the lunch-tables," said Agapit, presently bursting out on them, and mopping his perspiring face with his handkerchief. "Most ambrosial dainties are known to the cooks of this parish." CHAPTER XIV. WITH THE OLD ONES. "The fresh salt breezes mingle with the smell Of clover fields and ripened hay beside; And Nature, musing, happy and serene, Hath here for willing man her sweetest spell." J. F. H. After lunch, the Sleeping Water party separated. The Pitres found some old friends from up the Bay. Agapit wandered away with some young men, and Vesper, lazily declining to saunter with them, stood leaning against a tree behind a bench on which his mother and Rose were seated. The latter received and exchanged numerous greetings with her acquaintances who passed by, sometimes detaining them for an introduction to Mrs. Nimmo, who was making a supreme effort to be gracious and agreeable to the woman that the fates had apparently destined to be her daughter-in-law. Vesper looked on, well pleased. "Why do you not introduce me?" he said, mischievously, while his mother's attention was occupied with two Acadien girls. Rose gave him a troubled glance. She took no pleasure in his presence now,--his mother had spoiled all that, and, although naturally simple and unaffected, she was now tortured by self-consciousness. "I think that you do not care," she said, in a low voice. Vesper did not pursue the subject. "Have all Acadien women gentle manners?" he asked, with a glance at the pair of shy, retiring ones talking to his mother. A far-away look came into Rose's eyes, and she replied, with more composure: "The Abbé Casgrain says--he who wrote 'A Pilgrimage to the Land of Evangeline'--that over all Acadiens hangs a quietness and melancholy that come from the troubles of long ago; but Agapit does not find it so." "What does Agapit say?" "He finds," and Rose drew her slight figure up proudly, "that we are born to good manners. It was the best blood of France that settled Acadie. Did our forefathers come here poor? No, they brought much money. They built fine houses of stone, not wood; Grand Pré was a very fine village. They also built châteaux. Then, after scatteration, we became poor; but can we not keep our good manners?" Vesper was much diverted by the glance with which his mother, having bowed farewell to her new acquaintances, suddenly favored Rose. There was pride in it,--pride in the beauty and distinction of the woman beside her who was scarcely more than a girl; yet there was also in her glance a jealousy and aversion that could not yet be overcome. Time alone could effect this; and smothering a sigh, Vesper lifted his head towards Narcisse, who had crawled from his shoulder to a most uncomfortable seat on the lower limb of a pine-tree, where, however, he professed to be most comfortable, and sat with his head against the rough bark as delightedly as if it were the softest of cushions. "I am quite right," said Narcisse, in English, which language he was learning with astonishing rapidity, and Vesper again turned his attention to the picturesque, constantly changing groups of people. He liked best the brown and wrinkled old faces belonging to farmers and their wives who were enjoying a well-earned holiday. The young men in gray suits, he heard Rose telling his mother, were sailors from up the Bay, whose schooners had arrived just in time for them to throw themselves on their wheels and come to the picnic. The smooth-faced girls in blue, with pink handkerchiefs on their heads, were from a settlement back in the woods. The dark-eyed maidens in sailor hats, who looked like a troop of young Evangelines, were the six demoiselles Aucoin, the daughters of a lawyer in Meteghan, and the tall lady in blue was an Acadienne from New York, who brought her family every summer to her old home on the Bay. "And that tall priest in the distance," said Rose, "is the father in whose parish we are. Once he was a colonel in the army of France." "There is something military in his figure," murmured Mrs. Nimmo. "He was born among the Acadiens in France. They did not need him to ministrate, so when he became a priest he journeyed here," continued Rose, hurriedly, for the piercing eyes of the kindly-faced ecclesiastic had sought out Vesper and his mother, and he was approaching them with an uplifted hat. Rose got up and said, in a fluttering voice, "May I present you, Father La Croix, to Mrs. Nimmo, and also her son?" The priest bowed gracefully, and begged to assure madame and her son that their fame had already preceded them, and that he was deeply grateful to them for honoring his picnic with their presence. "I suppose there are not many English people here to-day," said Mrs. Nimmo, smiling amiably, while Vesper contented himself with a silent bow. Father La Croix gazed about the crowd, now greatly augmented. "As far as I can see, madame, you and your son are the only English that we have the pleasure of entertaining. You are now in the heart of the French district of Clare." "And yet I hear a good deal of English spoken." Father La Croix smiled. "We all understand it, and you see here a good many young people employed in the States, who are home for their holidays." "And I suppose we are the only Protestants here," continued Mrs. Nimmo. "The only ones,--you are also alone in the parish of Sleeping Water. If at any time a sense of isolation should prey upon madame and her son--" He did not finish his sentence except by another smile of infinite amusement, and a slight withdrawal of his firm lips from his set of remarkably white teeth. Rose was disturbed. Vesper noticed that the mention of the word Protestant at any time sent her into a transport of uneasiness. She was terrified lest a word might be said to wound his feelings or those of his mother. "_Monsieur le curé_ is jesting, Madame de Forêt," he said, reassuringly. "He is quite willing that we should remain heretics." Rose's face cleared, and Vesper said to the priest, "Are there any old people here to-day who would be inclined to talk about the early settlers?" "Yes, and they would be flattered,--up behind the lunch-tables is a knot of old men exchanging reminiscences of early days. May I have the pleasure of introducing you to them?" "I shall be gratified if you will do so," and both men lifted their hats to Mrs. Nimmo and Rose, and then disappeared among the crowd. Narcisse immediately demanded to be taken from the tree, and, upon reaching the ground, burst into tears. "Look, my mother,--I did not see before." Rose followed the direction of his pointing finger. He pretended to have just discovered that under the feet of this changeful assemblage were millions of crushed and suffering grass-blades. Rose exchanged a glance with Mrs. Nimmo. This was a stroke of childish diplomacy. He wished to follow Vesper. "Show him something to distract his attention," whispered the elder woman. "I will go talk to Madame Pitre." "See, Narcisse, this little revolver," said Rose, leading him up to a big wheel of fortune, before which a dozen men sat holding numbered sticks in their hands. "When the wheel stops, some men lose, others gain." "I see only the grass-blades," wailed Narcisse. "My mother, does it hurt them to be trampled on?" "No, my child; see, they fly back again. I have even heard that it made them grow." "Let us walk where there is no grass," said Narcisse, passionately, and, drawing her along with him, he went obliviously past the fruit and candy booths, and the spread tables, to a little knoll where sat three old men on rugs. Vesper lay stretched on the grass before them, and, catching sight of Narcisse, who was approaching so boldly, and his mother, who was holding back so shyly, he craved permission from the old men to seat them on one of the rugs. The permission was gladly given, and Rose shook hands with the three old men, whom she knew well. Two of them were brothers, from Meteghan, the other was a cousin, from up the Bay, whom they rarely saw. The brothers were slim, well-made, dapper old men; the cousin was a fat, jolly farmer, dressed in homespun. "I can tell you one of olden times," said this latter, in a thick, syrupy voice, "better dan dat last." "Suppose we have it then," said Vesper. "Dere was Pierre Belliveau,--Pierre aged dwenty-one and a half at de drama of 1755. His fadder was made prisoner. Pierre, he run to de fores' wid four,--firs' Cyprian Gautreau and de tree brudders, Joseph _dit_ Coudgeau, Charlitte _dit_ Le Fort--" "Is that where the husband of Madame de Forêt got his name?" interrupted Vesper, indicating his landlady by a gesture. "Yes," said the old man, "it is a name of long ago,--besides Charlitte was Bonaventure, an' dese five men suffered horrible, mos' horrible, for winter came on, an' dey was all de time hungry w'en dey wasn't eatin', an' dey had to roam by night like dogs, to pick up w'at dey could. But dey live till de spring, an' dey wander like de wile beasties roun' de fores' of Beauséjour, an' dey was well watched by de English. If dey had been shot, dis man would not be talkin' to you, for Bonaventure was my ancessor on my modder's side. On a day w'en dey come to Tintamarre--you know de great ma'sh of Tintamarre?" "No; I never heard of it." "Well, it big ma'sh in Westmoreland County. One day dey come dere, an' dey perceive not far from dem a _goêlette_,--a schooner. De sea was low, an' all de men in de schooner atten' de return of de tide, for dey was high an' dry. Dose five Acadiens look at dat schooner, den dey w'isper,--den dey wander, as perchance, near dat schooner. De cap'en look at dem like a happy wile beas', 'cause he was sent from Port Royal to catch the runawoods. He call out, he invite dose Acadiens, he say, 'Come on, we make you no harm,' an' dey go, meek like sheep; soon de sea mount, de cap'en shout, 'Raise de anchor,' but Pierre said, 'We mus' go ashore.' 'Trow dose Romans in _la cale_,' say dat bad man. _La cale c'est_--" "In the hold," supplied the two other eager old men, in a breath. "Yes, in de hole,--but tink you dey went? No; Charlitte he was big, he had de force of five men, he look at Pierre. Pierre he shout, '_Fesse_, Charlitte,' and Charlitte he snatch a bar from de deck, he bang it on de head of de Englishman an' massacre him. 'Debarrass us of anoder,' cried Pierre. Charlitte he raise his bar again,--an' still anoder, an' tree Englishmen lay on de deck. Only de cap'en remain, an' a sailor very big,--mos' as big as Charlitte. De cap'en was consternate, yet he made a sign of de han'. De sailor jump on Pierre an' try to pitch him in de hole. Tink you Charlitte let him go? No; he runs, he chucks dat sailor in de sea. Den de cap'en falls on his knees. 'Spare me de life an' I will spare you de lives.' 'Spare us de lives!' said Pierre, 'did you spare de lives of dose unhappy ones of Port Royal whom you sen' to exile? No; an' you would carry us to Halifax to de cruel English. Dat is how you spare. Where are our mudders an' fadders, our brudders an' sisters? You carry dem to a way-off shore w'ere dey cry mos' all de time. We shall see dem never. Recommen' your soul to God.' Den after a little he say very low, 'Charlitte _fesse_,' again. An' Charlitte he _fesse_, an' dey brush de han' over de eyes an' lower dat cap'en in de sea. "Den Pierre, who was fine sailor, run de schooner up to Petitcodiac. Later on, de son of Bonaventure come to dis Bay, an' his daughter was my mudder." When the old man finished speaking, a shudder ran over the little group, and Vesper gazed thoughtfully at the lively scene beyond them. This was a dearly bought picnic. These quiet old men, gentle Mrs. Rose, the prattling children, the vivacious young men and women, were all descendants of ancestors who had with tears and blood sought a resting-place for their children. He longed to hear more of their exploits, and he was just about to prefer a request when little Narcisse, who had been listening with parted lips, leaned forward and patted the old man's boot. "Tell Narcisse yet another story with trees in it." The fat old man nodded his head. "I know anodder of a Belliveau, dis one Charles. He was a carpenter an' he made ships from trees. At de great derangement de English hole him prisoner at Port Royal. One of de ships to take away de Acadiens had broke her mas' in a tempes'. Charles he make anodder, and w'en he finish dat mas' he ask his pay. One refuse him dat. Den de mas' will fall,' he say. 'I done someting to it.' De cap'en hurry to give him de price, an' Charlie he say, 'It all right.' W'en dey embark de prisoners dey put Charles on dat schooner. Dey soon leave de war-ship dat go wid dem, but de cap'en of de war-ship he say to de cap'en of de schooner, 'Take care, my fren', you got some good sailors 'mong dose Acadiens.' De cap'en of de schooner laugh. He was like dose trees, Narcisse, dat is rooted so strong dey tink dat no ting can never upset dem. He still let dose Acadiens come on deck,--six, seven at a times, cause de hole pretty foul, an' dey might die. One day, w'en de order was given, 'Go down, you Acadiens, an' come up seven odder,' de firs' lot dey open de hatch, den spring on de bridge. Dey garrotte de cap'en and crew, an' Charles go to turn de schooner. De cap'en call, 'Dat gran' mas' is weak,--you go for to break it.' 'Liar,' shouted Charles, 'dis is I dat make it.' Dose Acadiens mount de River St. John,--I don' know what dey did wid dose English. I hope dey kill 'em," he added, mildly. "Père Baudouin," said Rose, bending forward, "this is an Englishman from Boston." "I know," said the old man; "he is good English, dose were bad." Vesper smiled, and asked him whether he had ever heard of the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pré. The old man considered carefully and consulted with his cousins. Neither of them had ever heard of such a person. There were so many Acadiens, they said, in an explanatory way, so many different bands, so many scattering groups journeying homeward. But they would inquire. "Here comes Father La Croix," said Rose, softly; "will you not ask him to help you?" "You are very kind to be so much interested in this search of mine," said Vesper, in a low voice. Rose's lip trembled, and avoiding his glance, she kept her eyes fixed steadily on the ex-colonel and present priest, who was expressing a courteous hope that Vesper had obtained the information he wished. "Not yet," said Vesper, "though I am greatly indebted to these gentlemen," and he turned to thank the old men. "I know of your mission," said Father La Croix, "and if you will favor me with some details, perhaps I can help you." Vesper walked to and fro on the grass with him for some minutes, and then watched him threading his way in and out among the groups of his parishioners and their guests until at last he mounted the band-stand, and extended his hand over the crowd. He did not utter a word, yet there was almost instantaneous silence. The merry-go-round stopped, the dancers paused, and a hush fell on all present. "My dear people," he said, "it rejoices me to see so many of you here to-day, and to know that you are enjoying yourselves. Let us be thankful to God for the fine weather. I am here to request you to do me a favor. You all have old people in your homes,--you hear them talking of the great expulsion. I wish you to ask these old ones whether they remember a certain Etex LeNoir, called the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pré. He, too, was carried away, but never reached his destination, having died on the ship _Confidence_, but his wife and child probably arrived in Philadelphia. Find out, if you can, the fate of this widow and her child,--whether they died in a foreign land, or whether she succeeded in coming back to Acadie,--and bring the information to me." He descended the steps, and Vesper hastened to thank him warmly for his interest. "It may result in nothing," said the priest, "yet there is an immense amount of information stored up among the Acadiens on this Bay; I do not at all despair of finding this family," and he took a kindly leave of Vesper, after directing him where to find his mother. "But this is terrible," said Rose, trying to restrain the ardent Narcisse, who was dragging her towards his beloved Englishman. "My child, thy mother will be forced to whip thee." Vesper at that moment turned around, and his keen glance sought her out. "Why do you struggle with him?" he asked, coming to meet them. "But I cannot have him tease you." "He does not tease me," and in quiet sympathy Vesper endeavored to restore peace to her troubled mind. She, most beautiful flower of all this show, and most deserving of joy and comfort, had been unhappy and ill at ease ever since they entered the gates. The lingering, furtive glances of several young Acadiens were unheeded by her. Her only thought was to reach her home and be away from this bustle and excitement, and it was his mother who had wrought this change in her; and in sharp regret, Vesper surveyed the little lady, who, apparently in the most amiable of moods, was sitting chatting to an Acadien matron to whom Father La Croix had introduced her. A slight scuffle in a clump of green bushes beside them distracted his attention from her. A pleading exclamation from a manly voice was followed by an eloquent silence, a brisk sound like a slap, or a box on the ears, and a laugh from a girl, with a threatening, "_Tu me paicras ça_" (Thou shalt pay me for that). Vesper laughed too. There was something so irresistibly comical in the man's second exclamation of dismayed surprise. "It is Perside," said Rose, wearily. "How can she be so gay, in so public a place?" "Serves the blacksmith right, for trying to kiss her," said Vesper. "Perside," said Rose, rebukingly, and thrusting her head through the verdant screen, "come and be presented to Mrs. Nimmo." Perside came forward. She was a laughing, piquant beauty, smaller and more self-conscious than Rose. With admirable composure she dismissed her blacksmith-_fiancé_, and followed her sister. Mrs. Nimmo had been receiving a flattering amount of attention, and was holding quite a small court of Acadien women about her. Among them was Rose's stepmother. Vesper had not met her before, and he gazed at her calm, statuesque, almost severe profile, under the dark handkerchief. Her hands, worn by honest toil, and folded in her lap, were unmistakable signs of a long and hard struggle with poverty. Yet her smile was gentleness and sweetness itself, when she returned Vesper's salutation. A poor farm, many cares, many children,--he knew her history, for Rose had told him of her mother's death during Perside's infancy, and the great kindness of the young woman who had married their father and had brought up not only his children, but also the motherless Agapit. With a filial courtesy that won the admiration of the Acadiens, among whom respect for parents is earnestly inculcated, Vesper asked his mother if she wished him to take her home. "If you are quite ready to leave," she replied, getting up and drawing her wrap about her. The Acadien women uttered their regrets that madame should leave so soon. But would she not come to visit them in their own homes? "You are very kind," she said, graciously, "but we leave soon,--possibly in two days," and her inquiring eyes rested on her son, who gravely inclined his head in assent. There was a chorus of farewells and requests that madame would, at some future time, visit the Bay, and Mrs. Nimmo, bowing her acknowledgments, and singling out Perside for a specially approving glance, took her son's arm and was about to move away when he said, "If you do not object, we will take the child with us. He is tired, and is wearing out his mother." Mrs. Nimmo could afford to be magnanimous, as they were so soon to go away, and might possibly shake off all connection with this place. Therefore she favored the pale and suffering Rose with a compassionate glance, and extended an inviting hand to the impetuous boy, who, however, disdained it and ran to Vesper. "But why are they going?" cried Agapit, hurrying up to Rose, as she stood gazing after the retreating Nimmos. "Did you tell them of the fireworks, and the concert, and the French play; also that there would be a moon to return by?" "Madame was weary." "Come thou then with me. I enjoy myself so much. My shirt is wet on my back from the dancing. It is hot like a hay field--what, thou wilt not? Rose, why art thou so dull to-day?" She tried to compose herself, to banish the heartrending look of sorrow from her face, but she was not skilled in the art of concealing her emotions, and the effort was a vain one. "Rose!" said her cousin, in sudden dismay. "Rose--Rose!" "What is the matter with thee?" she asked, alarmed in her turn by his strange agitation. "Hush,--walk aside with me. Now tell me, what is this?" "Narcisse has been a trouble," began Rose, hurriedly; then she calmed herself. "I will not deceive thee,--it is not Narcisse, though he has worried me. Agapit, I wish to go home." "I will send thee; but be quiet, speak not above thy breath. Tell me, has this Englishman--" "The Englishman has done nothing," said Rose, brokenly, "except that in two days he goes back to the world." "And dost thou care? Stop, let me see thy face. Rose, thou art like a sister to me. My poor one, my dear cousin, do not cry. Come, where is thy dignity, thy pride? Remember that Acadien women do not give their hearts; they must be begged." "I remember," she said, resolutely. "I will be strong. Fear not, Agapit, and let us return. The women will be staring." She brushed her hand over her face, then by a determined effort of will summoned back her lost composure, and with a firm, light step rejoined the group that they had just left. "_Mon Dieu!_" muttered Agapit, "my pleasure is gone, and I was lately so happy. I thought of this nightmare, and yet I did not imagine it would come. I might have known,--he is so calm, so cool, so handsome. That kind charms women and men too, for I also love him, yet I must give him up. Rose, my sister, thou must not go home early. I must keep thee here and suffer with thee, for, until the Englishman leaves, thou must be kept from him as a little bunch of tow from a slow fire. Does he already love thee? May the holy saints forbid--yes--no, I cannot tell. He is inscrutable. If he does, I think it not. If he does not, I think it so." CHAPTER XV. THE CAVE OF THE BEARS. "I had found out a sweet green spot, Where a lily was blooming fair; The din of the city disturbed it not; But the spirit that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love was there. "I found that lily's bloom When the day was dark and chill; It smiled like a star in a misty gloom, And it sent abroad a sweet perfume, Which is floating around me still." PERCIVAL. More than twenty miles beyond Sleeping Water is a curious church built of cobblestones. Many years ago, the devoted priest of this parish resolved that his flock must have a new church, and yet how were they to obtain one without money? He pondered over the problem for some time, and at last he arrived at a satisfactory solution. Would his parishioners give time and labor, if he supplied the material for construction? They would,--and he pointed to the stones on the beach. The Bay already supplied them with meat and drink, they were now to obtain a place of worship from it. They worked with a will, and in a short time their church went up like the temple of old, without the aid of alien labor. Vesper, on the day after the picnic, had announced his intention of visiting this church, and Agapit, in unconcealed disapproval and slight vexation, stood watching him clean his wheel, preparatory to setting out on the road down the Bay. He would be sure to overtake Rose, who had shortly before left the inn with Narcisse. She had had a terrible scene with the child relative to the approaching departure of the American, and Agapit himself had advised her to take him to her stepmother. He wished now that he had not done so, he wished that he could prevent Vesper from going after her,--he almost wished that this quiet, imperturbable young man had never come to the Bay. "And yet, why should I do that?" he reflected, penitently. "Does not good come when one works from honest motives, though bad only is at first apparent? Though we suffer now, we may yet be happy," and, casting a long, reluctant look at the taciturn young American, he rose from his comfortable seat and went up-stairs. He was tired, out of sorts, and irresistibly sleepy, having been up all night examining the old documents left by his uncle, the priest, in the hope of finding something relating to the Fiery Frenchman, for he was now as anxious to conclude Vesper's mission to the Bay as he had formerly been to prolong it. With a quiet step he crept past the darkened room where Mrs. Nimmo, after worrying her son by her insistence on doing her own packing, had been obliged to retire, in a high state of irritation, and with a raging headache. He hoped that the poor lady would be able to travel by the morrow; her son would be, there was no doubt of that. How well and strong he seemed now, how immeasurably he had gained in physical well-being since coming to the Bay. "For that we should be thankful," said Agapit, in sincere admiration and regard, as he stood by his window and watched Vesper spinning down the road. "He goes so cool, so careless, like those soldiers who went to battle with a rose between their lips, and I do not dare to warn, to question, lest I bring on what I would keep back. But do thou, my cousin Rose, not linger on the way. It would be better for thee to bite a piece from thy little tongue than to have words with this handsome stranger whom I fear thou lovest. Now to work again, and then, if there is time, half an hour's sleep before supper, for my eyelids flag strangely." Agapit sat down before the table bestrewn with papers, while Vesper went swiftly over the road until he reached the picnic ground of the day before, now restored to its former quietness as a grazing place for cows. Of all the cheerful show there was left only the big merry-go-round, that was being packed in an enormous wagon drawn by four pairs of oxen. "What are you going to do with it?" asked Vesper, springing off his wheel, and addressing the Acadiens at work. "We take it to a parish farther down the Bay, where there is to be yet another picnic," said one of them. "How much did they make yesterday?" pursued Vesper. "Six hundred dollars, and only four hundred the day before, and three the first, for you remember those days were partly rainy." "And some people say that you Acadiens are poor." The man grinned. "There were many people here, many things. This wooden darling," and he pointed to the dismembered merry-go-round, "earned one dollar and twenty cents every five minutes. We need much for our churches," and he jerked his thumb towards the red cathedral. "The plaster falls, it must be restored. Do you go far, sir?" Vesper mentioned his destination. All the Acadiens on the Bay knew him and took a friendly interest in his movements, and the man advised him to take in the Cave of the Bears, that was also a show-place for strangers. "It is three miles farther, where there is a bite in the shore, and the bluff is high. You will know it by two yellow houses, like twins. Descend there, and you will see a troop of ugly bears quite still about a cave. The Indians of this coast say that their great man, Glooscap, in days before the French came, once sat in the cave to rest. Some hungry bears came to eat him, but he stretched out a pine-tree that he carried and they were turned to stone." Vesper thanked him, and went on. When he reached the sudden and picturesque cove in the Bay, his attention was caught, not so much by its beauty, as by the presence of the inn pony, who neighed a joyful welcome, and impatiently jerked back and forth the road-cart to which he was attached. Vesper glanced sharply at the yellow houses. Perhaps Rose was making a call in one of them. Then he stroked the pony, who playfully nipped his coat sleeve, and, after propping his wheel against a stump, ran nimbly down a grassy road, where a goat was soberly feeding among lobster-traps and drawn-up boats. He crossed the strip of sand in the semicircular inlet, and there before him were the bears,--ugly brown rocks with coats of slippery seaweed, their grinning heads turned towards the mouth of a black cavern in the lower part of the bluff, their staring eye-sockets fixed on the dainty woman's figure inside, as if they would fain devour her. Rose sat with her face to the sea, her head against the damp rock wall,--her whole attitude one of abandonment and mournful despair. Vesper began to hurry towards her, but, catching sight of Narcisse, he stopped. The child, with a face convulsed and tear-stained, was angrily seizing stones from the beach to fling them against the most lifelike bear of all,--a grotesque, hideous creature, that appeared to be shouldering his way from the water in order to plunge into the cave. "Dost thou mock me?" exclaimed Narcisse, furiously. "I will strike thee yet again, thou hateful thing. Thou shalt not come on shore to eat my mother and the Englishman," and he dashed a yet larger stone against it. "Narcisse," said Vesper. The child turned quickly. Then his trouble was forgotten, and stumbling and slipping over the seaweed, but at last attaining his goal, he flung his small unhappy self against Vesper's breast. "I love you, I love you,--_gros comme la grange à Pinot_" (as much as Pinot's barn),--"yet my mother carried me away. Take me with you, Mr. Englishman. Narcisse is very sick without you." In maternal alarm Rose sprang up at her child's first shriek. Then she sank back, pale and confused, for Vesper's eye was upon her, although apparently he was engaged only in fondling the little curly head, and in allowing the child to stroke his face and dive into his pockets, to pull out his watch, and indulge in the fond and foolish familiarities permitted to a child by a loving father. "Go to her, Narcisse," said Vesper, presently, and the small boy ran into the cave. "My mother, my mother!" he cried, in an ecstasy; and he wagged his curly head as if he would shake it from his body. "The Englishman returns to you and to me,--he will stay away only a short time. Come, get up, get up. Let us go back to the inn. I am to go no more to my grandmother. Is it not so?" and he anxiously gazed at Vesper, who was slowly approaching. Vesper did not speak, neither did Rose. What was the matter with these grown people that they stared so stupidly at each other? "Have you a headache, Mr. Englishman?" he asked, with abrupt childish anxiety, as he noticed a sudden and unusual wave of color sweeping over his friend's face. "And you, my mother,--why do you hang your head? Give only the Englishman your hand and he will lift you from the rock. He is strong, very strong,--he carries me over the rough places." "Will you give me your hand, Rose?" She started back, with a heart-broken gesture. "But you are imbecile, my darling mother!" cried Narcisse, throwing himself on her in terror. "The Englishman will become angry,--he will leave us. Give him your hand, and let us go from this place," and, resolutely seizing her fluttering fingers in his own soft ones, he directed them to Vesper's strong, true clasp. "Go stone the bears again, Narcisse," said the young man, with a strange quiver in his voice. "I will talk to your mother about going back to the inn. See, she is not well;" for Rose had bowed her weary head on her arm. "Yes, talk to her," said the child, "that is good, and, above all, do not let her hand go. She runs from me sometimes, the little naughty mother," and, with affected roguishness that, however, concealed a certain anxiety, he put his head on one side, and stared affectionately at her as he left the cave. He had gone some distance, and Vesper had already whispered a few words in Rose's ear, when he returned and stared again at them. "Will you tell me only one little story, Mr. Englishman?" "About what, you small bother?" "About bears, big brown bears, not gentle trees." "There was once a sick bear," said the young man, "and he went all about the world, but could not get well until he found a quiet spot, where a gentle lady cured him." "And then--" "The lady had a cub," said Vesper, suddenly catching him in his arms and taking him out to the strip of sand, "a fascinating cub that the bear--I mean the man--adored." Narcisse laughed gleefully, snatched Vesper's cap and set off with it, fell into a pool of water and was rescued, and set to the task of taking off his shoes and stockings and drying them in the sun, while Vesper went back to Rose, who still sat like a person in acute distress of body and mind. "I was sudden,--I startled you," he murmured. She made a dissenting gesture, but did not speak. "Will you look at me, Rose?" he said, softly; "just once." "But I am afraid," fluttered from her pale lips. "When I gaze into your eyes it is hard--" He stood over her in such quiet, breathless sympathy that presently she looked up, thinking he was gone. His glance caught and held hers. She got up, allowed him to take her hands and press them to his lips, and to place on her head the hat that had fallen to the ground. "I will say nothing more now," he murmured, "you are shocked and upset. We had better go home." "Come and be presented to Mrs. Nimmo," suddenly said a saucy, laughing voice. Rose started nervously. Her sister Perside had caught sight of them,--teasing, yet considerate Perside, since she had bestowed only one glance on the lovers, and had then gone sauntering past the mouth of the cave, out to the wide array of black rocks beyond them. She carried a hooked stick over her shoulder, and a tin pail in her hand, and sometimes she looked back at a second girl, similarly equipped, who was running down the grassy road after her. Nothing could have made Rose more quickly recover herself. "It is not the time of perigee,--you will find nothing," she called after Perside; then she added to Vesper, in a low, shy voice, "She seeks lobsters. She danced so much at the picnic that she was too tired to go home, and had to stay here with cousins." "Times and seasons do not matter for some things," returned Perside, gaily, over her shoulder; "one has the fun." Narcisse stopped digging his bare toes in the sand and shrieked, delightedly, "Aunt Perside, aunt Perside, do you know the Englishman returns to my mother and me? He will never leave us, and I am not to go to my grandmother." Then, fearful that his assertions had been too strong, he averted his gaze from the two approaching people, and fixed it on the blazing sun. "Will you promise not to make a scene when I leave to-morrow?" said Vesper. Narcisse blinked at him, his eyes full of spots and wheels and revolving lights. He was silly with joy, and gurgled deep down in his little throat. "Let me kiss your hand, as you kissed my mother's. It is a pretty sight." "Will you be a good boy when I leave to-morrow," said Vesper again. "But why should I cry if you return?" cried the child, excitedly flinging a handful of sand at his boots. "Narcisse will never again be bad," and rolling over and over, and kicking his pink heels in glee, he forced Vesper and Rose to retire to a respectful distance. They stood watching him for some time, and, as they watched, Rose's tortured face grew calm, and a spark of the divine passion animating her lover's face came into her deep blue eyes. She had no right to break the tender, sensitive little heart given so strangely to this stranger. She would forget Agapit and his warnings; she would forget the proud women of her race, who would not wed a stranger, and one of another creed; she would also forget the nervous, jealous mother who would keep her son from all women. "You have asked me for myself," she said, impulsively stretching out her hands to him, "for myself and my child. We are yours." Vesper bent down, and pressed her cool fingers against his burning cheeks. She smiled at him, even laughed gleefully, and passed her hands over his head in a playful caress; then, with her former expression of exaltation and virginal modesty and shyness, she ran up the grassy road, and paused at the top to look back at him, as he toiled up with Narcisse. She was vivacious and merry now,--he had never seen her just so before. In an instant,--a breath,--with her surrender to him, she had seemed to drop her load of care, that usually made her youthful face so grave and sweet beyond her years. He would like to see her cheerful and laughing--thoughtless even; and murmuring endearing epithets under his breath, he assisted her into the cart, placed the reins in her hands, tucked Narcisse in by her side, and, surreptitiously lifting a fold of her dress to his face, murmured, "_Au revoir_, my sweet saint." Then, stroking his mustache to conceal from the yellow houses his proud smile of ownership, he watched the upright pose of the light head, and the contorted appearance of the dark one that was twisted over a little shoulder as long as the cart was in sight. He forgot all about the church, and, going back to the beach, he lay for a long time sunning himself on the sand, and plunged in a delicious reverie. Then, mounting his wheel, he returned to the inn. Agapit was running excitedly to and fro on the veranda. "Come, make haste," he cried, as he caught sight of him in the distance. "Extremely strange things have happened--Let me assist you with that wheel,--a malediction on it, these bicycles go always where one does not expect. There is news of the Fiery Frenchman. I found something, also Father La Croix." "This is interesting," said Vesper, good-naturedly, as he folded his arms, and lounged against one of the veranda posts. "I was delving among my uncle's papers. I had precipitately come on the name of LeNoir,--Etex, the son of Raphael, who was a wealthy _bourgeois_ of Calais, and emigrated to Grand Pré. He was dead when the expulsion came, and of his two sons one, Gabriel LeNoir, escaped up the St. John River, and that Gabriel was my ancestor, and that of Rose; therefore, most astonishingly to me, we are related to this family whom you have sought," and Agapit wound up with a flourish of his hands and his heels. "I am glad of this," said Vesper, in a deeply gratified voice. "But more remains. I was shouting over my discovery, when Father La Croix came. I ran, I descended,--the good man presented his compliments to madame and you. Several of his people went to him this morning. They had questioned the old ones. He wrote what they said, and here it is. See--the son of the murdered Etex was Samson. His mother landed in Philadelphia. In griping poverty the boy grew up. He went to Boston. He joined the Acadiens who marched the five hundred miles through the woods to Acadie. He arrived at the Baie Chaleur, where he married a Comeau. He had many children, but his eldest, Jean, is he in whom you will interest yourself, as in the direct line." "And what of Jean?" asked Vesper, when Agapit stopped to catch his breath. Agapit pointed to the Bay. "He lies over Digby Neck, in the Bay of Fundy, but his only child is on this Bay." "A boy or a girl?" "A devil," cried Agapit, in a burst of grief, "a little devil." CHAPTER XVI. FOR THE HONOR OF THEIR RACE. "Love is the perfect sum Of all delight! I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write." "Why is the descendant of the Fiery Frenchman a devil?" asked Vesper. "Because she has no heart. They have taken from her her race, her religion. Her mother, who had some Indian blood, was also wild. She would not sweep her kitchen floor. She went to sea with her husband, and when she was drowned with him, her sister, who is also gay, took the child." "What do you mean by gay?" "I mean like hawks. They go here and there,--they love the woods. They do not keep neat houses, and yet they are full of strange ambitions. They change their names. They are not so much like the English as we are, yet they pretend to have no French blood. Sometimes I visit them, for the uncle of the child--Claude à Sucre--is worthy, but his wife I detestate. She has no bones of purpose; she is like a flabby sunfish." "Where do they live?" "Up the Bay,--near Bleury." "And do you think there is nothing I can do for this little renegade?" "Nothing?" cried Agapit. "You can do everything. It is the opportunity of your life. You so wise, so generous, so understanding the Acadiens. You have in your power to make born again the whole family through the child. They are superstitious. They will respect the claim of the dead. Come to the garden to talk, for there are strangers approaching." Vesper shivered. He was not altogether happy over the discovery of the lost link connecting him with the far-back tragedy in which his great-grandfather had been involved. However, he suppressed all signs of emotion, and, following Agapit to the lawn, he walked to and fro, listening attentively to the explanations and information showered upon him. When Rose came to the door to ring the supper-bell, both young men paused. She thought they had been speaking of her, and blushed divinely. Agapit, with an alarmed expression, turned to his companion, who smiled quietly, and was just about to address him, when a lad came running up to them. "Agapit, come quickly,--old miser Lefroy is dying, and would make his will. He calls for thee." "Return,--say that I will come," exclaimed Agapit, waving his hand; then he looked at Vesper. "One word only, why does Rose look so strangely?" "Rose has promised to be my wife." Agapit groaned, flung himself away a few steps, then came back. "Say no more to her till you see me. How could you--and yet you do her honor. I cannot blame you," and with a farewell glance, in which there was a curious blending of despair and gratified pride, he ran after the boy. Vesper went up-stairs to his mother, who announced herself no better, and begged only that she might not be disturbed. He accordingly descended to the dining-room and took his place at the table. Rose was quietly moving to and fro with a heightened color. She was glad that Agapit was away,--it was more agreeable to her to have only one lord and master present; yet, sensitively alive to the idiosyncrasies of this new one, she feared that he was disapproving of her unusual number of guests. He, however, nobly suppressed his disapproval, and even talked pleasantly of recent political happenings in his own country with some travelling agents who happened to be some of his own fellow citizens. "Ah, it is a wonderful thing, this love," she said to herself, as she went to the kitchen for a fresh supply of coffee; "it makes one more anxious to please, and to think less of oneself. Mr. Nimmo wishes to aid me,--and yet, though he is so kind, he slightly wrinkles his beautiful eyebrows when I place dishes on the table. He does not like me to serve. He would have me sit by him; some day I shall do so;" and, overcome by the confused bliss of the thought, she retired behind the pantry door, where the curious Célina found her with her face buried in her hands, and in quick, feminine intuition at once guessed her secret. There were many dishes to wash after supper, and Vesper, who was keeping an eye on the kitchen, inwardly applauded Célina, who, instead of running to the door as she usually did to exchange pleasantries with waiting friends and admirers, accomplished her tasks with surprising celerity. In the brief space of three-quarters of an hour she was ready to go out, and after donning a fresh blouse and a clean apron, and coquettishly tying a handkerchief on her head, she went to the lawn, where she would play croquet and gossip with her friends until the stars came out. Vesper left the smokers on the veranda and the chattering women in the parlor, and sauntered through the quiet dining-room and kitchen. Rose was nowhere in sight, but her pet kitten, that followed her from morning till night, was mewing at the door of a small room used as a laundry. Vesper cautiously looked in. The supple young back of his sweetheart was bent over a wash-tub. "Rose," he exclaimed, "what are you doing?" She turned a blushing face over her shoulder. "Only a little washing--a very little. The washerwoman forgot." Vesper walked around the tub. "It was such a pleasure," she stammered. "I did not know that you would wish to talk to me till perhaps later on." Her slender hands gripped a white garment affectionately, and partly lifted it from the soap-suds. Vesper, peering in the tub, discovered that it was one of the white jerseys that he wore bicycling, and, gently taking it from her, he dropped it out of sight in the foam. "But it is of wool,--it will shrink," she said, anxiously. He laughed, dried her white arms on his handkerchief, and begged her to sit down on a bench beside him. She shyly drew back and, pulling down her sleeves, seated herself on a stool opposite. "Rose," he said, seriously, "do you know how to flirt?" Her beautiful lips parted, and she laughed in a gleeful, wholehearted way that reminded him of Narcisse. "I think that it would be possible to learn," she said, demurely. Vesper did not offer to teach her. He fell into an intoxicated silence, and sat musing on this, the purest and sweetest passion of his life. What had she done--this simple Acadien woman--to fill his heart with such profound happiness? A light from the window behind her shone around her flaxen head, and reminded him of the luminous halos surrounding the heads of her favorite saints. Since the ecstatic dreams of boyhood he had experienced nothing like this,--and yet this dream was more extended, more spiritual and less earthly than those, for infinite worlds of happiness now unfolded themselves to his vision, and endless possibilities and responsibilities stretched out before him. This woman's life would be given fearlessly into his hands, and also the life of her child. He, Vesper Nimmo, almost a broken link in humanity's chain, would become once more a part in the glorious whole. Rose, enraptured with this intellectual love-making, sat watching every varying emotion playing over her lover's face. How different he was from Charlitte,--ah, poor Charlitte!--and she shuddered. He was so rough, so careless. He had been like a good-natured bear that wished a plaything. He had not loved her as gently, as tenderly as this man did. "Rose," asked Vesper, suddenly, "what is the matter with Agapit?" "I do not know," she said, and her face grew troubled. "Perhaps he is angry that I have told a story, for I said I would not marry." "Why should he not wish you to marry?" Again she said that she did not know. "Will you marry me in six weeks?" "I will marry when you wish," she replied, with dignity, "yet I beg you to think well of it. My little boy is in his bed, and when I no longer see him, I doubt. There are so few things that I know. If I go to your dear country, that you love so much, you may drop your head in shame,--notwithstanding what you have said, I give you up if you wish." "Womanlike, you must inject a drop of bitterness into the only full cup of happiness ever lifted to your lips. Let us suppose, however, that you are right. My people are certainly not as your people. Shall we part now,--shall I go away to-morrow, and never see you again?" Rose stared blindly at him. "Are you willing for me to go?" he asked, quietly. His motive in suggesting the parting was the not unworthy one of a lover who longs for an open expression of affection from one dear to him, yet he was shocked at the signs of Rose's suppressed passion and inarticulate terror. She did not start from her seat, she did not throw herself in his inviting arms, and beg him to stay with her. No; the terrified blue eyes were lowered meekly to the floor, and, in scarcely audible accents, she murmured, "What seems right to you must be done." "Rose,--I shall never leave you." "I feel that I have reached up to heaven, and plucked out a very bright star," she stammered, with white lips, "and yet here it is," and trying to conceal her agony, she opened her clenched and quivering hand, as if to restore something to him. He went down on his knees before her. "You are a princess among your people, Rose. Keep the star,--it is but a poor ornament for you," and seizing her suffering hands, he clasped them to his breast. "Listen, till I tell you my reasons for not leaving the woman who has given me my life and inspired me with hope for the future." Rose listened, and grew pale at his eloquent words, and still more eloquent pauses. After some time, a gentle, melancholy smile came creeping to her face; a smile that seemed to reflect past suffering rather than present joy. "It is like pain," she said, and she timidly laid a finger on his dark head, "this great joy. I have had so many terrors,--I have loved you so long, I find, and I thought you would die." Vesper felt that his veins had been filled with some glowing elixir of earthly and heavenly delight. How adorable she was,--how unique, with her modesty, her shyness, her restrained eagerness. Surely he had found the one peerless woman in the world. "Talk to me more about yourself and your feelings," he entreated. "I have longed to tell you," she murmured, "that you have taught me what it is,--this love; and also that one does not make it, for it is life or death, and therefore can only come from the Lord. When you speak, your words are so agreeable that they are like rain on dusty ground. I feel that you are quite admirable," and, interrupting herself, she bent over to gently kiss his cheek as he still knelt before her. "Continue, Rose," he said, shutting his eyes in an ecstasy. "I speak freely," she said, "because I feel that I can trust you without fear, and always, always love and serve you till you are quite, quite old. I also understand you. Formerly I did not. You say that I am like a princess. Ah, not so much as you. You are altogether like a prince. You had the air of being contented; I did not know your thoughts. Now I can look into your beautiful white soul. You hide nothing from me. No, do not put your face down. You are a very, very good man. I do not think that there can be any one so good." Vesper looked up, and laid a finger across the sweet, praising mouth. "Let us talk of your mother," said Rose. "Since I love you, I love her more; but she does not like me equally." "But she will, my ingenuous darling. I have talked to her twice. She is quite reconciled, but it will take time for her to act a mother's part. You will have patience?" Rose wrinkled her delicate brows. "I put myself in her place,--ah, how hard for her! Let me fancy you my son. How could I give you up? And yet it would be wrong for her to take you from one who can make you more happy; is it not so?" Vesper sprang to his feet. "Yes, Rose; it is you and I against the world,--one heart, one soul; it is wonderful, and a great mystery," and clasping his hands behind him, he walked to and fro along the narrow room. Rose, with a transfigured face, watched him, and hung on every word falling from his lips, as he spoke of his plans for the future, his disappointed hopes and broken aspirations of the past. It did not occur to either of them, so absorbed were they with each other, to glance at the small window overlooking the dooryard, where an eager face came and went at intervals. Sometimes the face was angry; sometimes sorrowful. Sometimes a clenched fist was raised between it and the glass as if at an imaginary enemy. The unfortunate watcher, in great perplexity of mind, was going through every gesture in the pantomime of distress. The lovers, unmindful of him, continued their conversation, and the suffering Agapit continued to suffer. Vesper talked and walked on, occasionally stopping to listen to a remark from Rose, or to bend over her in an adoring, respectful attitude while he bestowed a caress or received a shy and affectionate one from her. "It is sinful,--I should interrupt," groaned Agapit, "yet it would be cruel. They are in paradise. Ah, dear blessed Virgin,--mother of suffering hearts,--have pity on them, for they are both noble, both good;" and he dashed his hand across his eyes to hide the sight of the beautiful head held as tenderly between the hands of the handsome stranger as if it were indeed a fragile, full-blown rose. "They take leave," he muttered; "I will look no more,--it is a sacrilege," and he rushed into the house by another door. The croquet players called to him from the lawn. He could hear the click of the balls and the merry voices as he passed, but he paid no heed to them. Only in the dining-room did he stay his hasty steps. There, in front of the picture of Rose's husband, he paused with uplifted arm. "Scoundrel!" he muttered, furiously; then striking his fist through the glass, he shattered the portrait, from the small twinkling eyes to its good-natured, sensuous mouth. CHAPTER XVII. THE SUBLIMEST THING IN THE WORLD. "Ah, tragedy of lusty life! How oft Some high emprise a soul divinely grips, But as it crests, fate's undertow despoils!" THEODORE H. RAND. Mrs. Nimmo was better the next morning, and, rising betimes, gave her son an early audience in her room. "You need not tell me anything," she said, with a searching glance at him. "It is all arranged between you and the Acadien woman. I know,--you cannot stave off these things. I will be good, Vesper, only give me time,--give me time, and let us have no explanations. You can tell her that you have not spoken to me, and she will not expect me to gush." Her voice died away in a pitiful quaver, and Vesper quietly, but with intense affection, kissed the cold cheek she offered him. "Go away," she said, pushing him from her, "or I shall break down, and I want my strength for the journey." Vesper went down-stairs, his eyes running before him for the sweet presence of Rose. She was not in the dining-room, and with suppressed disappointment he looked curiously at Célina, who was red-eyed and doleful, and requested her to take his mother's breakfast up-stairs. Then, with a disagreeable premonition of trouble, he turned his attention to Agapit, whose face had turned a sickly yellow and who was toying abstractedly with his food. He appeared to be ill, and, refusing to talk, waited silently for Vesper to finish his breakfast. "Will you come to the smoking-room?" he then said; and being answered by a silent nod, he preceded Vesper to that room and carefully closed the door. "Now give me your hand," he said, tragically, "for I am going to make you angry, and perhaps you will never again clasp mine in friendship." "Get out," said Vesper, peevishly. "I detest melodrama,--and say quickly what you have to say. We have only an hour before the train leaves." "My speech can be made in a short time," said Agapit, solemnly. "Your farewell of Sleeping Water to-day must be eternal." "Don't be a fool, Agapit, but go look for a rope for my mother's trunk; she has lost the straps." "If I found a rope it would be to hang myself," said Agapit, desperately. "Never was I so unhappy, never, never." "What is wrong with you?" "I am desolated over your engagement to my cousin. We thank you for the honor, but we decline it." "Indeed! as the engagement does not include you, I must own that I will take my dismissal only from your cousin." "Look at me,--do I seem like one in play? God knows I do not wish to torment you. All night I walked my floor, and Rose,--unhappy Rose! I shudder when I think how she passed the black hours after my cruel revealings." "What have you said to Rose?" asked Vesper, in a fury. "You forget that she now belongs to me." "She belongs to no one but our Lord," said Agapit, in an agony. "You cannot have her, though the thought makes my heart bleed for you." Vesper's face flushed. "If you will let it stop bleeding long enough to be coherent, I shall be obliged to you." "Oh, do not be angry with me,--let me tell you now that I love you for your kindness to my people. You came among us,--you, an Englishman. You did not despise us. You offer my cousin your hand, and it breaks our hearts to refuse it, but she cannot marry you. She sends you that message,--'You must go away and forget me. Marry another woman if you so care. I must give you up.' These are her words as she stood pale and cold." Vesper seated himself on the edge of the big table in the centre of the room. Very deliberately he took out his watch and laid it beside him. So intense was the stillness of the room, so nervously sensitive and unstrung was Agapit by his night's vigil, that he started at the rattling of the chain on the polished surface. "I give you five minutes," said Vesper, "to explain your attitude towards your cousin, on the subject of her marriage. As I understand the matter, you were an orphan brought up by her father. Of late years you arrogate the place of a brother. Your decisions are supreme. You announce now that she is not to marry. You have some little knowledge of me. Do you fancy that I will be put off by any of your trumpery fancies?" "No, no," said Agapit, wildly. "I know you better,--you have a will of steel. But can you not trust me? I say an impediment exists. It is like a mountain. You cannot get over it, you cannot get around it; it would pain you to know, and I cannot tell it. Go quietly away therefore." Vesper was excessively angry. With his love for Rose had grown a certain jealousy of Agapit, whose influence over her had been unbounded. Yet he controlled himself, and said, coldly, "There are other ways of getting past a mountain." "By flying?" said Agapit, eagerly. "No,--tunnelling. Tell me now how long this obstacle has existed?" "It would be more agreeable to me not to answer questions." "I daresay, but I shall stay here until you do." "Then, it is one year," said Agapit, reluctantly. "It has, therefore, not arisen since I came?" "Oh, no, a thousand times no." "It is a question of religion?" "No, it is not," said Agapit, indignantly; "we are not in the Middle Ages." "It seems to me that we are; does Rose's priest know?" "Yes, but not through her." "Through you,--at confession?" "Yes, but he would die rather than break the seal of confession." "Of course. Does any one here but you know?" "Oh, no, no; only myself, and Rose's uncle, and one other." "It has something to do with her first marriage," said Vesper, sharply. "Did she promise her husband not to marry again?" Agapit would not answer him. "You are putting me off with some silly bugbear," said Vesper, contemptuously. "A bugbear! holy mother of angels, it is a question of the honor of our race. But for that, I would tell you." "You do not wish her to marry me because I am an American." "I would be proud to have her marry an American," said Agapit, vehemently. "I shall not waste more time on you," said Vesper, disdainfully. "Rose will explain." "You must not go to her," said Agapit, blocking his way. "She is in a strange state. I fear for her reason." "You do," muttered Vesper, "and you try to keep me from her?" Agapit stood obstinately pressing his back against the door. "You want her for yourself," said Vesper, suddenly striking him a smart blow across the face. The Acadien sprang forward, his burly frame trembled, his hot breath enveloped Vesper's face as he stood angrily regarding him. Then he turned on his heel, and pressed his handkerchief to his bleeding lips. "I will not strike you," he mumbled, "for you do not understand. I, too, have loved and been unhappy." The glance that he threw over his shoulder was so humble, so forgiving, that Vesper's heart was touched. "I ask your pardon, Agapit,--you have worried me out of my senses," and he warmly clasped the hand that the Acadien extended to him. "Come," said Agapit, with an adorable smile. "Follow me. You have a generous heart. You shall see your Rose." Agapit knocked softly at his cousin's door, then, on receiving permission, entered with a reverent step. Vesper had never been in this little white chamber before. One comprehensive glance he bestowed on it, then his eyes came back to Rose, who had, he knew without being told, spent the whole night on her knees before the niche in the wall, where stood a pale statuette of the Virgin. This was a Rose he did not know, and one whose frozen beauty struck a deadly chill to his heart. He had lost her,--he knew it before she opened her lips. She seemed not older, but younger. The look on her face he had seen on the faces of dead children; the blood had been frightened from her very lips. What was it that had given her this deadly shock? He was more than ever determined to know, and, subduing every emotion but that of stern curiosity, he stood expectant. "You insisted on an adieu," she murmured, painfully. "I am coming back in a week," said Vesper, stubbornly. The hand that held her prayer-book trembled. "You have told him that he must not return?" and she turned to Agapit, and lifted her flaxen eyebrows, that seemed almost dark against the unearthly pallor of her skin. "Yes," he said, with a gusty sigh. "I have told him, but he does not heed me." "It is for the honor of our race," she said to Vesper. "Rose," he said, keenly, "do you think I will give you up?" Her white lips quivered. "You must go; it is wrong for me even to see you." Vesper stared at Agapit, and seeing that he was determined not to leave the room, he turned his back squarely on him. "Rose," he said, in a low voice, "Rose." The saint died in her, the woman awoke. Little by little the color crept back to her face. Her ears, her lips, her cheeks, and brow were suffused with the faint, delicate hue of the flower whose name she bore. A passionate light sprang into her blue eyes. "Agapit," she murmured, "Agapit," yet her glance did not leave Vesper's face, "can we not tell him?" [Illustration: "'AGAPIT,' SHE MURMURED, 'CAN WE NOT TELL HIM?'"] "Shall we be unfaithful to our race?" said her cousin, inexorably. "What is our race?" she asked, wildly. "There are the Acadiens, there are also the Americans,--the one Lord makes all. Agapit, permit that we tell him." "Think of your oath, Rose." "My oath--my oath--and did I not also swear to love him? I told him only yesterday, and now I must give him up forever, and cause him pain. Agapit, you shall tell him. He must not go away angry. Ah, my cousin, my cousin," and, evading Vesper, she stretched out the prayer-book, "by our holy religion, I beg that you have pity. Tell him, tell him,--I shall never see him again. It will kill me if he goes angry from me." There were tears of agony in her eyes, and Agapit faltered as he surveyed her. "We are to be alone here all the years," she said, "you and I. It will be a sin even to think of the past. Let us have no thought to start with as sad as this, that we let one so dear go out in the world blaming us." "Well, then," said Agapit, sullenly, "I surrender. Tell you this stranger; let him have part in an unusual shame of our people." "I tell him!" and she drew back, hurt and startled. "No, Agapit, that confession comes better from thee. Adieu, adieu," and she turned, in a paroxysm of tenderness, to Vesper, and in her anguish burst into her native language. "After this minute, I must put thee far from my thoughts,--thou, so good, so kind, that I had hoped to walk with through life. But purgatory does not last forever; the blessed saints also suffered. After we die, perhaps--" and she buried her face in her hands, and wept violently. "But do not thou remember," she said at last, checking her tears. "Go out into the world and find another, better wife. I release thee, go, go--" Vesper said nothing, but he gave Agapit a terrible glance, and that young man, although biting his lip and scowling fiercely, discreetly stepped into the hall. For half a minute Rose lay unresistingly in Vesper's arms, then she gently forced him from the room, and with a low and bitter cry, "For this I must atone," she opened her prayer-book, and again dropped on her knees. Once more the two young men found themselves in the smoking-room. "Now, what is it?" asked Vesper, sternly. Agapit hung his head. In accents of deepest shame he murmured, "Charlitte yet lives." "Charlitte--what, Rose's husband?" A miserable nod from Agapit answered his question. "It is rumor," stammered Vesper; "it cannot be. You said that he was dead." "He has been seen,--the miserable man lives with another woman." Vesper had received the worst blow of his life, yet his black eyes fixed themselves steadily on Agapit's face. "What proof have you?" Agapit stumbled through some brief sentences. "An Acadien--Michel Amireau--came home to die. He was a sailor. He had seen Charlitte in New Orleans. He had changed his name, yet Michel knew him, and went to the uncle of Rose, on the Bayou Vermilion. The uncle promised to watch him. That is why he is so kind to Rose, this good uncle, and sends her so much. But Charlitte goes no more to sea, but lives with this woman. He is happy; such a devil should die." Vesper was stunned and bewildered, yet his mind had never worked more clearly. "Does any other person know?" he asked, sharply. "No one; Michel would not tell, and he is dead." Vesper leaned on a chair-back, and convulsively clasped his fingers until every drop of blood seemed to have left them. "Why did he leave Rose?" "Who can tell?" said Agapit, drearily. "Rose is beautiful; this other woman unbeautiful and older, much older. But Charlitte was always gross like a pig,--but good-natured. Rose was too fine, too spiritual. She smiled at him, she did not drink, nor dance, nor laugh loudly. These are the women he likes." "How old is he?" "Not old,--fifty, perhaps. If our Lord would only let him die! But those men live forever. He is strong, very strong." "Would Rose consent to a divorce?" "A divorce! _Mon Dieu_, she is a good Catholic." Vesper sank into a chair and dropped his head on his hand. Hot, rebellious thoughts leaped into his heart. Yesterday he had been so happy; to-day-- "My friend," said Agapit, softly, "do not give way." His words stung Vesper as if they had been an insult. "I am not giving way," he said, fiercely. "I am trying to find a way out of this diabolical scrape." "But surely there is only one road to follow." Vesper said nothing, but his eyes were blazing, and Agapit recoiled from him with a look of terror. "You surely would not influence one who loves you to do anything wrong?" "Rose is mine," said Vesper, grimly. "But she is married to Charlitte." "To a dastardly villain,--she must separate from him." "But she cannot." "She will if I ask her," and Vesper started up, as if he were about to seek her. "Stop but an instant," and Agapit pressed both hands to his forehead with a gesture of bewilderment. "Let me say over some things first to you. Think of what you have done here,--you, so quiet, so strong,--so pretending not to be good, and yet very good. You have led Rose as a grown one leads a child. Before you came I did not revere her as I do at present. She is now so careful, she will not speak even the least of untruths; she wishes to improve herself,--to be more fitted for the company of the blessed in heaven." Vesper made some inarticulate sound in his throat, and Agapit went on hurriedly. "Women are weak, men are imperious; she may, perhaps, do anything you say, but is it not well to think over exactly what one would tell her? She is in trouble now, but soon she will recover and look about her. She will see all the world equally so. There are good priests with sore hearts, also holy women, but they serve God. All the world cannot marry. Marriage, what is it?--a little living together,--a separation. There is also a holy union of hearts. We can live for God, you, and I, and Rose, but for a time is it not best that we do not see each other?" Again Vesper did not reply except by a convulsive movement of his shoulders, and an impatient drumming on the table with his fingers. "Dear young man, whom I so much admire," said Agapit, leaning across towards him, "I have confidence in you. You, who think so much of the honor of your race,--you who shielded the name of your ancestor lest dishonor should come on it, I trust you fully. You will, some day when it seems good to you, find out this child who has cast off her race; and now go,--the door is open, seek Rose if you will. You will say nothing unworthy to her. You know love, the greatest of things, but you also know duty, the sublimest." His voice died away, and Vesper still preserved a dogged silence. At last, however, his struggle with himself was over, and in a harsh, rough voice, utterly unlike his usual one, he looked up and said, "Have we time to catch the train?" "By driving fast," said Agapit, mildly, "we may. Possibly the train is late also." "Make haste then," said Vesper, and he hurried to his mother, whose voice he heard in the hall. Agapit fairly ran to the stable, and as he ran he muttered, "We are all very young,--the old ones say that trouble cuts into the hearts of youth. Let us pray our Lord for old age." CHAPTER XVIII. NARCISSE GOES IN SEARCH OF THE ENGLISHMAN. "L'homme s'agite, Dieu le mène." Mrs. Nimmo was a very unhappy woman. She had never before had a trouble equal to this trouble, and, as she sat at the long window in the bedroom of her absent son, she drearily felt that it was eating the heart and spirit out of her. Vesper was away, and she had refused to share his unhappy wanderings, for she knew that he did not wish her to do so. Very calmly and coldly he had told her that his engagement to Rose à Charlitte was over. He assigned no cause for it, and Mrs. Nimmo, in her desperation, earnestly wished that he had never heard of the Acadiens, that Rose à Charlitte had never been born, and that the little peninsula of Nova Scotia had never been traced on the surface of the globe. It was a lovely evening of late summer. The square in which she lived was cool and quiet, for very few of its inhabitants had come back from their summer excursions. Away in the distance, beyond the leafy common, she could hear the subdued roar of the city, but on the brick pavements about her there was scarcely a footfall. The window at which she sat faced the south. In winter her son's room was flooded with sunlight, but in summer the branching elm outside put forth a kindly screen of leaves to shield it from the too oppressive heat. Her glance wandered between the delicate lace curtains, swaying to and fro, to this old elm that seemed a member of her family. How much her son loved it,--and with an indulgent thought of Vesper's passion for the natives of the outdoor world, a disagreeable recollection of the Acadien woman's child leaped into her mind. How absurdly fond of trees and flowers he had been, and what a fanciful, unnatural child he was, altogether. She had never liked him, and he had never liked her, and she wrinkled her brows at the distasteful remembrance of him. A knock at the half-open door distracted her attention, and, languidly turning her head, she said, "What is it, Henry?" "It's a young woman, Mis' Nimmo," replied that ever alert and demure colored boy, "what sometimes brings you photographs. She come in a hack with a girl." "Let her come up. She may leave the girl below." "I guess that girl ain't a girl, Mis' Nimmo,--she looks mighty like a boy. She's the symbol of the little feller in the French place I took you to." Mrs. Nimmo gave him a rebuking glance. "Let the girl remain down-stairs." "Madame," said a sudden voice, "this is now Boston,--where is the Englishman?" Mrs. Nimmo started from her chair. Here was the French child himself, standing calmly before her in the twilight, his small body habited in ridiculous and disfiguring girl's clothes, his cropped curly head and white face appearing above an absurd kind of grayish yellow cloak. "Narcisse!" she ejaculated. "Madame," said the faint yet determined little voice, "is the Englishman in his house?" Mrs. Nimmo's glance fell upon Henry, who was standing open-mouthed and grotesque, and with a gesture she sent him from the room. Narcisse, exhausted yet eager, had started on a tour of investigation about the room, holding up with one hand the girl's trappings, which considerably hampered his movements, and clutching something to his breast with the other. He had found the house of the Englishman and his mother, and by sure tokens he recognized his recent presence in this very room. Here were his books, his gloves, his cap, and, best of all, another picture of him; and, with a cry of delight, he dropped on a footstool before a full-length portrait of the man he adored. Here he would rest: his search was ended; and meekly surveying Mrs. Nimmo, he murmured, "Could Narcisse have a glass of milk?" Mrs. Nimmo's emotions at present all seemed to belong to the order of the intense. She had never before been so troubled; she had never before been so bewildered. What did the presence of this child under her roof mean? Was his mother anywhere near? Surely not,--Rose would never clothe her comely child in those shabby garments of the other sex. She turned her puzzled face to the doorway, and found an answer to her questions in the presence of an anxious-faced young woman there, who said, apologetically, "He got away from me; he's been like a wild thing to get here. Do you know him?" "Know him? Yes, I have seen him before." The anxious-faced young woman breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought, maybe, I'd been taken in. I was just closing up the studio, an hour ago, when two men came up the stairs with this little fellow wrapped in an old coat. They said they were from a schooner called the _Nancy Jane_, down at one of the wharves, and they picked up this boy in a drifting boat on the Bay Saint-Mary two days ago. They said he was frightened half out of his senses, and was holding on to that photo in his hand,--show the lady, dear." Narcisse, whose tired head was nodding sleepily on his breast, paid no attention to her request, so she gently withdrew one of his hands from under his cloak and exhibited in it a torn and stained photograph of Vesper. Mrs. Nimmo caught her breath, and attempted to take it from him, but he quickly roused himself, and, placing it beneath him, rolled over on the floor, and, with a farewell glance at the portrait above, fell sound asleep. "He's beat out," said the anxious-faced young woman. "I'm glad I've got him to friends. The sailors were awful glad to get rid of him. They kind of thought he was a French child from Nova Scotia, but they hadn't time to run back with him, for they had to hurry here with their cargo, and then he held on to the photo and said he wanted to be taken to that young man. The sailors saw our address on it, but they sort of misdoubted we wouldn't keep him. However, I thought I'd take him off their hands, for he was frightened to death they would carry him back to their vessel, though I guess they was kind enough to him. I gave them back their coat, and borrowed some things from the woman who takes care of our studio. I forgot to say the boy had only a night-dress on when they found him." Mrs. Nimmo mechanically felt in her pocket for her purse. "They didn't say anything about a woman being with him?" "No, ma'am; he wouldn't talk to them much, but they said it was likely a child's trick of getting in a boat and setting himself loose." "Would you--would you care to keep him until he is sent for?" faltered Mrs. Nimmo. "I--oh, no, I couldn't. I've only a room in a lodging-house. I'd be afraid of something happening to him, for I'm out all day. I offered him something to eat, but he wouldn't take it--oh, thank you, ma'am, I didn't spend all that. I guess I'll have to go. Does he come from down East?" "Yes, he is French. My son visited his house this summer, and used to pet him a good deal." The young woman cast a glance of veiled admiration at the portrait. "And the little one ran away to find him. Quite a story. He's cute, too," and, airily patting Narcisse's curly head, she took her leave of Mrs. Nimmo, and made her way down-stairs. A good many strange happenings came into her daily life in this large city, and this was not one of the strangest. Mrs. Nimmo sat still and stared at Narcisse. Rose had probably not been in the boat with him,--had probably not been drowned. He had apparently run away from home, and the first thing to do was to communicate with his mother, who would be frantic with anxiety about him. She therefore wrote out a telegram to Rose, "Your boy is with me, and safe and well," and ringing for Henry, she bade him send it as quickly as possible. Then she sank again into profound meditation. The child had come to see Vesper. Had she better not let him know about it? If she applied the principles of sound reasoning to the case, she certainly should do so. It might also be politic. Perhaps it would bring him home to her, and, sighing heavily, she wrote another telegram. In the meantime Narcisse did not awake. He lay still, enjoying the heavy slumber of exhaustion and content. He was in the house of his beloved Englishman; all would now be well. He did not know that, after a time, his trustful confidence awoke the mother spirit in the woman watching him. The child for a time was wholly in her care. No other person in this vast city was interested in him. No one cared for him. A strange, long-unknown feeling fluttered about her breast, and memories of her past youth awoke. She had also once been a child. She had been lonely and terrified, and suffered childish agonies not to be revealed until years of maturity. They were mostly agonies about trifles,--still, she had suffered. She pictured to herself the despair and anger of the boy upon finding that Vesper did not return to Sleeping Water as he had promised to do. With his little white face in a snarl, he would enter the boat and set himself adrift, to face sufferings of fright and loneliness of which in his petted childhood he could have had no conception. And yet what courage. She could see that he was exhausted, yet there had been no whining, no complaining; he had attained his object and he was satisfied. He was really like her own boy, and, with a proud, motherly smile, she gazed alternately from the curly head on the carpet to the curly one in the portrait. The external resemblance, too, was indeed remarkable, and now the thought did not displease her, although it had invariably done so in Sleeping Water, when she had heard it frequently and naïvely commented on by the Acadiens. Well, the child had thrown himself on her protection,--he should not repent it; and, summoning a housemaid, she sent her in search of some of Vesper's long-unused clothing, and then together they slipped the disfiguring girl's dress from Narcisse's shapely body, and put on him a long white nightrobe. He drowsily opened his eyes as they were lifting him into Vesper's bed, saw that the photograph was still in his possession, and that a familiar face was bending over him, then, sweetly murmuring "_Bon soir_" (good night), he again slipped into the land of dreams. Several times during the night Mrs. Nimmo stole into her son's room, and drew the white sheet from the black head half buried in the pillow. Once she kissed him, and this time she went back to her bed with a lighter heart, and was soon asleep herself. She was having a prolonged nap the next morning when something caused her suddenly to open her eyes. Just for an instant she fancied herself a happy young wife again, her husband by her side, their adored child paying them an early morning call. Then the dream was over. This was the little foreign boy who was sitting curled up on the foot of her bed, nibbling hungrily at a handful of biscuits. "I came, madame, because those others I do not know," and he pointed towards the floor, to indicate her servants. "Has your son, the Englishman, yet arrived?" "No," she said, gently. "Your skin is white," said Narcisse, approvingly; "that is good; I do not like that man." "But you have seen colored people on the Bay,--you must not dislike Henry. My husband brought him here as a boy to wait on my son. I can never give him up." "He is amiable," said Narcisse, diplomatically. "He gave me these," and he extended his biscuits. They were carrying on their conversation in French, for only with Vesper did Narcisse care to speak English. Perfectly aware, in his acute childish intelligence, that he was, for a time, entirely dependent on "madame," whom, up to this, he had been jealous of, and had positively disliked, he was keeping on her a watchful and roguish eye. Mrs. Nimmo, meanwhile, was interested and amused, but would make no overtures to him. "Is your bed as soft as mine, madame?" he said, politely. "I do not know; I never slept in that one." Narcisse drew a corner of her silk coverlet over his feet. "Narcisse was very sick yesterday." "I do not wonder," said his hostess. "Your son said that he would return, but he did not." "My son has other things to think of, little boy." Mrs. Nimmo's manner was one that would have checked confidences in an ordinary child. It made Narcisse more eager to justify himself. "Why does my mother cry every night?" he asked, suddenly. "How can I tell?" answered Mrs. Nimmo, peevishly. "I hear a noise in the night, like trees in a storm," said Narcisse, tragically, and, drawing himself up, he fetched a tremendous sigh from the pit of his little stomach; "then I put up my hand so,"--and leaning over, he placed three fingers on Mrs. Nimmo's eyelids,--"and my mother's face is quite wet, like leaves in the rain." Mrs. Nimmo did not reply, and he went on with alarming abruptness. "She cries for the Englishman. I also cried, and one night I got out of bed. It was very fine; there was the night sun in the sky,--you know, madame, there is a night sun and a day sun--" "Yes, I know." "I went creeping, creeping to the wharf like a fly on a tree. I was not afraid, for I carried your son in my hand, and he says only babies cry when they are alone." "And then,--" said Mrs. Nimmo. "Oh, the beautiful stone!" cried Narcisse, his volatile fancy attracted by a sparkling ring on Mrs. Nimmo's finger. She sighed, and allowed him to handle it for a moment. "I have just put it on again, little boy. I have been in mourning for the last two years. Tell me about your going to the boat." "There is nothing to tell," said Narcisse; "it was a very little boat." "Whose boat was it?" "The blacksmith's." "How did you get it off from the wharf?" "Like this," and bending over, he began to fumble with the strings of her nightcap, tying and untying until he tickled her throat and made her laugh irresistibly and push him away. "There was no knife," he said, "or I would have cut it." "But you did wrong to take the blacksmith's boat." Narcisse's face flushed, yet he was too happy to become annoyed with her. "When the Englishman is there, I am good, and my mother does not cry. Let him go back with me." "And what shall I do?" Narcisse was plainly embarrassed. At last he said, earnestly, "Remain, madame, with the black man, who will take care of you. When does the Englishman arrive?" "I do not know; run away now, I want to dress." "You have here a fine bathroom," said Narcisse, sauntering across the room to an open door. "When am I to have my bath?" "Does your mother give you one every day?" "Yes, madame, at night, before I go to bed. Do you not know the screen in our room, and the little tub, and the dish with the soap that smells so nice? I must scour myself hard in order to be clean." "I am glad to hear that. I will send a tub to your room." "But I like this, madame." "Come, come," she said, peremptorily, "run away. No one bathes in my tub but myself." Narcisse had a passion for dabbling in water, and he found this dainty bathroom irresistible. "I hate you, madame," he said, flushing angrily, and stamping his foot at her. "I hate you." Mrs. Nimmo looked admiringly past the child at his reflection in her cheval glass. What a beauty he was, as he stood furiously regarding her, his sweet, proud face convulsed, his little body trembling inside his white gown! In his recklessness he had forgotten to be polite to her, and she liked him the better for it. "You are a naughty boy," she said, indulgently. "I cannot have you in my room if you talk like that." Without a word Narcisse went to her dressing-table, picked up his precious photograph that he had left propped against a silver-backed brush, and turned to leave her, when she said, curiously, "Why did you tear that picture if you think so much of it?" Narcisse immediately fell into a state of pitiable confusion, and, hanging his head, remained speechless. "If you will say you are sorry for being rude, I will give you another one," she said, and in a luxury of delight at playing with this little soul, she raised herself on her arm and held out a hand to him. Narcisse drew back his lips at her as if he had been a small dog. "Madame," he faltered, tapping his teeth, "these did it, but I stopped them." "What do you mean?" said Mrs. Nimmo, and a horrible suspicion entered her mind. "Narcisse was hungry--in the boat--" stammered the boy. "He nibbled but a little of the picture. He could not bite the Englishman long." Mrs. Nimmo shuddered. She had never been hungry in her life. "Come here, you poor child. You shall have a bath in my room as soon as I finish. Give me a kiss." Narcisse's sensitive spirit immediately became bathed with light. "Shall I kiss you as your son the Englishman kissed my mother?" "Yes," said Mrs. Nimmo, bravely, and she held out her arms. "But you must not do so," said Narcisse, drawing back. "You must now cry, and hide your face like this,"--and his slender, supple fingers guided her head into a distressed position,--"and when I approach, you must wave your hands." "Did your mother do that?" asked Mrs. Nimmo, eagerly. "Yes,--and your son lifted her hand like this," and Narcisse bent a graceful knee before her. "Did she not throw her arms around his neck and cling to him?" inquired the lady, in an excess of jealous curiosity. "No, she ran from us up the bank." "Your mother is a wicked woman to cause my son pain," said Mrs. Nimmo, in indignant and rapid French. "My mother is not wicked," said Narcisse, vehemently. "I wish to see her. I do not like you." They were on the verge of another disagreement, and Mrs. Nimmo, with a soothing caress, hurried him from the room. What a curious boy he was! And as she dressed herself she sometimes smiled and sometimes frowned at her reflection in the glass, but the light in her eyes was always a happy one, and there was an unusual color in her cheeks. CHAPTER XIX. AN INTERRUPTED MASS. "Here is our dearest theme where skies are blue and brightest, To sing a single song in places that love it best; Freighting the happy breeze when snowy clouds are lightest; Making a song to cease not when the singer is dumb in rest." J. F. H. Away up the Bay, past Sleeping Water and Church Point, past historic Piau's Isle and Belliveau's Cove and the lovely Sissiboo River, past Weymouth and the Barrens, and other villages stretched out along this highroad, between Yarmouth and Digby, is Bleury,--beautiful Bleury, which is the final outpost in the long-extended line of Acadien villages. Beyond this, the Bay--what there is of it, for it soon ends this side of Digby--is English. But beautiful Bleury, which rejoices in a high bluff, a richly wooded shore, swelling hills, and an altogether firmer, bolder outlook than flat Sleeping Water, is not wholly French. Some of its inhabitants are English. Here the English tide meets the French tide, and, swelling up the Bay and back in the woods, they overrun the land, and form curious contrasts and results, unknown and unfelt in the purely Acadien districts nearer the sea. In Bleury there is one schoolhouse common to both races, and on a certain afternoon, three weeks after little Narcisse's adventurous voyage in search of the Englishman, the children were tumultuously pouring out from it. Instinctively they formed themselves into four distinct groups. The groups at last resolved themselves into four processions, two going up the road, two down. The French children took one side of the road, the English the other, and each procession kept severely to its own place. Heading the rows of English children who went up the Bay was a red-haired girl of some twelve summers, whose fiery head gleamed like a torch, held at the head of the procession. As far as the coloring of her skin was concerned, and the exquisite shading of her velvety brown eyes, and the shape of her slightly upturned nose, she might have been English. But her eager gestures, her vivacity, her swiftness and lightness of manner, marked her as a stranger and an alien among the English children by whom she was surrounded. This was Bidiane LeNoir, Agapit's little renegade, and just now she was highly indignant over a matter of offended pride. A French girl had taken a place above her in a class, and also, secure in the fortress of the schoolroom, had made a detestable face at her. "I hate them,--those Frenchies," she cried, casting a glance of defiance at the Acadien children meekly filing along beyond her. "I sha'n't walk beside 'em. Go on, you ----," and she added an offensive epithet. The dark-faced, shy Acadiens trotted soberly on, swinging their books and lunch-baskets in their hands. They would not go out of their way to seek a quarrel. "Run," said Bidiane, imperiously. The little Acadiens would not run, they preferred to walk, and Bidiane furiously called to her adherents, "Let's sing mass." This was the deepest insult that could be offered to the children across the road. Sometimes in their childish quarrels aprons and jackets were torn, and faces were slapped, but no bodily injury ever equalled in indignity that put upon the Catholic children when their religion was ridiculed. However, they did not retaliate, but their faces became gloomy, and they immediately quickened their steps. "Holler louder," Bidiane exhorted her followers, and she broke into a howling "_Pax vobiscum_," while a boy at her elbow groaned, "_Et cum spiritu tuo_," and the remainder of the children screamed in an irreverent chorus, that ran all up and down the scale, "_Gloria tibi Domine_." The Acadien children fled now, some of them with fingers in their ears, others casting bewildered looks of horror, as if expecting to see the earth open and swallow up their sacrilegious tormentors, who stood shrieking with delight at the success of their efforts to rid themselves of their undesired companions. "Shut up," said Bidiane, suddenly, and at once the laughter was stilled. There was a stranger in their midst. He had come gliding among them on one of the bright shining wheels that went up and down the Bay in such large numbers. Before Bidiane had spoken he had dismounted, and his quick eye was surveying them with a glance like lightning. The children stared silently at him. Ridicule cuts sharply into the heart of a child, and a sound whipping inflicted on every girl and boy present would not have impressed on them the burden of their iniquity as did the fine sarcasm and disdainful amusement with which this handsome stranger regarded them. One by one they dropped away, and Bidiane only remained rooted to the spot by some magic incomprehensible to her. "Your name is Bidiane LeNoir," he said, quietly. "It ain't," she said, doggedly; "it's Biddy Ann Black." "Really,--and there are no LeNoirs about here, nor Corbineaus?" "Down the Bay are LeNoirs and Corbineaus," said the little girl, defiantly; then she burst out with a question, "You ain't the Englishman from Boston?" "I am." "Gosh!" she said, in profound astonishment; then she lowered her eyes, and traced a serpent in the dust with her great toe. All up and down the Bay had flashed the news of this wonderful stranger who had come to Sleeping Water in quest of an heir or heiress to some vast fortune. The heir had been found in the person of herself,--small, red-haired Biddy Ann Black, and it had been firmly believed among her fellow playmates that at any moment the prince might appear in a golden chariot and whisk her away with him to realms of bliss, where she would live in a gorgeous palace and eat cakes and sweetmeats all day long, sailing at intervals in a boat of her own over a bay of transcendent loveliness, in which she would catch codfish as big as whales. This story had been believed until very recently, when it had somewhat died away by reason of the non-appearance of the prince. Now he had arrived, and Bidiane's untrained mind and her little wild beast heart were in a tumult. She felt that he did not approve of her, and she loved and hated him in a breath. He was smooth, and dignified, and sleek, like a priest. He was dark, too, like the French people, and she scowled fiercely. He would see that her cotton gown was soiled; why had she not worn a clean one to-day, and also put on her shoes? Would he really want her to go away with him? She would not do so; and a lump arose in her throat, and with a passionate emotion that she did not understand she gazed across the Bay towards the purple hills of Digby Neck. Vesper, perfectly aware of what was passing in her mind, waited for her to recover herself. "I would like to see your uncle and aunt," he said, at last. "Will you take me to them?" She responded by a gesture in the affirmative, and, still with eyes bent obstinately on the ground, led the way towards a low brown house situated in a hollow between two hills, and surrounded by a grove of tall French poplars, whose ancestors had been nourished by the sweet waters of the Seine. Vesper's time was limited, and he was anxious to gain the confidence of the little maid, if possible, but she would not talk to him. "Do you like cocoanuts?" he said, presently, on seeing in the distance a negro approaching, with a load of this foreign fruit, that he had probably obtained from some schooner. "You bet," said Bidiane, briefly. Vesper stopped the negro, and bought as many nuts at five cents apiece as he and Bidiane could carry. Then, trying to make her smile by balancing one on the saddle of his wheel, he walked slowly beside her. Bidiane solemnly watched him. She would not talk, she would not smile, but she cheerfully dropped her load when one of his cocoanuts rolled in the ditch, and, at the expense of a scratched face from an inquisitive rose-bush that bent over to see what she was doing, she restored it to him. "Your cheek is bleeding," said Vesper. "No odds," she remarked, with Indian-like fortitude, and she preceded him into a grassy dooryard, that was pervaded by a powerful smell of frying doughnuts. Mirabelle Marie, her fat, good-natured young aunt, stood in the kitchen doorway with a fork in her hand, and seeing that the stranger was English, she beamed a joyous, hearty welcome on him. "Good day, sir; you'll stop to supper? That's right. Shove your wheel ag'in that fence, and come right in. Biddy, git the creamer from the well and give the genl'man a glass of milk. You won't?--All right, sir, walk into the settin'-room. What! you'd rather set under the trees? All right. My man's up in the barn, fussin' with a sick cow that's lost her cud. He's puttin' a rind of bacon on her horns. What d'ye say, Biddy?"--this latter in an undertone to the little girl, who was pulling at her dress. "This is the Englishman from Boston--_sakerjé_!" and, dropping her fork, she wiped her hands on her dress and darted out to offer Vesper still more effusive expressions of hospitality. He smiled amiably on her, and presently she returned to the kitchen, silly and distracted in appearance, and telling Bidiane that she felt like a hen with her head cut off. The stranger who was to do so much for them had come. She could have prostrated herself in the dust before him. "Scoot, Biddy, scoot," she exclaimed; "borry meat of some kind. Go to the Maxwells or to the Whites. Tell 'em he's come, and we've got nothin' but fish and salt pork, and they know the English hate that like pizen. And git a junk of butter with only a mite of salt in it. Mine's salted heavy for the market. And skip to the store and ask 'em to score us for a pound of cheese and some fancy crackers." Bidiane ran away, and, as she ran, her ill humor left her, and she felt herself to be a very important personage. Vivaciously and swiftly she exclaimed, "He's come!" to several children whom she met, and with a keen and exquisite sense of pleasure looked back to see them standing open-mouthed in the road, impressed in a most gratifying way by the news communicated. In the meantime Mirabelle Marie began to make frantic and ludicrous preparations to set a superfine meal before the stranger, who was now entitled to a double share of honor. In her extreme haste everything went wrong. She upset her pot of lard; the cat and dog got at her plate of doughnuts, and stole half of them; the hot biscuits that she hastily mixed burnt to a cinder, and the jar of preserved berries that she opened proved to have been employing their leisure time in the cellar by fermenting most viciously. However, she did not lose her temper, and, as she was not a woman to be cast down by trifles, she seated herself in a rocking-chair, fanned herself vigorously with her apron, and laughed spasmodically. Bidiane found her there on her return. The little girl possessed a keener sense of propriety than her careless relative; she was also more moody and variable, and immediately falling into a rage, she conveyed some plain truths to Mirabelle Marie, in inelegant language. The woman continued to laugh, and to stare through the window at Vesper, who sat motionless under the trees. One arm was thrown over the back of his seat, and his handsome head was turned away from the house. "Poor calf," said Mirabelle Marie, "he looks down the Bay; he is a very divil for good looks. Rose à Charlitte is one big fool." "We shall have only slops for supper," said Bidiane, in a fury, and swearing under her breath at her. Mirabelle Marie at this bestirred herself, and tried to evolve a meal from the ruin of her hopes, and the fresh supply of food that her niece had obtained. The little girl meantime found a clean cloth, and spread it on the table. She carefully arranged on it their heavy white dishes and substantial knives and spoons. Then she blew a horn, which made Claude à Sucre, her strapping great uncle, suddenly loom against the horizon, in the direction of the barn. He came to the house, and was about to ask a question, but closed his mouth when he saw the stranger in the yard. "Go change," said Bidiane, pouncing upon him. Claude knew what she meant, and glanced resignedly from his homespun suit to her resolved face. There was no appeal, so he went to his bedroom to don his Sunday garments. He had not without merit gained his nickname of Sugar Claude; for he was, if possible, more easy-going than his wife. Bidiane next attacked her aunt, whose face was the color of fire, from bending over the stove. "Go put on clean duds; these are dirty." "Go yourself, you little cat," said Mirabelle Marie, shaking her mountain of flesh with a good-natured laugh. "I'm going--I ain't as dirty as you, anyway--and take off those sneaks." Mirabelle Marie stuck out one of the flat feet encased in rubber-soled shoes. "My land! if I do, I'll go barefoot." Bidiane subsided and went to the door to look for her two boy cousins. Where were they? She shaded her eyes with her two brown hands, and her gaze swept the land and the water. Where were those boys? Were they back in the pasture, or down by the river, or playing in the barn, or out in the boat? A small schooner beating up the Bay caught her eye. That was Johnny Maxwell's schooner. She knew it by the three-cornered patch on the mainsail. And in Captain Johnny's pockets, when he came from Boston, were always candy, nuts, and raisins,--and the young Maxwells were of a generous disposition, and the whole neighborhood knew it. Her cousins would be on the wharf below the house, awaiting his arrival. Well, they should come to supper first; and, like a bird of prey, she swooped down the road upon her victims, and, catching them firmly by the shoulders, marched them up to the house. CHAPTER XX. WITH THE WATERCROWS. "Her mouth was ever agape, Her ears were ever ajar; If you wanted to find a sweeter fool, You shouldn't have come this far." --_Old Song._ When the meal was at last prepared, and the whole family were assembled in the sitting-room, where the table had been drawn from the kitchen, they took a united view of Vesper's back; then Claude à Sucre was sent to escort him to the house. With a rapturous face Mirabelle Marie surveyed the steaming dish of _soupe à la patate_ (potato soup), the mound of buttered toast, the wedge of tough fried steak, the strips of raw dried codfish, the pink cake, and fancy biscuits. Surely the stranger would be impressed by the magnificence of this display, and she glanced wonderingly at Bidiane, whose eyes were lowered to the floor. The little girl had enjoyed advantages superior to her own, in that she mingled freely in English society, where she herself--Mirabelle Marie--was strangely shunned. Could it be that she was ashamed of this board? Certainly she could never have seen anything much grander; and, swelling with gratified pride and ambition, the mistress of the household seated herself behind her portly teapot, from which vantage-ground she beamed, huge and silly, like a full-grown moon upon the occupants of the table. Her guest was not hungry, apparently, for he scarcely touched the dishes that she pressed upon him. However, he responded so gracefully and with such well-bred composure to her exhortations that he should eat his fill, for there was more in the cellar, that she was far from resenting his lack of appetite. He was certainly a "boss young man;" and as she sat, delicious visions swam through her brain of new implements for the farm, a new barn, perhaps, new furniture for the house, with possibly an organ, a spick and span wagon, and a horse, or even a pair, and the eventual establishment of her two sons in Boston,--the El Dorado of her imagination,--where they would become prosperous merchants, and make heaps of gold for their mother to spend. In her excitement she began to put her food in her mouth with both hands, until reminded that she was flying in the face of English etiquette by a vigorous kick administered under the table by Bidiane. Vesper, with an effort, called back his painful wandering thoughts, which had indeed gone down the Bay, and concentrated them upon this picturesquely untidy family. This was an entirely different establishment from that of the Sleeping Water Inn. Fortunately there was no grossness, no clownishness of behavior, which would have irreparably offended his fastidious taste. They were simply uncultured, scrambling, and even interesting with the background of this old homestead, which was one of the most ancient that he had seen on the Bay, and which had probably been built by some of the early settlers. While he was quietly making his observations, the family finished their meal, and seeing that they were waiting for him to give the signal for leaving the table, he politely rose and stepped behind his chair. Mirabelle Marie scurried to her feet and pushed the table against the wall. Then the whole family sat down in a semicircle facing a large open fireplace heaped high with the accumulated rubbish of the summer, and breathlessly waited for the stranger to tell them of his place of birth, the amount of his fortune, his future expectations and hopes, his intentions with regard to Bidiane, and of various and sundry other matters that might come in during the course of their conversation. Vesper, with his usual objection to having any course of action mapped out for him, sat gazing imperturbably at them. He was really sorry for Mirabelle Marie, who was plainly bursting with eagerness. Her husband was more reserved, yet he, too, was suffering from suppressed curiosity, and timidly and wistfully handled his pipe, that he longed to and yet did not dare to smoke. His two small boys sat dangling their legs from seats that were uncomfortably high for them. They were typical Acadien children,--shy, elusive, and retreating within themselves in the presence of strangers; and if, by chance, Vesper caught a stealthy glance from one of them, the little fellow immediately averted his glossy head, as if afraid that the calm eyes of the stranger might lay bare the inmost secrets of his youthful soul. Bidiane was the most interesting of the group. She was evidently a born manager and the ruling spirit in the household, for he could see that they all stood in awe of her. She must possess some force of will to enable her to subdue her natural eagerness and vivacity, so as to appear sober and reserved. His presence was evidently a constraint to the little red-haired witch, and he could scarcely have understood her character, if Agapit had not supplied him with a key to it. Young as she was, she acutely appreciated the racial differences about her. There were two worlds in her mind,--French and English. The careless predilections of her aunt had become fierce prejudices with her, and, at present, although she was proud to have an Englishman under their roof, she was at the same time tortured by the contrast that she knew he must find between the humble home of her relatives and the more prosperous surroundings of the English people with whom he was accustomed to mingle. "She is a clever little imp," Agapit had said, "and wise beyond her years." Vesper, when his unobtrusive examination of her small resolved face was over, glanced about the low, square room in which they sat. The sun was just leaving it. The family would soon be thinking of going to bed. All around the room were other rooms evidently used as sleeping apartments, for through a half-open door he saw an unmade bed, and he knew, from the construction of the house, that there was no upper story. After a time the silence became oppressive, and Mirabelle Marie, seeing that the stranger would not entertain her, set herself to the task of entertaining him, and with an ingratiating and insinuating smile informed him that the biggest liar on the Bay lived in Bleury. "His name's Bill," she said, "Blowin' Bill Duckfoot, an' the boys git 'round him an' say, 'Give us a yarn.' He says, 'Well, give me a chaw of 'baccy,' then he starts off. 'Onct when I went to sea'--he's never bin off the Bay, you know--'it blowed as hard as it could for ten days. Then it blowed ten times harder. We had to lash the cook to the mast.' 'What did you do when you wanted grub?' says the boys. 'Oh, we unlashed him for awhile,' says Bill. 'One day the schooner cracked from stern to stem. Cap'en and men begun to holler and says we was goin' to the bottom.' 'Cheer up,' says Bill, 'I'll fix a way.' So he got 'em to lash the anchor chains 'roun' the schooner, an' that hold 'em together till they got to Boston, and there was nothin' too good for Bill. It was cousin Duckfoot, an' brother Duckfoot, and good frien' Duckfoot, and lots of treatin'." Vesper in suppressed astonishment surveyed Mirabelle Marie, who, at the conclusion of her story, burst into a fit of such hearty laughter that she seemed to be threatened there and then with a fit of apoplexy. Her face grew purple, tears ran down her cheeks, and through eyes that had become mere slits in her face she looked at Claude, who too was convulsed with amusement, at her two small boys, who giggled behind their hands, and at Bidiane, who only smiled sarcastically. Vesper at once summoned an expression of interest to his face, and Mirabelle Marie, encouraged by it, caught her breath with an explosive sound, wiped the tears from her eyes, and at once continued. "Here's another daisy one. 'Onct,' says Bill, 'all han's was lost 'cept me an' a nigger. I went to the stern as cap'en, and he to the bow as deck-han'. A big wave struck the schooner, and when we righted, wasn't the nigger at stern as cap'en, an' I was at bow as deck-han'!'" While Vesper was waiting for the conclusion of the story, a burst of joyous cachinnation assured him that it had already come. Mirabelle Marie was again rocking herself to and fro in immoderate delight, her head at each dip forward nearly touching her knees, while her husband was slapping his side vigorously. Vesper laughed himself. Truly there were many different orders of mind in the universe. He saw nothing amusing in the reported exploits of the liar Duckfoot. They also would not have brought a smile to the face of his beautiful Rose, yet the Corbineaus, or Watercrows, as they translated their name in order to make themselves appear English, found these stories irresistibly comical. It was a blessing for them that they did so, otherwise the whole realm of humor might be lost to them; and he was going off in a dreamy speculation with regard to their other mental proclivities, when he was roused by another story from his hostess. "Duckfoot is a mason by trade, an' onct he built a chimbley for a woman. 'Make a good draught,' says she. 'You bet,' says he, an' he built his chimbley an' runs away; as he runs he looks back, an' there was the woman's duds that was hangin' by the fire goin' up the chimbley. He had built such a draught that nothin' could stay in the kitchen, so she had to go down on her knees an' beg him to change it." "To beg him to change it," vociferated Claude, and he soundly smacked his unresisting knee. "Oh, Lord, 'ow funny!" and he roared with laughter so stimulating that he forgot his fear of Vesper and Bidiane, and, boldly lighting his pipe, put it between his lips. Mirabelle Marie, whose flow of eloquence it was difficult to check, related several other tales of Duckfoot Bill. Many times, before the railway in this township of Clare had been built, he had told them of his uncle, who had, he said, a magnificent residence in Louisiana, with a park full of valuable animals called skunks. These animals he had never fully described, and they were consequently enveloped in a cloud of admiration and mystery, until a horde of them came with the railroad to the Bay, when the credulous Acadiens learned for themselves what they really were. During the recital of this tale, Bidiane's face went from disapproval to disgust, and at last, diving under the table, she seized a basket and went to work vigorously, as if the occupation of her fingers would ease the perturbation of her mind. Vesper watched her closely. She was picking out the threads of old cotton and woollen garments that had been cut into small pieces. These threads would be washed, laid out on the grass to dry, and then be carded, and spun, and woven over again, according to a thrifty custom of the Acadiens, and made into bedcovers, stockings, and cloth. The child must possess some industry, for this work--"pickings," as it was called--was usually done by the women. In brooding silence the little girl listened to Mirabelle Marie's final tale of Duckfoot Bill, whose wife called out to him, one day, from the yard, that there was a flock of wild geese passing over the house. Without troubling to go out, he merely discharged his gun up the chimney beside which he sat, and the ramrod, carelessly being left in, killed a certain number of geese. "How many do you guess that ramrod run through?" Vesper good-naturedly guessed two. "No,--seven," she shrieked; "they was strung in a row like dried apples," and she burst into fresh peals of laughter, until suddenly plunged into the calmness of despair by a few words from Bidiane, who leaned over and whispered angrily to her. Mirabelle Marie trembled, and gazed at the stranger. Was it true,--did he wish to commend her to a less pleasant place than Bleury for teasing him with these entrancing stories? She could gather nothing from his face; so she entered tremulously into a new subject of conversation, and, pointing to Claude's long legs, assured him that his heavy woollen stockings had been made entirely by Bidiane. "She's smart,--as smart as a steel trap," said the aunt. "She can catch the sheeps, hold 'em down, shear the wool, an' spin it." Bidiane immediately pushed her basket under the table with so fiery and resentful a glance that the unfortunate Mirabelle Marie relapsed into silence. "Have you ever gone to sea?" asked Vesper, of the silently smoking Claude. "Yessir, we mos' all goes to sea when we's young." "Onct he was wrecked," interrupted his wife. "Yessir, I was. Off Arichat we got on a ledge. We thump up an' down. We was all on deck but the cook. The cap'en sends me to the galley for 'im. 'E come up, we go ashore, an' the schooner go to pieces." "Tell him about the mouse," said Bidiane, abruptly. "The mouse?--oh, yess, when I go for the cook I find 'im in the corner, a big stick in his 'and. I dunno 'ow 'e stan'. 'Is stove was upside down, an' there was an awful wariwarie" (racket). "'E seem not to think of danger. ''Ist,' says 'e. 'Don' mek a noise,--I wan' to kill that mouse.'" Vesper laughed at this, and Mirabelle Marie's face cleared. "Tell the Englishman who was the cap'en of yous," she said, impulsively, and she resolutely turned her back on Bidiane's terrific frown. "Well, 'e was smart," said Claude, apologetically. "'E always get on though 'e not know much. One day when 'e fus' wen' to sea 'is wife says, 'All the cap'ens' wives talk about their charts, an' you ain't gut none. I buy one.' So she wen' to Yarmouth, an' buy 'im a chart. She also buy some of that shiny cloth for kitchen table w'at 'as blue scrawly lines like writin' on it. The cap'en leave the nex' mornin' before she was up, an' 'e takes with 'im the oilcloth instid of the chart, an' 'e 'angs it in 'is cabin; 'e didn't know no differ. 'E never could write,--that man. He mek always a pictur of 'is men when 'e wan' to write the fish they ketch. But 'e was smart, very smart. 'E mek also money. Onct 'e was passenger on a schooner that smacks ag'in a steamer in a fog. All 'an's scuttle, 'cause that mek a big scare. They forgit 'im. 'E wake; 'e find 'imself lonely. Was 'e frightful? Oh, no; 'e can't work sails, but 'e steer that schooner to Boston, an' claim salvage." "Tell also the name of the cap'en," said Mirabelle Marie. Claude moved uneasily in his chair, and would not speak. "What was it?" asked Vesper. "It was Crispin," said Mirabelle Marie, solemnly. "Crispin, the brother of Charlitte." Vesper calmly took a cigarette from his pocket, and lighted it. "It is a nice place down the Bay," said Mirabelle Marie, uneasily. "Very nice," responded her guest. "Rose à Charlitte has a good name," she continued, "a very good name." Vesper fingered his cigarette, and gazed blankly at her. "They speak good French there," she said. Her husband and Bidiane stared at her. They had never heard such a sentiment from her lips before. However, they were accustomed to her ways, and they soon got over their surprise. "Do you not speak French?" asked Vesper. Mrs. Watercrow shrugged her shoulders. "It is no good. We are all English about here. How can one be French? Way back, when we went to mass, the priest was always botherin'--'Talk French to your young ones. Don't let them forgit the way the old people talked.' One day I come home and says to my biggest boy, '_Va ramasser des écopeaux_'" (Go pick up some chips). "He snarl at me, 'Do you mean potatoes?' He didn't like it." "Did he not understand you?" asked Vesper. "Naw, naw," said Claude, bitterly. "We 'ave French nebbors, but our young ones don' play with. They don' know French. My wife she speak it w'en we don' want 'em to know w'at we say." "You always like French," said his wife, contemptuously. "I guess you gut somethin' French inside you." Claude, for some reason or other, probably because, usually without an advocate, he now knew that he had one in Vesper, was roused to unusual animation. He snatched his pipe from his mouth and said, warmly, "It's me 'art that's French, an' sometimes it's sore. I speak not much, but I think often we are fools. Do the Eenglish like us? No, only a few come with us; they grin 'cause we put off our French speakin' like an ole coat. A man say to me one day, 'You 'ave nothin'. You do not go to mass, you preten' to be Protestan', w'en you not brought up to it. You big fool, you don' know w'at it is. If you was dyin' to-morrer you'd sen' for the priest.'" Mirabelle Marie opened her eyes wide at her husband's eloquence. He was not yet through. "An' our children, they are silly with it. They donno' w'at they are. All day Sunday they play; sometimes they say cuss words. I say, 'Do it not,' 'an' they ast me w'y. I cannot tell. They are not French, they are not Eenglish. They 'ave no religion. I donno' w'ere they go w'en they die." Mirabelle Marie boldly determined to make confidences to the Englishman in her turn. "The English have loads of money. I wish I could go to Boston. I could make it there,--yes, lots of it." Claude was not to be put down. "I like our own langwidge, oh, yes," he said, sadly. "W'en I was a leetle boy I wen' to school. All was Eenglish. They put in my 'and an Eenglish book. I'd lef my mother, I was stoopid. I thought all the children's teeth was broke, 'cause they spoke so strange. Never will I forgit my firs' day in school. W'y do they teach Eenglish to the French? The words was like fish 'ooks in my flesh." "Would you be willing to send that little girl down the Bay to a French convent?" said Vesper, waving his cigarette towards Bidiane. "We can't pay that," said Mirabelle Marie, eagerly. "But I would." While she was nodding her head complacently over this, the first of the favors to be showered on them, Claude said, slowly, "Down the Bay is like a bad, bad place to my children; they do not wish to go, not even to ride. They go towards Digby. Biddy Ann would not go to the convent,--would she, Biddy?" The little girl threw up her head angrily. "I hate Frenchtown, and that black spider, Agapit LeNoir." Claude's face darkened, and his wife chuckled. Surely now there would be nothing left for the Englishman to do but to transplant them all to Boston. "Would you not go?" asked Vesper, addressing Bidiane. "Not a damn step," said the girl, in a fury, and, violently pushing back her chair, she rushed from the room. If this young man wished to make a French girl of her, he might go on his way. She would have nothing to do with him. And with a rebellious and angry heart at this traitor to his race, as she regarded him, she climbed up a ladder in the kitchen that led to a sure hiding-place under the roof. Her aunt clutched her head in despair. Bidiane would ruin everything. "She's all eaten up to go to Boston," she gasped. "I am not a rich man," said Vesper, coldly. "I don't feel able at present to propose anything further for her than to give her a year or two in a convent." Mirabelle Marie gaped speechlessly at him. In one crashing ruin her new barn, and farming implements, the wagon and horses, and trunks full of fine clothes fell into the abyss of lost hopes. The prince had not the long purse that she supposed he would have. And yet such was her good-nature that, when she recovered from the shock, she regarded him just as kindly and as admiringly as before, and if he had been in the twinkling of an eye reduced to want she would have been the first to relieve him, and give what aid she could. Nothing could destroy her deep-rooted and extravagant admiration for the English race. Her fascinated glance followed him as he got up and sauntered to the open door. "You'll stop all night?" she said, hospitably, shuffling after him. "We have one good bed, with many feathers." He did not hear her, for in a state of extreme boredom, and slight absent-mindedness, he had stepped out under the poplars. "Better leave 'im alone, I guess," said Claude; then he slipped off his coat. "I'll go milk." "An' I'll make up the bed," said his wife; and taking the hairpins out of the switch that Bidiane had made her attach to her own thick lump of hair, she laid it on the shelf by the clock, and allowed her own brown wave to stream freely down her back. Then she unfastened her corsets, which she did not dare to take off, as no woman in Bleury who did not wear that article of dress tightly enfolding her chest and waist was considered to have reached the acme of respectability. However, she could for a time allow them to gape slightly apart, and having by this proceeding added much to her comfort, she entered one of the small rooms near by. Vesper meanwhile walked slowly towards the gate, while Bidiane watched him through a loophole in the roof. His body only was in Bleury; his heart was in Sleeping Water. Step by step he was following Rose about her daily duties. He knew just at what time of day her slender feet carried her to the stable, to the duck-yard, to the hen-house. He knew the exact hour that she entered her kitchen in the morning, and went from it to the pantry. He could see her beautiful face at the cool pantry window, as she stood mixing various dishes, and occasionally glancing at the passers-by on the road. Sometimes she sang gently to herself, "Rose of the cross, thou mystic flower," or "Dear angel ever at my side," or some of the Latin hymns to the Virgin. At this present moment her tasks would all be done. If there were guests who desired her presence, she might be seated with them in the little parlor. If there were none, she was probably alone in her room. Of what was she thinking? The blood surged to his face, there was a beating in his ears, and he raised his suffering glance to the sky. "O God! now I know why I suffered when my father died. It was to prepare me for this." Then his mind went back to Rose. Had she succeeded in driving his image from her pure mind and imagination? Alas! he feared not,--he would like to know. He had heard nothing of her since leaving Sleeping Water. Agapit had written once, but he had not mentioned her. This inaction was horrible,--this place wearied him insufferably. He glanced towards his wheel, and a sentence from one of Agapit's books came into his mind. It contained the advice of an old monk to a penitent, "My son, when in grievous temptation from trouble of the mind, engage violently in some exercise of the body." He was a swift rider, and there was no need for him to linger longer here. These people were painfully subservient. If at any time anything came into his mind to be done for the little girl, they would readily agree to it; that is, if the small tigress concurred; at present there was nothing to be done for her. He laid his hand on his bicycle and went towards the house again. There was no one to be seen, so he hurried up to the rickety barn where Claude sat on a milking-stool, trying to keep his long legs out of the way of a frisky cow. The Frenchman was overcome with stolid dismay when Vesper briefly bade him good-by, and going to the barn door, he stared regretfully after him. Mirabelle Marie, in blissful unconsciousness of the sudden departure, went on with her bed-making, but Bidiane, through the crack in the roof, saw him go, and in childish contradiction of spirit shed tears of anger and disappointment at the sight. CHAPTER XXI. A SUPREME ADIEU. "How reads the riddle of our life, That mortals seek immortal joy, That pleasures here so quickly cloy, And hearts are e'en with yearnings rife? That love's bright morn no midday knows, And darkness comes ere even's close, And fondest hopes bear seeds of strife. "Let fools deride; Faith's God-girt breast Their puny shafts can turn aside, And mock with these their sin-born pride. Our souls were made for God the Best; 'Tis He alone can satisfy Their every want, can still each cry; In Him alone shall they find rest." CORNELIUS O'BRIEN, _Archbishop of Halifax_. The night was one of velvety softness, and the stars, as if suspecting his mission, blinked delicately and discreetly down upon him, while Vesper, who knew every step of the way, went speeding down the Bay with a wildly beating heart. Several Acadiens recognized him as he swept past them on the road, but he did not stop to parley with them, for he wished to reach Yarmouth as soon as possible. His brain was tortured, and it seemed to him that, at every revolution of his wheels, a swift, subtle temptation assaulted him more insidiously and more fiercely. He would pass right by the Sleeping Water Inn. Why should he not pause there for a few minutes and make some arrangement with Rose about Narcisse, who was still in Boston? He certainly had a duty to perform towards the child. Would it not be foolish for him to pass by the mother's door without speaking to her of him? What harm could there be in a conversation of five minutes' duration? His head throbbed, his muscles contracted. Only this afternoon he had been firm, as firm as a rock. He had sternly resolved not to see her again, not to write to her, not to meet her, not to send her a message, unless he should hear that she had been released from the bond of her marriage. What had come over him now? He was as weak as a child. He had better stop and think the matter over; and he sprang from his wheel and threw himself down on a grassy bank, covered with broad leaves that concealed the dead and withered flowers of the summer. Somewhere in the darkness behind him was lonely Piau's Isle, where several of the Acadien forefathers of the Bay lay buried. What courage and powers of endurance they had possessed! They had bravely borne their burdens, lived their day, and were now at rest. Some day,--in a few years, perhaps,--he, too, would be a handful of dust, and he, too, would leave a record behind him; what would his record be? He bit his lip and set his teeth savagely. He was a fool and a coward. He would not go to Sleeping Water, but would immediately turn his back on temptation, and go to Weymouth. He could stay at a hotel there all night, and take the train in the morning. The soft air caressed his weary head; for a long time he lay staring up at the stars through the interlaced branches of an apple-tree over him, then he slowly rose. His face was towards the head of the Bay; he no longer looked towards Sleeping Water, but for a minute he stood irresolutely, and in that brief space of time his good resolution was irrevocably lost. Some girls were going to a merrymaking, and, as they went, they laughed gaily and continuously. One of them had clear, silvery tones like those of Rose. The color again surged to his face, the blood flew madly through his veins. He must see her, if only for an instant; and, hesitating no longer, he turned and went careering swiftly through the darkness. A short time later he had reached the inn. There was a light in Rose's window. She must have gone to bed. Célina only was in the kitchen, and, with a hasty glance at her, he walked to the stable. A terrible quacking in the duck-yard advised him who was there, and he was further assured by hearing an irritable voice exclaim, "If fowls were hatched dumb, there would not be this distracting tumult!" Agapit was after a duck. It fell to his lot to do the killing for the household, and it was so great a trial to his kind heart that, if the other members of the family had due warning, they usually, at such times, shut themselves up to be out of reach of his lamentable outcries when he was confronted by a protesting chicken, an innocent lamb, a tumultuous pig, or a trusting calf. Just now he emerged from the yard, holding a sleepy drake by the wing. "_Miséricorde!_" he exclaimed, when he almost ran into Vesper, "who is it? You--you?" and he peered at him through the darkness. "Yes, it is I." "Confiding fool," said Agapit, impatiently tossing the drake back among his startled comrades, "I will save thy neck once more." Vesper marked the emphasis. "I am on my way to Yarmouth," he said, calmly, "and I have stopped to see your cousin about Narcisse." "Ah!--he is well, I trust." "He is better than when he was here." "His mother has gone to bed." "I will wait, then, until the morning." "Ah!" said Agapit again; then he laughed recklessly and seized Vesper's hand. "I cannot pretend. You see that I am rejoiced to have you again with us." "I, too, am glad to be here." "But you will not stay?" "Oh, no, Agapit--you know me better than that." Vesper's tone was confident, yet Agapit looked anxiously at him through the gathering gloom. "It would be better for Rose not to see you." "Agapit--we are not babies." "No, you are worse,--it is well said that only our Lord loves lovers. No other would have patience." Vesper held his straight figure a little straighter, and his manner warned the young Acadien to be careful of what he said, but he dashed on, "Words are brave; actions are braver." "How is Madame de Forêt?" asked Vesper, shortly. "What do you expect--joyous, riotous health? Reflect only that she has been completely overthrown about her child. I hope that madame, your mother, is well." "She has not been in such good health for years. She is greatly entertained by Narcisse," and Vesper smiled at some reminiscence. "It is one of the most charming of nights," said Agapit, insinuatingly. "Toochune would be glad to have a harness on his back. We could fly over the road to Yarmouth. It would be more agreeable than travelling by day." "Thank you, Agapit--I do not wish to go to-night." "Oh, you self-willed one--you Lucifer!" said Agapit, wildly. "You dare-all, you conquer-all! Take care that you are not trapped." "Come, show me a room," said Vesper, who was secretly gratified with the irrepressible delight of the Acadien in again seeing him,--a delight that could not be conquered by his anxiety. "This evening the house is again full," said Agapit. "Rose is quite wearied; come softly up-stairs. I can give you but the small apartment next her own, but you must not rise early in the morning, and seek an interview with her." Two angry red spots immediately appeared in Vesper's cheeks, and he stared haughtily at him. Agapit snapped his fingers. "I trust you not that much, though if you had not come back, my confidence would have reached to eternity. You are unfortunately too nobly human,--why were you not divine? But I must not reproach. Have I not too been a lover? You are capable of all, even of talking through the wall with your beloved. You should have stayed away, you should have stayed away!" and, grumbling and shaking his head, he ushered his guest up-stairs, and into a tiny and exquisitely clean room, that contained only a bed, a table, a wash-stand, and one chair. Agapit motioned Vesper to the chair, and sprawled himself half over the foot of the bed, half out the open window, while he talked to his companion, whose manner had a new and caressing charm that attracted him even more irresistibly than his former cool and somewhat careless one had done. "Ah, why is life so?" he at last exclaimed, springing up, with a sigh. "Under all is such sadness. Your presence gives such joy. Why should it be denied us?" Vesper stared at his shoes to hide the nervous tears that sprang to his eyes. Agapit immediately averted his sorrowful glance. "You are not angry with me for my free speech?" "Good heavens, no!" said Vesper, irritably turning his back on him, "but I would thank you to leave me." "Good night," said the Acadien, softly. "May the blessed Virgin give you peace. Remember that I love you, for I prophesy that we on the morrow shall quarrel," and with this cheerful assurance he gently closed the door, and went to the next room. Rose threw open the door to him, and Agapit, though he was prepared for any change in her, yet for an instant could not conceal his astonishment. Where was her pallor,--her weariness? Gone, like the mists of the morning before the glory of the sun. Her face was delicately colored, her blue eyes were flooded with the most exquisite and tender light that he had ever seen in them. She had heard her lover's step, and Agapit dejectedly reflected that he should have even more trouble with her than with Vesper. "Surely, I am to see him to-night?" she murmured. "Surely not," growled Agapit. "For what do you wish to see him?" "Agapit,--should not a mother hear of her little one?" "Is it for that only you wish to see him?" "For that,--also for other things. Is he changed, Agapit? Has his face grown more pale?" Agapit broke into vigorous French. "He is more foolish than ever, that I assure thee. Such a simpleton, and thou lovest him!" "If he is a fool, then there are no wise men in the world; but thou art only teasing. Ah, Agapit, dear Agapit," and she clasped her hands, and extended them towards him. "Tell me only what he says of Narcisse." "He is well; he will tell thee in the morning of a plan he has. Go now to bed,--and Rose, to-morrow be sensible, be wise. Thou wert so noteworthy these three weeks ago, what has come to thee now?" "Agapit, thou dost remember thy mother a very little, is it not so?" "Yes, yes." "Thou couldst part from her; but suppose she came back from the dead. Suppose thou couldst hear her voice in the hall, what wouldst thou do?" "I would run to greet her," he said, rashly. "I would be mad with pleasure." "That man was as one dead," she said, with an eloquent gesture towards the next room. "I did not think of seeing him again. How can I cease from joy?" "Give me thy promise," he said, abruptly, "not to see him without me. Otherwise, thou mayst be prowling in the morning, when I oversleep myself, and thou wilt talk about me to this charming stranger." "Agapit," she said, in amazement, "wouldst thou insult me?" "No, little rabbit,--I would only prevent thee from insulting me." "It is like jailorizing. I shall not be a naughty child in a cell." "But thou wilt," he said, with determination. "Give me thy promise." Rose became indignant, and Agapit, who was watching her keenly, stepped inside her room, lest he should be overheard. "Rose," he said, swiftly, and with a deep, indrawn breath, "have I not been a brother to thee?" "Yes, yes,--until now." "Now, most of all,--some day thou wilt feel it. Would I do anything to injure thee? I tell thee thou art like a weak child now. Have I not been in love? Do not I know that for a time one's blood burns, and one is mad?" "But what do you fear?" she asked, proudly, drawing back from him. "I fear nothing, little goose," he exclaimed, catching her by the wrist, "for I take precautions. I have talked to this young man,--do not I also esteem him? I tell thee, as I told him,--he is capable of all, and when thou seest him, a word, a look, and he will insist upon thy leaving thy husband to go with him." "Agapit, I am furious with thee. Would I do a wrong thing?" "Not of thyself; but think, Rose, thou art weak and nervous. Thy strength has been tried; when thou seest thy lover thou wilt be like a silly sheep. Trust me,--when thy father, on his dying bed, pointed to thee, I knew his meaning. Did not I say 'Yes, yes, I will take care of her, for she is beautiful, and men are wicked.'" "But thou didst let me marry Charlitte," she said, with a stifled cry. Agapit was crushed by her accusation. He made a despairing gesture. "I have expected this, but, Rose, I was younger. I did not know the hearts of women. We thought it well,--your stepmother and I. He begged for thee, and we did not dream--young girls sometimes do well to settle. He seemed a wise man--" "Forgive me," cried Rose, wildly, and suddenly pushing him towards the door, "and go away. I will not talk to Mr. Nimmo without thee." "Some day thou wilt thank me," said Agapit. "It is common to reproach those who favor us. Left alone, thou wouldst rise early in the morning,--thy handsome Vesper would whisper in thy ear, and I, rising, might find thee convinced that there is nothing for thee but to submit to the sacrilege of a divorce." Rose was not touched by his wistful tones. Her pretty fingers even assisted him gently from the room, and, philosophically shrugging his shoulders, he went to bed. Rose, left alone, pressed her empty arms and palpitating heart against the bare walls of the next room. "You are good and noble,--you would do nothing wrong. That wicked Agapit, he thinks evil of thee--" and, with other fond and foolish words, she stood mutely caressing the wall until fatigue overpowered her, when she undressed and crept into her lonely bed. Agapit, who possessed a warm heart, an ardent imagination, and a lively regard for the other sex, was at present without a love-affair of his own, and his mind was therefore free to dwell on the troubles of Rose and Vesper. All night long he dreamed of lovers. They haunted him, tortured him with their griefs, misunderstandings, and afflictions, and, rather glad than sorry to awake from his disturbed sleep, he lifted his shaggy head from the pillow early in the morning and, vehemently shaking it, muttered, "The devil himself is in those who make love." Then, with his protective instinct keenly alive, he sprang up and went to the window, where he saw something that made him again mutter a reference to the evil one. His window was directly over that of his cousin, and although it was but daybreak, she was up and dressed, and leaning from it to look at Vesper, who stood on the grass below. They were not carrying on a conversation; she was true to the letter of her promise, but this mute, unspoken dialogue was infinitely more dangerous. Agapit groaned, and surveyed Vesper's glowing face. Who would dream that he, so dignified, would condescend to this? Was it arranged through the wall, or did he walk under her window and think of her until his influence drew her from her bed? "I also have done such things," he muttered; "possibly I may again, therefore I must be merciful." Vesper at this instant caught sight of his dishevelled head. Rose also looked up, and Agapit retreated in dismay at the sound of their stifled but irresistible laughter. "Ah, you do not cry all the time," he ejaculated, in confusion; then he made haste to attire himself and to call for Rose, who demurely went down-stairs with him and greeted Vesper with quiet and loving reserve. The two young men went with her to the kitchen, where she touched a match to the fire. While it was burning she sat down and talked to them, or, rather, they talked to her. The question was what to do with Narcisse. "Madame de Forêt," said Vesper, softly, "I will tell you what I have already told your cousin. I returned home unexpectedly a fortnight ago, having in the interval missed a telegram from my mother, telling me that your boy was in Boston. When I reached my own door, I saw to my surprise the child of--of--" "Of the woman you love," thought Agapit, grimly. "Your child," continued Vesper, in some confusion, "who was kneeling on the pavement before our house. He had dug a hole in the narrow circle of earth left around the tree, and he was thrusting porridge and cream down it, while the sparrows on the branches above watched him with interest. Here in Sleeping Water we had about stopped that feeding of the trees; but my mother, I found, indulged him in everything. He was glad to see me, and I--I had dreaded the solitude of my home, and I quickly discovered that it had been banished by his presence. He has effected a transformation in my mother, and she wishes me to beg you that we may keep him for a time." Agapit had never before heard Vesper speak at such length. He himself was silent, and waited for some expression of opinion from Rose. She turned to him. "You remember what our doctor says when he looks over my little one,--that he is weak, and the air of the Bay is too strong for him?" "The doctors in Boston also say it," responded Vesper. "Mrs. Nimmo has taken him to them." Rose flashed a glance of inexpressible gratitude at Vesper. "You wish him to remain in Boston?" said Agapit. "Yes, yes,--if they will be so kind, and if it is right that we allow that they keep him for a time." Agapit reflected a minute. Could Rose endure the double blow of a separation from her child and from her lover? Yes, he knew her well enough to understand that, although her mother heart and her woman's heart would be torn, she would, after the first sharp pang was over, cheerfully endure any torture in order to contribute to the welfare of the two beings that she loved best on earth. Narcisse would be benefited physically by the separation, Vesper would be benefited mentally. He knew, in addition, that a haunting dread of Charlitte possessed her. Although he was a fickle, unfaithful man, the paternal instinct might some day awake in him, and he would return and demand his child. Agapit would not himself be surprised to see him reappear at any time in Sleeping Water, therefore he said, shortly, "It is a good plan." "We can at least try it," said Vesper. "I will report how it works." "And while he is with you, you will have some instruction in his own religion given him?" said Rose, timidly. "You need not mention that," said Vesper; "it goes without saying." Rose took a crucifix from her breast and handed it to him. "You will give him that from his mother," she said, with trembling lips. Vesper held it in his hand for a minute, then he silently put it in his pocket. There was a long pause, broken at last by Agapit, who said, "Will you get the breakfast, Rose? Mr. Nimmo assured me that he wished to start at once. Is it not so?" "Yes," said Vesper, shortly. Rose got up and went to the pantry. "Will you put the things on this table?" said Vesper. "And will not you and Agapit have breakfast with me?" Rose nodded her head, and, with a breaking heart, she went to and fro, her feet touching the hardwood floor and the rugs as noiselessly as if there had been a death in the house. The two young men sat and stared at the stove or out the windows. Agapit was anathematizing Vesper for returning to settle a matter that could have been arranged by writing, and Vesper was alternately in a dumb fury with Agapit for not leaving him alone with Rose, or in a state of extravagant laudation because he did not do so. What a watch-dog he was,--what a sure guardian to leave over his beautiful sweetheart! Dispirited and without appetite, the three at last assembled around the table. Rose choked over every morsel that she ate, until, unable longer to endure the trial, she left the table, and contented herself with waiting upon them. Vesper was famished, having eaten so little the evening before, yet he turned away from the toast and coffee and chops that Rose set before him. "I will go now; Agapit, come to the gate with me. I want to speak to you." Rose started violently. It seemed to her that her whole agitated, overwrought soul had gone out to her lover in a shriek of despair, yet she had not uttered a sound. Vesper could not endure the agony of her eyes. "Rose," he said, stretching out his hands to her, "will you do as I wish?" "No," said Agapit, stepping between them. "Rose," said Vesper, caressingly, "shall I go to see Charlitte?" "Yes, yes," she moaned, desperately, and sinking to a chair, she dropped her swimming head on the table. "No," said Agapit, again, "you shall not break God's laws. Rose is married to Charlitte." Vesper tried to pass him, to assist Rose, who was half fainting, but Agapit's burly form was immovable, and the furious young American lifted his arm to strike him. "_Nâni_," said Agapit, tossing his arm in the air, "two blows from no man for me," and he promptly knocked Vesper down. Rose, shocked and terrified, instantly recovered. She ran to her fallen hero, bent over him with fond and distracted words, and when he struggled to his feet, and with a red and furious face would have flown at Agapit, she restrained him, by clinging to his arm. "Dear fools," said Agapit, "I would have saved you this humbling, but you would not listen. It is now time to part. The doctor comes up the road." Vesper made a superhuman effort at self-control, and passed his hand over his eyes, to clear away the mists of passion. Then he looked through the kitchen window. The doctor was indeed driving up to the inn. "Good-by, Rose," he exclaimed, "and do you, Agapit," and he surveyed the Acadien in bitter resentment, "treat Charlitte as you have treated me, if he comes for her." Even in her despair Rose reflected that they were parting in anger. "Vesper, Vesper,--most darling of men," she cried, wildly, detaining him, "shake hands, at least." "I will not," he muttered, then he gently put her from him, and flung himself from the room. "One does not forget those things," said Agapit, gloomily, and he followed her out-of-doors. Vesper, staggering so that he could hardly mount his wheel, was just about to leave the yard. Rose clung to the doorpost, and watched him; then she ran to the gate. Down, down the Bay he went; farther, farther, always from her. First the two shining wheels disappeared, then his straight blue back, then the curly head with the little cap. She had lost him,--perhaps forever; and this time she fainted in earnest, and Agapit carried her to the kitchen, where the English doctor, who had been the one to attend Vesper, stood, with a shrewd and pitying look on his weather-beaten face. BOOK II. BIDIANE CHAPTER I. A NEW ARRIVAL AT SLEEPING WATER. "But swift or slow the days will pass, The longest night will have a morn, And to each day is duly born A night from Time's inverted glass." --_Aminta._ Five years have passed away,--five long years. Five times the Acadien farmers have sown their seeds. Five times they have gathered their crops. Five times summer suns have smiled upon the Bay, and five times winter winds have chilled it. And five times five changes have there been in Sleeping Water, though it is a place that changes little. Some old people have died, some new ones have been born, but chief among all changes has been the one effected by the sometime presence, and now always absence, of the young Englishman from Boston, who had come so quietly among the Acadiens, and had gone so quietly, and yet whose influence had lingered, and would always linger among them. In the first place, Rose à Charlitte had given up the inn. Shortly after the Englishman had gone away, her uncle had died, and had left her, not a great fortune, but a very snug little sum of money--and with a part of it she had built herself a cottage on the banks of Sleeping Water River, where she now lived with Célina, her former servant, who had, in her devotion to her mistress, taken a vow never to marry unless Rose herself should choose a husband. This there seemed little likelihood of her doing. She had apparently forsworn marriage when she rejected the Englishman. All the Bay knew that he had been violently in love with her, all the Bay knew that she had sent him away, but none knew the reason for it. She had apparently loved him,--she had certainly never loved any other man. It was suspected that Agapit LeNoir was in the secret, but he would not discuss the Englishman with any one, and, gentle and sweet as Rose was, there were very few who cared to broach the subject to her. Another change had been the coming to Sleeping Water of a family from up the Bay. They kept the inn now, and they were _protégés_ of the Englishman, and relatives of a young girl that he and his mother had taken away--away across the ocean to France some four years before--because she was a badly brought up child, who did not love her native tongue nor her father's people. It had been a wonderful thing that had happened to these Watercrows in the coming of the Englishman to the Bay. His mission had been to search for the heirs of Etex LeNoir, who had been murdered by his great-grandfather at the time of the terrible expulsion, and he had found a direct one in the person of this naughty little Bidiane. She had been a great trouble to him at first, it was said, but, under his wise government, she had soon sobered down; and she had also brought him luck, as much luck as a pot of gold, for, directly after he had discovered her he--who had not been a rich young man, but one largely dependent on his mother--had fallen heir to a large fortune, left to him by a distant relative. This relative had been a great-aunt, who had heard of his romantic and dutiful journey to Acadie, and, being touched by it, and feeling assured that he was a worthy young man, she had immediately made a will, leaving him all that she possessed, and had then died. He had sought to atone for the sins of his forefathers, and had reaped a rich reward. A good deal of the Englishman's money had been bestowed on these Watercrows. With kindly tolerance, he had indulged a whim of theirs to go to Boston when they were obliged to leave their heavily mortgaged farm. It was said that they had expected to make vast sums of money there. The Englishman knew that they could not do so, but that they might cease the repinings and see for themselves what a great city really was for poor people, he had allowed them to make a short stay in one. The result had been that they were horrified; yes, absolutely horrified,--this family transported from the wide, beautiful Bay,--at the narrowness of the streets in the large city of Boston, at the rush of people, the race for work, the general crowding and pushing, the oppression of the poor, the tiny rooms in which they were obliged to live, and the foul air which fairly suffocated them. They had begged the Englishman to let them come back to the Bay, even if they lived only in a shanty. They could not endure that terrible city. He generously had given them the Sleeping Water Inn that he had bought when Rose à Charlitte had left it, and there they had tried to keep a hotel, with but indifferent success, until Claudine, the widow of Isidore Kessy, had come to assist them. The Acadiens in Sleeping Water, with their keen social instincts, and sympathetically curious habit of looking over, and under, and into, and across every subject of interest to them, were never tired of discussing Vesper Nimmo and his affairs. He had still with him the little Narcisse who had run from the Bay five years before, and, although the Englishman himself never wrote to Rose à Charlitte, there came every week to the Bay a letter addressed to her in the handwriting of the young Bidiane LeNoir, who, according to the instructions of the Englishman, gave Rose a full and minute account of every occurrence in her child's life. In this way she was kept from feeling lonely. These letters were said to be delectable, yes, quite delectable. Célina said so, and she ought to know. The white-headed, red-coated mail-driver, who never flagged in his admiration for Vesper, was just now talking about him. Twice a day during the long five years had Emmanuel de la Rive flashed over the long road to the station. Twice a day had this descendant of the old French nobleman courteously taken off his hat to the woman who kept the station, and then, placing it on his knee, had sat down to discuss calmly and impartially the news of the day with her, in the ten minutes that he allowed himself before the train arrived. He in the village, she at the station, could most agreeably keep the ball of gossip rolling, so that on its way up and down the Bay it might not make too long a tarrying at Sleeping Water. On this particular July morning he was on his favorite subject. "Has it happened to come to your ears," he said in his shrill, musical voice to Madame Thériault, who, as of old, was rocking a cradle with her foot, and spinning with her hands, "that there is talk of a great scheme that the Englishman has in mind for having cars that will run along the shores of the Bay, without a locomotive?" "Yes, I have heard." "It would be a great thing for the Bay, as we are far from these stations in the woods." "It is my belief that he will some day return, and Rose will then marry him," said the woman, who, true to the traditions of her sex, took a more lively interest in the affairs of the heart than in those connected with means of transportation. "It is evident that she does not wish to marry now," he said, modestly. "She lives like a nun. It is incredible; she is young, yet she thinks only of good works." "At least, her heart is not broken." "Hearts do not break when one has plenty of money," said Madame Thériault, wisely. "If it were not for the child, I daresay that she would become a holy woman. Did you hear that the family with typhoid fever can at last leave her house?" "Yes, long ago,--ages." "I heard only this morning," he said, dejectedly, then he brightened, "but it was told to me that it is suspected that the young Bidiane LeNoir will come back to the Bay this summer." "Indeed,--can that be so?" "It is quite true, I think. I had it from the blacksmith, whose wife Perside heard it from Célina." "Who had it from Rose--_eh bonn! eh bonn! eh bonn!_" (_Eh bien!_--well, well, well). "The young girl is now old enough to marry. Possibly the Englishman will marry her." Emmanuel's fine face flushed, and his delicate voice rose high in defence of his adored Englishman. "No, no; he does not change, that one,--not more so than the hills. He waits like Gabriel for Evangeline. This is also the opinion of the Bay. You are quite alone--but hark! is that the train?" and clutching his mail-bag by its long neck, he slipped to the kitchen door, which opened on the platform of the station. Yes; it was indeed the Flying Bluenose, coming down the straight track from Pointe à l'Eglise, with a shrill note of warning. Emmanuel hurried to the edge of the platform, and extended his mail-bag to the clerk in shirt-sleeves, who leaned from the postal-car to take it, and to hand him one in return. Then, his duty over, he felt himself free to take observations of any passengers that there might be for Sleeping Water. There was just one, and--could it be possible--could he believe the evidence of his eyesight--had the little wild, red-haired apostate from up the Bay at last come back, clothed and in her right mind? He made a mute, joyous signal to the station woman who stood in the doorway, then he drew a little nearer to the very composed and graceful girl who had just been assisted from the train, with great deference, by a youthful conductor. "Are my trunks all out?" she said to him, in a tone of voice that assured the mail-man that, without being bold or immodest, she was quite well able to take care of herself. The conductor pointed to the brakemen, who were tumbling out some luggage to the platform. "I hope that they will be careful of my wheel," said the girl. "It's all right," replied the conductor, and he raised his arm as a signal for the train to move on. "If anything goes wrong with it, send it to this station, and I will take it to Yarmouth and have it mended for you." "Thank you," said the girl, graciously; then she turned to Emmanuel, and looked steadfastly at his red jacket. He, meanwhile, politely tried to avert his eyes from her, but he could not do so. She was fresh from the home of the Englishman in Paris, and he could not conceal his tremulous eager interest in her. She was not beautiful, like flaxen-haired Rose à Charlitte, nor dark and statuesque, like the stately Claudine; but she was _distinguée_, yes, _très-distinguée_, and her manner was just what he had imagined that of a true Parisienne would be like. She was small and dainty, and possessed a back as straight as a soldier's, and a magnificent bust. Her round face was slightly freckled, her nose was a little upturned, but the hazy, fine mass of hair that surrounded her head was most beauteous,--it was like the sun shining through the reddish meadow grass. He was her servant, her devoted slave, and Emmanuel, who had never dreamed that he possessed patrician instincts, bowed low before her, "Mademoiselle, I am at your service." "_Merci, monsieur_" (thank you, sir), she said, with conventional politeness; then in rapid and exquisite French, that charmed him almost to tears, she asked, mischievously, "But I have never been here before, how do you know me?" He bowed again. "The name of Mademoiselle Bidiane LeNoir is often on our lips. Mademoiselle, I salute your return." [Illustration: "'MADEMOISELLE, I SALUTE YOUR RETURN.'"] "You are very kind, Monsieur de la Rive," she said, with a frank smile; then she precipitated herself on a bed of yellow marigolds growing beside the station house. "Oh, the delightful flowers!" "Is she not charming?" murmured Emmanuel, in a blissful undertone, to Madame Thériault. "What grace, what courtesy!--and it is due to the Englishman." Madame Thériault's black eyes were critically running over Bidiane's tailor-made gown. "The Englishman will marry her," she said, sententiously. Then she asked, abruptly, "Have you ever seen her before?" "Yes, once, years ago; she was a little hawk, I assure you." "She will do now," and the woman approached her. "Mademoiselle, may I ask for your checks." Bidiane sprang up from the flower bed and caught her by both hands. "You are Madame Thériault--I know of you from Mr. Nimmo. Ah, it is pleasant to be among friends. For days and days it has been strangers--strangers--only strangers. Now I am with my own people," and she proudly held up her red head. The woman blushed in deep gratification. "Mademoiselle, I am more than glad to see you. How is the young Englishman who left many friends on the Bay?" "Do you call him young? He is at least thirty." "But he was young when here." "True, I forgot that. He is well, very well. He is never ill now. He is always busy, and such a good man--oh, so good!" and Bidiane clasped her hands, and rolled her lustrous, tawny eyes to the sky. "And the child of Rose à Charlitte?" said Emmanuel, eagerly. "A little angel,--so calm, so gentle, so polite. If you could see him bow to the ladies,--it is ravishing, I assure you. And he is always spoiled by Mrs. Nimmo, who adores him." "Will he come back to the Bay?" "I do not know," and Bidiane's vivacious face grew puzzled. "I do not ask questions--alas! have I offended you?--I assure you I was thinking only of myself. I am curious. I talk too much, but you have seen Mr. Nimmo. You know that beyond a certain point he will not go. I am ignorant of his intentions with regard to the child. I am ignorant of his mother's intentions; all I know is that Mr. Nimmo wishes him to be a forester." "A forester!" ejaculated Madame Thériault, "and what is that trade?" Bidiane laughed gaily. "But, my dear madame, it is not a trade. It is a profession. Here on the Bay we do not have it, but abroad one hears often of it. Young men study it constantly. It is to take care of trees. Do you know that if they are cut down, water courses dry up? In Clare we do not think of that, but in other countries trees are thought useful and beautiful, and they keep them." "Hold--but that is wonderful," said Emmanuel. Bidiane turned to him with a winning smile. "Monsieur, how am I to get to the shore? I am eaten up with impatience to see Madame de Forêt and my aunt." "But there is my cart, mademoiselle," and he pointed to the shed beyond them. "I shall feel honored to conduct you." "I gladly accept your offer, monsieur. _Au revoir_, madame." Madame Thériault reluctantly watched them depart. She would like to keep this gay, charming creature with her for an hour longer. "It is wonderful that they did not come to meet you," said Emmanuel, "but they did not expect you naturally." "I sent a telegram from Halifax," said Bidiane, "but can you believe it?--I was so stupid as to say Wednesday instead of Tuesday. Therefore Madame de Forêt expects me to-morrow." "You advised her rather than Mirabelle Marie, but wherefore?" Bidiane shook her shining head. "I do not know. I did not ask; I did simply as Mr. Nimmo told me. He arranges all. I was with friends until this morning. Only that one thing did I do alone on the journey,--that is to telegraph,--and I did it wrong," and a joyous, subdued peal of laughter rang out on the warm morning air. Emmanuel reverently assisted her into his cart, and got in beside her. His blood had been quickened in his veins by this unexpected occurrence. He tried not to look too often at this charming girl beside him, but, in spite of his best efforts, his eyes irresistibly and involuntarily kept seeking her face. She was so eloquent, so well-mannered; her clothes were smooth and sleek like satin; there was a faint perfume of lovely flowers about her,--she had come from the very heart and centre of the great world into which he had never ventured. She was charged with magic. What an acquisition to the Bay she would be! He carefully avoided the ruts and stones of the road. He would not for the world give her an unnecessary shock, and he ardently wished that this highway from the woods to the Bay might be as smooth as his desire would have it. "And this is Sleeping Water," she said, dreamily. Emmanuel assured her that it was, and she immediately began to ply him with questions about the occupants of the various farms that they were passing, until a sudden thought flashed into her mind and made her laughter again break out like music. "I am thinking--ah, me! it is really too absurd for anything--of the astonishment of Madame de Forêt when I walk in upon her. Tell me, I beg you, some particulars about her. She wrote not very much about herself." Emmanuel had a great liking for Rose, and he joyfully imparted to Bidiane the most minute particulars concerning her dress, appearance, conduct, daily life, her friends and surroundings. He talked steadily for a mile, and Bidiane, whose curiosity seemed insatiable on the subject of Rose, urged him on until he was forced to pause for breath. Bidiane turned her head to look at him, and immediately had her attention attracted to a new subject. "That red jacket is charming, monsieur," she said, with flattering interest. "If it is quite agreeable, I should like to know where you got it." "Mademoiselle, you know that in Halifax there are many soldiers." "Yes,--English ones. There were French ones in Paris. Oh, I adore the short blue capes of the military men." "The English soldiers wear red coats." "Yes, monsieur." "Sometimes they are sold when their bright surface is soiled. Men buy them, and, after cleaning, sell them in the country. It is cheerful to see a farmer working in a field clad in red." "Ah! this is one that a soldier used to wear." "No, mademoiselle,--not so fast. I had seen these red coats,--Acadiens have always loved that color above others. I wished to have one; therefore, when asked to sing at a concert many years ago, I said to my sister, 'Buy red cloth and make me a red coat. Put trimmings on it.'" "And you sang in this?" "No, mademoiselle,--you are too fast again," and he laughed delightedly at her precipitancy. "I sang in one long years ago, when I was young. Afterwards, to save,--for we Acadiens do not waste, you know,--I wore it to drive in. In time it fell to pieces." "And you liked it so much that you had another made?" "Exactly, mademoiselle. You have guessed it now," and his tones were triumphant. Her curiosity on the subject of the coat being satisfied, she returned to Rose, and finally asked a series of questions with regard to her aunt. Her chatter ceased, however, when they reached the Bay, and, overcome with admiration, she gazed silently at the place where From shore to shore the shining waters lay, Beneath the sun, as placid as a cheek. Emmanuel, discovering that her eyes were full of tears, delicately refrained from further conversation until they reached the corner, when he asked, softly, "To the inn, or to Madame de Forêt's?" Bidiane started. "To Madame de Forêt's--no, no, to the inn, otherwise my aunt might be offended." He drew up before the veranda, where Mirabelle Marie and Claude both happened to be standing. There were at first incredulous glances, then a great burst of noise from the woman and an amazed grunt from the man. Bidiane flew up the steps and embraced them, and Emmanuel lingered on in a trance of ecstasy. He could not tear himself away, and did not attempt to do so until the trio vanished into the house. CHAPTER II. BIDIANE GOES TO CALL ON ROSE À CHARLITTE. "Love duty, ease your neighbor's load, Learn life is but an episode, And grateful peace will fill your mind." AMINTA. ARCHBISHOP O'BRIEN. Mirabelle Marie and her husband seated themselves in the parlor with Bidiane close beside them. "You're only a mite of a thing yet," shrieked Mrs. Watercrow, "though you've growed up; but _sakerjé_! how fine, how fine,--and what a shiny cloth in your coat! How much did that cost?" "Do not scream at me," said Bidiane, good-humoredly. "I still hear well." Claude à Sucre roared in a stentorian voice, and clapped his knee. "She comes home Eenglish,--quite Eenglish." "And the Englishman,--he is still rich," said Mirabelle Marie, greedily, and feeling not at all snubbed. "Does he wear all the time a collar with white wings and a split coat?" "But you took much money from him," said Bidiane, reproachfully. "Oh, that Boston,--that divil's hole!" vociferated Mirabelle Marie. "We did not come back some first-class Yankees _whitewashés_. No, no, we are French now,--you bet! When I was a young one my old mother used to ketch flies between her thumb and finger. She'd say, '_Je te squeezerai_'" (I will squeeze you). "Well, we were the flies, Boston was my old mother. But you've been in cities, Biddy Ann; you know 'em." "Ah! but I was not poor. We lived in a beautiful quarter in Paris,--and do not call me Biddy Ann; my name is Bidiane." "Lord help us,--ain't she stylish!" squealed her delighted aunt. "Go on, Biddy, tell us about the fine ladies, and the elegant frocks, and the dimens; everythin' shines, ain't that so? Did the Englishman shove a dollar bill in yer hand every day?" "No, he did not," said Bidiane, with dignity. "I was only a little girl to him. He gave me scarcely any money to spend." "Is he goin' to marry yer,--say now, Biddy, ain't that so?" Bidiane's quick temper asserted itself. "If you don't stop being so vulgar, I sha'n't say another word to you." "Aw, shut up, now," said Claude, remonstratingly, to his wife. Mrs. Watercrow was slightly abashed. "I don't go for to make yeh mad," she said, humbly. "No, no, of course you did not," said the girl, in quick compunction, and she laid one of her slim white hands on Mirabelle Marie's fat brown ones. "I should not have spoken so hastily." "Look at that,--she's as meek as a cat," said the woman, in surprise, while her husband softly caressed Bidiane's shoulder. "The Englishman, as you call him, does not care much for women," Bidiane went on, gently. "Now that he has money he is much occupied, and he always has men coming to see him. He often went out with his mother, but rarely with me or with any ladies. He travels, too, and takes Narcisse with him; and now, tell me, do you like being down the Bay?" Her aunt shrugged her shoulders. "A long sight more'n Boston." "Why did you give up the farm?" said the girl to Claude; "the old farm that belonged to your grandfather." "I be a fool, an' I don' know it teel long after," said Claude, slowly. "And you speak French here,--the boys, have they learned it?" "You bet,--they learned in Boston from _Acajens_. Biddy, what makes yeh come back? Yer a big goose not to stay with the Englishman." Bidiane surveyed her aunt disapprovingly. "Could I live always depending on him? No, I wish to work hard, to earn some money,--and you, are you not going to pay him for this fine house?" "God knows, he has money enough." "But we mus' pay back," said Claude, smiting the table with his fist. "I ain't got much larnin', but I've got a leetle idee, an' I tell you, maw,--don' you spen' the money in that stockin'." His wife's fat shoulders shook in a hearty laugh. His face darkened. "You give that to Biddy." "Yes," said his niece, "give it to me. Come now, and get it, and show me the house." Mrs. Watercrow rose resignedly, and preceded the girl to the kitchen. "Let's find Claudine. She's a boss cook, mos' as good as Rose à Charlitte. Biddy, be you goin' to stay along of us?" "I don't know," said the girl, gaily. "Will you have me?" "You bet! Biddy,"--and she lowered her voice,--"you know 'bout Isidore?" The girl shuddered. "Yes." "It was drink, drink, drink, like a fool. One day, when he works back in the woods with some of those Frenchmen out of France, he go for to do like them, an' roast a frog on the biler in the mill ingine. His brain overswelled, overfoamed, an' he fell agin the biler. Then he was dead." "Hush,--don't talk about him; Claudine may hear you." "How,--you know her?" "I know everybody. Mr. Nimmo and his mother talked so often of the Bay. They do not wish Narcisse to forget." "That's good. Does the Englishman's maw like the little one?" "Yes, she does." "Claudine ain't here," and Mirabelle Marie waddled through the kitchen, and directed her sneaks to the back stairway. "We'll skip up to her room." Bidiane followed her, but when Mrs. Watercrow would have pushed open the door confronting them, she caught her hand. "The divil," said her surprised relative, "do you want to scare the life out of me?" "Knock," said Bidiane, "always, always at the door of a bedroom or a private room, but not at that of a public one such as a parlor." "Am I English?" exclaimed Mirabelle Marie, drawing back and regarding her in profound astonishment. "No, but you are going to be,--or rather you are going to be a polite Frenchwoman," said Bidiane, firmly. Mirabelle Marie laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. She had just had presented to her, in the person of Bidiane, a delicious and first-class joke. Claudine came out of her room, and silently stared at them until Bidiane took her hand, when her handsome, rather sullen face brightened perceptibly. Bidiane liked her, and some swift and keen perception told her that in the young widow she would find a more apt pupil and a more congenial associate than in her aunt. She went into the room, and, sitting down by the window, talked at length to her of Narcisse and the Englishman. At last she said, "Can you see Madame de Forêt's house from here?" Mirabelle Marie, who had squatted comfortably on the bed, like an enormous toad, got up and toddled to the window. "It's there ag'in those pines back of the river. There's no other sim'lar." Bidiane glanced at the cool white cottage against its green background. "Why, it is like a tiny Grand Trianon!" "An' what's that?" "It is a villa near Paris, a very fine one, built in the form of a horseshoe." "Yes,--that's what we call it," interrupted her aunt. "We ain't blind. We say the horseshoe cottage." "One of the kings of France had the Grand Trianon built for a woman he loved," said Bidiane, reverently. "I think Mr. Nimmo must have sent the plan for this from Paris,--but he never spoke to me about it." "He is not a man who tells all," said Claudine, in French. Bidiane and Mirabelle Marie had been speaking English, but they now reverted to their own language. "When do you have lunch?" asked Bidiane. "Lunch,--what's that?" asked her aunt. "We have dinner soon." "And I must descend," said Claudine, hurrying down-stairs. "I smell something burning." Bidiane was about to follow her, when there was a clattering heard on the stairway. "It's the young ones," cried Mirabelle Marie, joyfully. "Some fool has told 'em. They'll wring your neck like the blowpipe of a chicken." The next minute two noisy, rough, yet slightly shy boys had taken possession of their returned cousin and were leading her about the inn in triumph. Mirabelle Marie tried to keep up with them, but could not succeed in doing so. She was too excited to keep still, too happy to work, so she kept on waddling from one room to another, to the stable, the garden, and even to the corner,--to every spot where she could catch a glimpse of the tail of Bidiane's gown, or the heels of her twinkling shoes. The girl was indefatigable; she wished to see everything at once. She would wear herself out. Two hours after lunch she announced her determination to call on Rose. "I'll skip along, too," said her aunt, promptly. "I wish to be quite alone when I first see this wonderful woman," said Bidiane. "But why is she wonderful?" asked Mirabelle Marie. Bidiane did not hear her. She had flitted out to the veranda, wrapping a scarf around her shoulders as she went. While her aunt stood gazing longingly after her, she tripped up the village street, enjoying immensely the impression she created among the women and children, who ran to the doorways and windows to see her pass. There were no houses along the cutting in the hill through which the road led to the sullen stream of Sleeping Water. Rose's house stood quite alone, and at some distance from the street, its gleaming, freshly painted front towards the river, its curved back against a row of pine-trees. It was very quiet. There was not a creature stirring, and the warm July sunshine lay languidly on some deserted chairs about a table on the lawn. Bidiane went slowly up to the hall door and rang the bell. Rosy-cheeked Célina soon stood before her; and smiling a welcome, for she knew very well who the visitor was, she gently opened the door of a long, narrow blue and white room on the right side of the hall. Bidiane paused on the threshold. This dainty, exquisite apartment, furnished so simply, and yet so elegantly, had not been planned by an architect or furnished by a decorator of the Bay. This bric-à-brac, too, was not Acadien, but Parisian. Ah, how much Mr. Nimmo loved Rose à Charlitte! and she drew a long breath and gazed with girlish and fascinated awe at the tall, beautiful woman who rose from a low seat, and slowly approached her. Rose was about to address her, but Bidiane put up a protesting hand. "Don't speak to me for a minute," she said, breathlessly. "I want to look at you." Rose smiled indulgently, and Bidiane gazed on. She felt herself to be a dove, a messenger sent from a faithful lover to the woman he worshipped. What a high and holy mission was hers! She trembled blissfully, then, one by one, she examined the features of this Acadien beauty, whose quiet life had kept her from fading or withering in the slightest degree. She was, indeed, "a rose of dawn." These were the words written below the large painting of her that hung in Mr. Nimmo's room. She must tell Rose about it, although of course the picture and the inscription must be perfectly familiar to her, through Mr. Nimmo's descriptions. "Madame de Forêt," she said at last, "it is really you. Oh, how I have longed to see you! I could scarcely wait." "Won't you sit down?" said her hostess, just a trifle shyly. Bidiane dropped into a chair. "I have teased Mrs. Nimmo with questions. I have said again and again, 'What is she like?'--but I never could tell from what she said. I had only the picture to go by." "The picture?" said Rose, slightly raising her eyebrows. "Your painting, you know, that is over Mr. Nimmo's writing-table." "Does he have one of me?" asked Rose, quietly. "Yes, yes,--an immense one. As broad as that,"--and she stretched out her arms. "It was enlarged from a photograph." "Ah! when he was here I missed a photograph one day from my album, but I did not know that he had taken it. However, I suspected." "But does he not write you everything?" "You only are my kind little correspondent,--with, of course, Narcisse." "Really, I thought that he wrote everything to you. Dear Madame de Forêt, may I speak freely to you?" "As freely as you wish, my dear child." Bidiane burst into a flood of conversation. "I think it is so romantic,--his devotion to you. He does not talk of it, but I can't help knowing, because Mrs. Nimmo talks to me about it when she gets too worked up to keep still. She really loves you, Madame de Forêt. She wishes that you would allow her son to marry you. If you only knew how much she admires you, I am sure you would put aside your objection to her son." Rose for a few minutes seemed lost in thought, then she said, "Does Mrs. Nimmo think that I do not care for her son?" "No, she says she thinks you care for him, but there is some objection in your mind that you cannot get over, and she cannot imagine what it is." "Dear little mademoiselle, I will also speak freely to you, for it is well for you to understand, and I feel that you are a good friend, because I have received so many letters from you. It is impossible that I should marry Mr. Nimmo, therefore we will not speak of it, if you please. There is an obstacle,--he knows and agrees to it. Years ago, I thought some day this obstacle might be taken away. Now, I think it is the will of our Lord that it remain, and I am content." "Oh, oh!" said Bidiane, wrinkling her face as if she were about to cry, "I cannot bear to hear you say this." Rose smiled gently. "When you are older, as old as I am, you will understand that marriage is not the chief thing in life. It is good, yet one can be happy without. One can be pushed quietly further and further apart from another soul. At first, one cries out, one thinks that the parting will kill, but it is often the best thing for the two souls. I tell you this because I love you, and because I know Mr. Nimmo has taken much care in your training, and wishes me to be an elder sister. Do not seek sorrow, little one, but do not try to run from it. This dear, dear man that you speak of, was a divine being, a saint to me. I did wrong to worship him. To separate from me was a good thing for him. He is now more what I then thought him, than he was at the time. Do you understand?" "Yes, yes," said Bidiane, breaking into tears, and impulsively throwing herself on her knees beside her, "but you dash my pet scheme to pieces. I wish to see you two united. I thought perhaps if I told you that, although no one knows it but his mother, he just wor--wor--ships you--" Rose stroked her head. "Warm-hearted child,--and also loyal. Our Lord rewards such devotion. Nothing is lost. Your precious tears remind me of those I once shed." Bidiane did not recover herself. She was tired, excited, profoundly touched by Rose's beauty and "sweet gravity of soul," and her perfect resignation to her lot. "But you are not happy," she exclaimed at last, dashing away her tears; "you cannot be. It is not right. I love to read in novels, when Mr. Nimmo allows me, of the divine right of passion. I asked him one day what it meant, and he explained. I did not know that it gave him pain,--that his heart must be aching. He is so quiet,--no one would dream that he is unhappy; yet his mother knows that he is, and when she gets too worried, she talks to me, although she is not one-half as fond of me as she is of Narcisse." A great wave of color came over Rose's face at the mention of her child. She would like to speak of him at once, yet she restrained herself. "Dear little girl," she said, in her low, soothing voice, "you are so young, so delightfully young. See, I have just been explaining to you, yet you do not listen. You will have to learn for yourself. The experience of one woman does not help another. Yet let me read to you, who think it so painful a thing to be denied anything that one wants, a few sentences from our good archbishop." Bidiane sprang lightly to her feet, and Rose went to a bookcase, and, taking out a small volume bound in green and gold, read to her: "'Marriage is a high and holy state, and intended for the vast majority of mankind, but those who expand and merge human love in the divine, espousing their souls to God in a life of celibacy, tread a higher and holier path, and are better fitted to do nobler service for God in the cause of suffering humanity.'" "Those are good words," said Bidiane, with twitching lips. "It is of course a Catholic view," said Rose; "you are a Protestant, and you may not agree perfectly with it, yet I wish only to convince you that if one is denied the companionship of one that is beloved, it is not well to say, 'Everything is at an end. I am of no use in the world.'" "I think you are the best and the sweetest woman that I ever saw," said Bidiane, impulsively. "No, no; not the best," said Rose, in accents of painful humility. "Do not say it,--I feel myself the greatest of sinners. I read my books of devotion, I feel myself guilty of all,--even the blackest of crimes. It seems that there is nothing I have not sinned in my thoughts. I have been blameless in nothing, except that I have not neglected the baptism of children in infancy." "You--a sinner!" said Bidiane, in profound scepticism. "I do not believe it." "None are pure in the sight of our spotless Lord," said Rose, in agitation; "none, none. We can only try to be so. Let me repeat to you one more line from our archbishop. It is a poem telling of the struggle of souls, of the search for happiness that is not to be found in the world. This short line is always with me. I cannot reach up to it, I can only admire it. Listen, dear child, and remember it is this only that is important, and both Protestant and Catholic can accept it--'Walking on earth, but living with God.'" Bidiane flung her arms about her neck. "Teach me to be good like you and Mr. Nimmo. I assure you I am very bad and impatient." "My dear girl, my sister," murmured Rose, tenderly, "you are a gift and I accept you. Now will you not tell me something of your life in Paris? Many things were not related in your letters." CHAPTER III. TAKEN UNAWARES. "Who can speak The mingled passions that surprised his heart?" THOMSON. Bidiane nothing loath, broke into a vivacious narrative. "Ah, that Mr. Nimmo, I just idolize him. How much he has done for me! Just figure to yourself what a spectacle I must have been when he first saw me. I was ignorant,--as ignorant as a little pig. I knew nothing. He asked me if I would go down the Bay to a convent. I said, quite violently, 'No, I will not.' Then he went home to Boston, but he did not give me up. I soon received a message. Would I go to France with him and his mother, for it had been decided that a voyage would be good for the little Narcisse? That dazzled me, and I said 'yes.' I left the Bay, but just fancy how utterly stupid, how frightfully from out of the woods I was. I will give one instance: When my uncle put me on the steamer at Yarmouth it was late, he had to hurry ashore. He did not show me the stateroom prepared for me, and I, dazed owl, sat on the deck shivering and drawing my cloak about me. I thought I had paid for that one tiny piece of the steamer and I must not move from it. Then a kind woman came and took me below." "But you were young, you had never travelled, mademoiselle." "Don't say mademoiselle, say Bidiane,--please do, I would love it." "Very well, Bidiane,--dear little Bidiane." The girl leaned forward, and was again about to embrace her hostess with fervent arms, but suddenly paused to exclaim, "I think I hear wheels!" She ran to one of the open windows. "Who drives a black buggy,--no, a white horse with a long tail?" "Agapit LeNoir," said Rose, coming to stand beside her. "Oh, how is he? I hate to see him. I used to be so rude, but I suppose he has forgiven me. Mrs. Nimmo says he is very good, still I do not think Mr. Nimmo cares much for him." Rose sighed. That was the one stain on the character of the otherwise perfect Vesper. He had never forgiven Agapit for striking him. "Why he looks quite smart," Bidiane rattled on. "Does he get on well with his law practice?" "Very well; but he works hard--too hard. This horse is his only luxury." "I detest white horses. Why didn't he get a dark one?" "I think this one was cheaper." "Is he poor?" "Not now, but he is economical. He saves his money." "Oh, he is a screw, a miser." "No, not that,--he gives away a good deal. He has had a hard life, has my poor cousin, and now he understands the trials of others." "Poverty is tiresome, but it is sometimes good for one," said Bidiane, wisely. Rose's white teeth gleamed in sudden amusement. "Ah, the dear little parrot, she has been well trained." Bidiane leaned out the window. There was Agapit, peering eagerly forward from the hood of his carriage, and staring up with some of the old apprehensiveness with which he used to approach her. "What a dreadful child I was," reflected Bidiane, with a blush of shame. "He is yet afraid of me." Agapit, with difficulty averting his eyes from her round, childish face and its tangle of reddish hair, sprang from his seat and fastened his horse to the post sunk in the grass at the edge of the lawn, while Rose, followed by Bidiane, went out to meet him. "How do you do, Rose," he murmured, taking her hand in his own, while his eyes ran behind to the waiting Bidiane. The girl, ladylike and modest, and full of contrition for her former misdeeds, was yet possessed by a mischievous impulse to find out whether her power over the burly, youthful, excitable Agapit extended to this thinner, more serious-looking man, with the big black mustache and the shining eye-glasses. "Ah, fanatic, Acadien imbecile," she said, coolly extending her fingers, "I am glad to see you again." Though her tone was reassuring, Agapit still seemed to be overcome by some emotion, and for a few seconds did not recover himself. Then he smiled, looked relieved, and, taking a step nearer her, bowed profoundly. "When did you arrive, mademoiselle?" "But you knew I was here," she said, gaily, "I saw it in your face when you first appeared." Agapit dropped his eyes nervously. "He is certainly terribly afraid of me," reflected Bidiane again; then she listened to what he was saying. "The Bay whispers and chatters, mademoiselle; the little waves that kiss the shores of Sleeping Water take her secrets from her and carry them up to the mouth of the Weymouth River--" "You have a telephone, I suppose," said Bidiane, in an eminently practical tone of voice. "Yes, I have," and he relapsed into silence. "Here we are together, we three," said Bidiane, impulsively. "How I wish that Mr. Nimmo could see us." Rose lost some of her beautiful color. These continual references to her lover were very trying. "I will leave you two to amuse each other for a few minutes, while I go and ask Célina to make us some tea _à l'anglaise_." "I should not have said that," exclaimed Bidiane, gazing after her; "how easy it is to talk too much. Each night, when I go to bed, I lie awake thinking of all the foolish things I have said during the day, and I con over sensible speeches that I might have uttered. I suppose you never do that?" "Why not, mademoiselle?" "Oh, because you are older, and because you are so clever. Really, I am quite afraid of you," and she demurely glanced at him from under her curly eyelashes. "Once you were not afraid," he remarked, cautiously. "No; but now you must be very learned." "I always was fond of study." "Mr. Nimmo says that some day you will be a judge, and then probably you will write a book. Will you?" "Some day, perhaps. At present, I only write short articles for magazines and newspapers." "How charming! What are they about?" "They are mostly Acadien and historical." "Do you ever write stories--love stories?" "Sometimes, mademoiselle." "Delicious! May I read them?" "I do not know," and he smiled. "You would probably be too much amused. You would think they were true." "And are they not?" "Oh, no, although some have a slight foundation of fact." Bidiane stared curiously at him, opened her lips, closed them again, set her small white teeth firmly, as if bidding them stand guard over some audacious thought, then at last burst out with it, for she was still excited and animated by her journey, and was bubbling over with delight at being released from the espionage of strangers to whom she could not talk freely. "You have been in love, of course?" Agapit modestly looked at his boots. "You find me unconventional," cried Bidiane, in alarm. "Mrs. Nimmo says I will never get over it. I do not know what I shall do,--but here, at least, on the Bay, I thought it would not so much matter. Really, it was a consolation in leaving Paris." "Mademoiselle, it is not that," he said, hesitatingly. "I assure you, the question has been asked before, with not so much delicacy--But with whom should I fall in love?" "With any one. It must be a horrible sensation. I have never felt it, but I cry very often over tales of lovers. Possibly you are like Madame de Forêt, you do not care to marry." "Perhaps I am waiting until she does, mademoiselle." "I suppose you could not tell me," she said, in the dainty, coaxing tones of a child, "what it is that separates your cousin from Mr. Nimmo?" "No, mademoiselle, I regret to say that I cannot." "Is it something she can ever get over?" "Possibly." "You don't want to be teased about it. I will talk of something else; people don't marry very often after they are thirty. That is the dividing line." Agapit dragged at his mustache with restless fingers. "You are laughing at me, you find me amusing," she said, with a sharp look at him. "I assure you I don't mind being laughed at. I hate dull people--oh, I must ask you if you know that I am quite Acadien now?" "Rose has told me something of it." "Yes, I know. She says that you read my letters, and I think it is perfectly sweet in you. I know what you have done for me. I know, you need not try to conceal it. It was you that urged Mr. Nimmo not to give me up, it is to you that I am indebted for my glimpse of the world. I assure you I am grateful. That is why I speak so freely to you. You are a friend and also a relative. May we not call ourselves cousins?" "Certainly, mademoiselle,--I am honored," said Agapit, in a stumbling voice. "You are not used to me yet. I overcome you, but wait a little, you will not mind my peculiarities, and let me tell you that if there is anything I can do for you, I shall be so glad. I could copy papers or write letters. I am only a mouse and you are a lion, yet perhaps I could bite your net a little." Agapit straightened himself, and stepped out rather more boldly as they went to and fro over the grass. "I seem only like a prattling, silly girl to you," she said, humbly, "yet I have a little sense, and I can write a good hand--a good round hand. I often used to assist Mr. Nimmo in copying passages from books." Agapit felt like a hero. "Some day, mademoiselle, I may apply to you for assistance. In the meantime, I thank you." They continued their slow walk to and fro. Sometimes they looked across the river to the village, but mostly they looked at each other, and Agapit, with acute pleasure, basked in the light of Bidiane's admiring glances. "You have always stayed here," she exclaimed; "you did not desert your dear Bay as I did." "But for a short time only. You remember that I was at Laval University in Quebec." "Oh, yes, I forgot that. Madame de Forêt wrote me. Do you know, I thought that perhaps you would not come back. However, Mr. Nimmo was not surprised that you did." "There are a great many young men out in the world, mademoiselle. I found few people who were interested in me. This is my home, and is not one's home the best place to earn one's living?" "Yes; and also you did not wish to go too far away from your cousin. I know your devotion, it is quite romantic. She adores you, I easily saw that in her letters. Do you know, I imagined"--and she lowered her voice, and glanced over her shoulder--"that Mr. Nimmo wrote to her, because he never seemed curious about my letters from her." "That is Mr. Nimmo's way, mademoiselle." "It is a pity that they do not write. It would be such a pleasure to them both. I know that. They cannot deceive me." "But she is not engaged to him." "If you reject a man, you reject him," said Bidiane, with animation, "but you know there is a kind of lingering correspondence that decides nothing. If the affair were all broken off, Mr. Nimmo would not keep Narcisse." Agapit wrinkled his forehead. "True; yet I assure you they have had no communication except through you and the childish scrawls of Narcisse." Bidiane was surprised. "Does he not send her things?" "No, mademoiselle." "But her furniture is French." "There are French stores in the States, and Rose travels occasionally, you know." "Hush,--she is coming back. Ah! the adorable woman." Agapit threw his advancing cousin a glance of affectionate admiration, and went to assist her with the tea things. Bidiane watched him putting the tray on the table, and going to meet Célina, who was bringing out a teapot and cups and saucers. "Next to Mr. Nimmo, he is the kindest man I ever saw," she murmured, curling herself up in a rattan chair. "But we are not talking," she said, a few minutes later. Rose and Agapit both smiled indulgently at her. Neither of them talked as much as in former days. They were quieter, more subdued. "Let me think of some questions," said the girl. "Are you, Mr. LeNoir, as furious an Acadien as you used to be?" Agapit fixed his big black eyes on her, and began to twist the ends of his long mustache. "Mademoiselle, since I have travelled a little, and mingled with other men, I do not talk so loudly and vehemently, but my heart is still the same. It is Acadie forever with me." "Ah, that is right," she said, enthusiastically. "Not noisy talk, but service for our countrymen." "Will you not have a cup of tea, and also tell us how you became an Acadien?" said Agapit, who seemed to divine her secret thought. "Thank you, thank you,--yes, I will do both," and Bidiane's round face immediately became transfigured,--the freckles almost disappeared. One saw only "the tiger dusk and gold" of her eyes, and her reddish crown of hair. "I will tell you of that noblest of men, that angel, who swept down upon the Bay, and bore away a little owl in his pinions,--or talons, is it?--to the marvellous city of Paris, just because he wished to inspire the stupid owl with love for its country." "But the great-grandfather of the eagle, or, rather, the angel, killed the great-grandfather of the owl," said Agapit; "do not forget that, mademoiselle. Will you have a biscuit?" "Thank you,--suppose he did, that does not alter the delightfulness of his conduct. Who takes account of naughty grandfathers in this prosaic age? No one but Mr. Nimmo. And do we not put away from us--that is, society people do--all those who are rough and have not good manners? Did Mr. Nimmo do this? No, he would train his little Acadien owl. The first night we arrived in Paris he took me with Narcisse for a fifteen minutes' stroll along the Arcades of the Rue de Rivoli. I was overcome. We had just arrived, we had driven through lighted streets to a magnificent hotel. The bridges across the river gleamed with lights. I thought I must be in heaven. You have read the descriptions of it?" "Of Paris,--yes," said Agapit, dreamily. "Every one was speaking French,--the language that I detested. I was dumb. Here was a great country, a great people, and they were French. I had thought that all the world outside the Bay was English, even though I had been taught differently at school. But I did not believe my teachers. I told stories, I thought that they also did. But to return to the Rue de Rivoli,--there were the shops, there were the merchants. Now that I have seen so much they do not seem great things to me, but then--ah! then they were palaces, the merchants were kings and princes offering their plate and jewels and gorgeous robes for sale. "'Choose,' said Mr. Nimmo to Narcisse and to me, 'choose some souvenir to the value of three francs.' I stammered, I hesitated, I wished everything, I selected nothing. Little Narcisse laid his finger on a sparkling napkin-ring. I could not decide. I was intoxicated, and Mr. Nimmo calmly conducted us home. I got nothing, because I could not control myself. The next day, and for many days, Mr. Nimmo took us about that wonderful city. It was all so ravishing, so spotless, so immense. We did not visit the ugly parts. I had neat and suitable clothes. I was instructed to be quiet, and not to talk loudly or cry out, and in time I learned,--though at first I very much annoyed Mrs. Nimmo. Never, never, did her son lose patience. Madame de Forêt, it is charming to live in a peaceful, splendid home, where there are no loud voices, no unseemly noises,--to have servants everywhere, even to push the chair behind you at the table." "Yes, if one is born to it," said Rose, quietly. "But one gets born to it, dear madame. In a short time, I assure you, I put on airs. I straightened my back, I no longer joked with the servants. I said, quietly, 'Give me this. Give me that,'--and I disliked to walk. I wished always to step in a carriage. Then Mr. Nimmo talked to me." "What did he say?" asked Agapit, jealously and unexpectedly. "My dear sir," said Bidiane, drawing herself up, and speaking in her grandest manner, "I beg permission to withhold from you that information. You, I see, do not worship my hero as wildly as I do. I address my remarks to your cousin," and she turned her head towards Rose. They both laughed, and she herself laughed merrily and excitedly. Then she hurried on: "I had a governess for a time, then afterwards I was sent every day to a boarding-school near by the hotel where we lived. I was taught many things about this glorious country of France, this land from which my forefathers had gone to Acadie. Soon I began to be less ashamed of my nation. Later on I began to be proud. Very often I would be sent for to go to the _salon_ (drawing-room). There would be strangers,--gentlemen and ladies to whom Mrs. Nimmo would introduce me, and her son would say, 'This is a little girl from Acadie.' Immediately I would be smiled on, and made much of, and the fine people would say, 'Ah, the Acadiens were courageous,--they were a brave race,' and they would address me in French, and I could only hang my head and listen to Mr. Nimmo, who would remark, quietly, 'Bidiane has lived among the English,--she is just learning her own language.' "Ah, then I would study. I took my French grammar to bed, and one day came the grand revelation. I of course had always attended school here on the Bay, but you know, dear Madame de Forêt, how little Acadien history is taught us. Mr. Nimmo had given me a history of our own people to read. Some histories are dull, but this one I liked. It was late one afternoon; I sat by my window and read, and I came to a story. You, I daresay, know it," and she turned eagerly to Agapit. "I daresay, mademoiselle, if I were to hear it--" "It is of those three hundred Acadiens, who were taken from Prince Edward Island by Captain Nichols. I read of what he said to the government, 'My ship is leaking, I cannot get it to England.' Yet he was forced to go, you know,--yet let me have the sad pleasure of telling you that I read of their arrival to within a hundred leagues of the coast of England. The ship had given out, it was going down, and the captain sent for the priest on board,--at this point I ran to the fire, for daylight faded. With eyes blinded by tears I finished the story,--the priest addressed his people. He said that the captain had told him that all could not be saved, that if the Acadiens would consent to remain quiet, he and his sailors would seize the boats, and have a chance for their lives. 'You will be quiet, my dear people,' said the priest. 'You have suffered much,--you will suffer more,' and he gave them absolution. I shrieked with pain when I read that they were quiet, very quiet,--that one Acadien, who ventured in a boat, was rebuked by his wife so that he stepped contentedly back to her side. Then the captain and sailors embarked, they set out for the shore, and finally reached it; and the Acadiens remained calmly on board. They went calmly to the bottom of the sea, and I flung the book far from me, and rushed down-stairs,--I must see Mr. Nimmo. He was in the _salon_ with a gentleman who was to dine with him, but I saw only my friend. I precipitated myself on a chair beside him. 'Ah, tell me, tell me!' I entreated, 'is it all true? Were they martyrs,--these countrymen of mine? Were they patient and afflicted? Is it their children that I have despised,--their religion that I have mocked?' "'Yes, yes,' he said, gently, 'but you did not understand.' "'I understand,' I cried, 'and I hate the English. I will no longer be a Protestant. They murdered my forefathers and mothers.' "He did not reason with me then,--he sent me to bed, and for six days I went every morning to mass in the Madeleine. Then I grew tired, because I had not been brought up to it, and it seemed strange to me. That was the time Mr. Nimmo explained many things to me. I learned that, though one must hate evil, there is a duty of forgiveness--but I weary you," and she sprang up from her chair. "I must also go home; my aunt will wonder where I am. I shall soon see you both again, I hope," and waving her hand, she ran lightly towards the gate. "An abrupt departure," said Agapit, as he watched her out of sight. "She is nervous, and also homesick for the Nimmos," said Rose; "but what a dear child. Her letters have made her seem like a friend of years' standing. Perhaps we should have kept her from lingering on those stories of the old time." "Do not reproach yourself," said Agapit, as he took another piece of cake, "we could not have kept her from it. She was just about to cry,--she is probably crying now," and there was a curious satisfaction in his voice. "Are you not well to-day, Agapit?" asked Rose, anxiously. "_Mon Dieu_, yes,--what makes you think otherwise?" "You seem subdued, almost dull." Agapit immediately endeavored to take on a more sprightly air. "It is that child,--she is overcoming. I was not prepared for such life, such animation. She cannot write as she speaks." "No; her letters were stiff." "Without doubt, Mr. Nimmo has sent her here to be an amiable distraction for you," said Agapit. "He is afraid that you are getting too holy, too far beyond him. He sends this Parisian butterfly to amuse you. He has plenty of money, he can indulge his whims." His tone was bitter, and Rose forbore to answer him. He was so good, this cousin of hers, and yet his poverty and his long-continued struggle to obtain an education had somewhat soured him, and he had not quite fulfilled the promise of his earlier years. He was also a little jealous of Vesper. If Vesper had been as generous towards him as he was towards other people, Agapit would have kept up his old admiration for him. As it was, they both possessed indomitable pride along different lines, and all through these years not a line of friendly correspondence had passed between them,--they had kept severely apart. But for this pride, Rose would have been allowed to share all that she had with her adopted brother, and would not have been obliged to stand aside and, with a heart wrung with compassion, see him suffer for the lack of things that she might easily have provided. However, he was getting on better now. He had a large number of clients, and was in a fair way to make a good living for himself. They talked a little more of Bidiane's arrival, that had made an unusual commotion in their quiet lives, then Agapit, having lingered longer than usual, hurried back to his office and his home, in the town of Weymouth, that was some miles distant from Sleeping Water. A few hours later, Bidiane laid her tired, agitated head on her pillow, after putting up a very fervent and Protestant petition that something might enable her to look into the heart of her Catholic friend, Rose à Charlitte, and discover what the mysterious obstacle was that prevented her from enjoying a happy union with Mr. Nimmo. CHAPTER IV. AN UNKNOWN IRRITANT. "Il est de ces longs jours d'indicible malaise Où l'on voudrait dormir du lourd sommeil des morts, De ces heures d'angoisse où l'existence pèse Sur l'âme et sur le corps." Two or three weeks went by, and, although Bidiane's headquarters were nominally at the inn, she visited the horseshoe cottage morning, noon, and night. Rose always smiled when she heard the rustling of her silk-lined skirts, and often murmured: "Sa robe fait froufrou, froufrou, Ses petits pieds font toc, toc, toc." "I wonder how long she is going to stay here?" said Agapit, one day, to his cousin. "She does not know,--she obeys Mr. Nimmo blindly, although sometimes she chatters of earning her own living." "I do not think he would permit that," said Agapit, hastily. "Nor I, but he does not tell her so." "He is a kind of _Grand Monarque_ among you women. He speaks, and you listen; and now that Bidiane has broken the ice and we talk more freely of him, I may say that I do not approve of his keeping your boy any longer, although it is a foolish thing for me to mention, since you have never asked my advice on the subject." "My dear brother," said Rose, softly, "in this one thing I have not agreed with you, because you are not a mother, and cannot understand. I feared to bring back my boy when he was delicate, lest he should die of the separation from Mr. Nimmo. It was better for me to cry myself to sleep for many nights than for me to have him for a few weeks, and then, perhaps, lay his little body in the cold ground. Where would then be my satisfaction? And now that he is strong, I console myself with the thought of the fine schools that he attends, I follow him every hour of the day, through the letters that Mr. Nimmo sends to Bidiane. As I dust my room in the morning, I hold conversations with him. "I say, 'How goes the Latin, little one, and the Greek? They are hard, but do not give up. Some day thou wilt be a clever man.' All the time I talk to him. I tell him of every happening on the Bay. Naturally I cannot put all this in my letters to him, that are few and short on account of--well you know why I do not write too much. Agapit, I do not dare to bring him back. He gives that dear young man an object in life; he also interests his mother, who now loves me, through my child. I speak of the schools, and yet it is not altogether for that, for have we not a good college for boys here on the Bay? It is something higher. It is for the good of souls that he stays away. Not yet, not yet, can I recall him. It would not seem right, and I cannot do what is wrong; also there is his father." Agapit, with a resigned gesture, drew on his gloves. He had been making a short call and was just about to return home. "Are you going to the inn?" asked Rose. "Why should I call there?" he said, a trifle irritably. "I have not the time to dance attendance on young girls." Rose was lost in gentle amazement at Agapit's recent attitude towards Bidiane. Her mind ran back to the long winter and summer evenings when he had come to her house, and had sat for hours reading the letters from Paris. He had taken a profound interest in the little renegade. Step by step he had followed her career. He had felt himself in a measure responsible for the successful issue of the venture in taking her abroad. And had he not often spoken delightedly of her return, and her probable dissemination among the young people of the stock of new ideas that she would be sure to bring with her? This was just what she had done. She had enlarged the circle of her acquaintance, and every one liked her, every one admired her. Day after day she flashed up and down the Bay, on the bicycle that she had brought with her from Paris, and, as she flew by the houses, even the old women left their windows and hobbled to the door to catch a gay salutation from her. Only Agapit was dissatisfied, only Agapit did not praise her, and Rose on this day, as she stood wistfully looking into his face, carried on an internal soliloquy. It must be because she represents Mr. Nimmo. She has been educated by him, she reveres him. He has only lent her to the Bay, and will some day take her away, and Agapit, who feels this, is jealous because he is rich, and because he will not forgive. It is strange that the best of men and women are so human; but our dear Lord will some day melt their hearts; and Rose, who had never disliked any one and had not an enemy in the world, checked a sigh and endeavored to turn her thoughts to some more agreeable subject. Agapit, however, still stood before her, and while he was there it was difficult to think of anything else. Then he presently asked a distracting question, and one that completely upset her again, although it was put in a would-be careless tone of voice. "Does the Poirier boy go much to the inn?" Rose tried to conceal her emotion, but it was hard for her to do so, as she felt that she had just been afforded a painful lightning glance into Agapit's mind. He felt that he was growing old. Bidiane was associating with the girls and young men who had been mere children five years before. The Poirier boy, in particular, had grown up with amazing rapidity and precociousness. He was handsomer, far handsomer than Agapit had ever been, he was also very clever, and very much made of on account of his being the most distinguished pupil in the college of Sainte-Anne, that was presided over by the Eudist fathers from France. "Agapit," she said, suddenly, and in sweet, patient alarm, "are we getting old, you and I?" "We shall soon be thirty," he said, gruffly, and he turned away. Rose had never before thought much on the subject of her age. Whatever traces the slow, painful years had left on her inner soul, there were no revealing marks on the outer countenance of her body. Her glass showed her still an unruffled, peaceful face, a delicate skin, an eye undimmed, and the same beautiful abundance of shining hair. "But, Agapit," she said, earnestly, "this is absurd. We are in our prime. Only you are obliged to wear glasses. And even if we were old, it would not be a terrible thing--there is too much praise of youth. It is a charming time, and yet it is a time of follies. As for me, I love the old ones. Only as we grow older do we find rest." "The follies of youth," repeated Agapit, sarcastically, "yes, such follies as we have had,--the racking anxiety to find food to put in one's mouth, to find sticks for the fire, books for the shelf. Yes, that is fine folly. I do not wonder that you sigh for age." Rose followed him to the front door, where he stood on the threshold and looked down at the river. "Some days I wish I were there," he said, wearily. Rose had come to the end of her philosophy, and in real alarm she examined his irritated, disheartened face. "I believe that you are hungry," she said at last. "No, I am not,--I have a headache. I was up all last night reading a book on Commercial Law. I could not eat to-day, but I am not hungry." "You are starving--come, take off your gloves," she said, peremptorily. "You shall have such a fine little dinner. I know what Célina is preparing, and I will assist her so that you may have it soon. Go lie down there in the sitting-room." "I do not wish to stay," said Agapit, disagreeably; "I am like a bear." "The first true word that you have spoken," she said, shaking a finger at him. "You are not like my good Agapit to-day. See, I will leave you for a time--Jovite, Jovite," and she went to the back door and waved her hand in the direction of the stable. "Go take out Monsieur LeNoir's horse. He stays to dinner." After dinner she persuaded him to go down to the inn with her. Bidiane was in the parlor, sitting before a piano that Vesper had had sent from Boston for her. Two young Acadien girls were beside her, and when they were not laughing and exchanging jokes, they sang French songs, the favorite one being "_Un Canadien Errant_," to which they returned over and over again. Several shy young captains from schooners in the Bay were sitting tilted back on chairs on the veranda, each one with a straw held between his teeth to give him countenance. Agapit joined them, while Rose went in the parlor and assisted the girls with their singing. She did not feel much older than they did. It was curious how this question of age oppressed some people; and she glanced through the window at Agapit's now reasonably contented face. "I am glad you came with him," whispered Bidiane, mischievously. "He avoids me now, and I am quite afraid of him. The poor man, he thought to find me a blue-stocking, discussing dictionaries and encyclopædias; he finds me empty-headed and silly, so he abandons me to the younger set, although I admire him so deeply. You, at least, will never give me up," and she sighed and laughed at the same time, and affectionately squeezed Rose's hand. Rose laughed too. She was becoming more light-hearted under Bidiane's half-nonsensical, half-sensible influence, and the two young Acadien girls politely averted their surprised eyes from the saint who would condescend to lay aside for a minute her crown of martyrdom. All the Bay knew that she had had some trouble, although they did not know what it was. CHAPTER V. BIDIANE PLAYS AN OVERTURE. "I've tried the force of every reason on him, Soothed and caressed, been angry, soothed again." ADDISON. A few days later, Bidiane happened to be caught in a predicament, when none of her new friends were near, and she was forced to avail herself of Agapit's assistance. She had been on her wheel nearly to Weymouth to make a call on one of her numerous and newly acquired girl friends. Merrily she was gliding homeward, and being on a short stretch of road bounded by hay-fields that contained no houses, and fancying that no one was near her, she lifted up her voice in a saucy refrain, "_L'homme qui m'aura, il n'aura pas tout ce qu'il voudra_" (The man that gets me, will not get all he wants). "_La femme qui m'aura, elle n'aura pas tout ce qu'elle voudra_" (The woman that gets me, she'll not get all she wants), chanted Agapit, who was coming behind in his buggy. Suddenly the girl's voice ceased; in the twinkling of an eye there had been a rip, a sudden evacuation of air from one of the rubber tubes on her wheel, and she had sprung to the road. "Good afternoon," said Agapit, driving up, "you have punctured a tire." "Yes," she replied, in dismay, "the wretched thing! If I knew which wicked stone it was that did it, I would throw it into the Bay." "What will you do?" "Oh, I do not know. I wish I had leather tires." "I will take you to Sleeping Water, mademoiselle, if you wish." "But I do not care to cause you that trouble," and she gazed mischievously and longingly up and down the road. "It will not be a trouble," he said, gravely. "Anything is a trouble that one does not enjoy." "But there is duty, mademoiselle." "Ah, yes, duty, dear duty," she said, making a face. "I have been instructed to love it, therefore I accept your offer. How fortunate for me that you happened to be driving by! Almost every one is haying. What shall we do with the wheel?" "We can perhaps lash it on behind. I have some rope. No, it is too large. Well, we can at least wheel it to the post-office in Belliveau's Cove,--or stay, give me your wrench. I will take off the wheel, carry it to Meteghan River, and have it mended. I am going to Chéticamp to-night. To-morrow I will call for it and bring it to you." "Oh, you are good,--I did not know that there is a repair shop at Meteghan River." "There is,--they even make wheels." "But the outside world does not know that. The train conductor told that if anything went wrong with my bicycle, I would have to send it to Yarmouth." "The outside world does not know of many things that exist in Clare. Will you get into the buggy, mademoiselle? I will attend to this." Bidiane meekly ensconced herself under the hood, and took the reins in her hands. "What are you going to do with the remains?" she asked, when Agapit put the injured wheel in beside her. "We might leave them at Madame LeBlanc's," and he pointed to a white house in the distance. "She will send them to you by some passing cart." "That is a good plan,--she is quite a friend of mine." "I will go on foot, if you will drive my horse." They at once set out, Bidiane driving, and Agapit walking silently along the grassy path at the side of the road. The day was tranquil, charming, and a perfect specimen of "the divine weather" that Saint-Mary's Bay is said to enjoy in summer. Earlier in the afternoon there had been a soft roll of pearl gray fog on the Bay, in and out of which the schooners had been slipping like phantom ships. Now it had cleared away, and the long blue sweep of water was open to them. They could plainly see the opposite shores of long Digby Neck,--each fisherman's cottage, each comfortable farmhouse, each bit of forest sloping to the water's edge. Over these hills hung the sun, hot and glowing, as a sun should be in haying time. On Digby Neck the people were probably making hay. Here about them there had been a general desertion of the houses for work in the fields. Men, women, and children were up on the slopes on their left, and down on the banks on their right, the women's cotton dresses shining in gay spots of color against the green foliage of the evergreen and hardwood trees that grew singly or in groups about the extensive fields of grass. Madame LeBlanc was not at home, so Agapit pinned a note to the bicycle, and left it standing outside her front gate with the comfortable assurance that, although it might be the object of curious glances, no one would touch it until the return of the mistress of the house. Then he entered the buggy, and, with one glance into Bidiane's eyes, which were dancing with merriment, he took the reins from her and drove on briskly. She stared at the magnificent panorama of purple hills and shining water spread out before them, and, remembering the company that she was in, tried to concentrate her attention on the tragic history of her countrymen. Her most earnest effort was in vain; she could not do so, and she endeavored to get further back, and con over the romantic exploits of Champlain and De Monts, whose oddly shaped ships had ploughed these waters; but here again she failed. Her mind came back, always irresistibly back, from the ancient past to the man of modern times seated beside her. She was sorry that he did not like her; she had tried hard to please him. He really was wiser than any one she knew; could she not bring about a better understanding with him? If he only knew how ignorant she felt, how anxious she was to learn, perhaps he would not be so hard on her. It was most unfortunate that she should have had on her bicycling dress. She had never heard him speak against the wheel as a means of exercise, yet she felt intuitively that he did not like it. He adored modest women, and in bicycling they were absolutely forced to occasionally show their ankles. Gradually and imperceptibly she drew her trim-gaitered feet under her blue skirt; then she put up a cautious hand to feel that her jaunty sailor hat was set straight on her coils of hair. Had he heard, she wondered, that six other Acadien girls, inspired by her example, were to have wheels? He would think that she had set the Bay crazy. Perhaps he regarded it as a misfortune that she had ever come back to it. If he were any other man she would be furiously angry with him. She would not speak to him again. And, with an abrupt shrug of her shoulders, she watched the squawking progress of a gull from the Bay back to the woods, and then said, impulsively, "It is going to rain." Agapit came out of his reverie and murmured an assent. Then he looked again into her yellowish brown, certainly charming eyes when full of sunlight, as they were at present from their unwinking stare at the bright sky. "Up the Bay, Digby Neck was our barometer," she said, thoughtfully. "When it grew purple, we were to have rain. Here one observes the gulls, and the sign never fails,--a noisy flight is rain within twenty-four hours. The old gull is telling the young ones to stay back by the lake in the forest, I suppose." Agapit tried to shake off his dreaminess and to carry on a conversation with her, but failed dismally, until he discovered that she was choking with suppressed laughter. "Oh, pardon, pardon, monsieur; I was thinking--ah! how delicious is one's surprise at some things--I am thinking how absurd. You that I fancied would be a brother--you almost as angelic as Mr. Nimmo--you do not care for me at all. You try so hard, but I plague you, I annoy. But what will you? I cannot make myself over. I talk all the Acadienism that I can, but one cannot forever linger on the old times. You yourself say that one should not." "So you think, mademoiselle, that I dislike you?" "Think it, my dear sir,--I know it. All the Bay knows it." "Then all the Bay is mistaken; I esteem you highly." "Actions speak louder than words," and her teasing glance played about his shining glasses. "In order to be polite you perjure yourself." "Mademoiselle!" "I am sorry to be so terribly plain-spoken," she said, nodding her head shrewdly, yet childishly. "But I understand perfectly that you think I have a feather for a brain. You really cannot stoop to converse with me. You say, 'Oh, that deceived Mr. Nimmo! He thinks he has accomplished a wonderful thing. He says, "Come now, see what I have done for a child of the Bay; I will send her back to you. Fall down and worship her."'" Agapit smiled despite himself. "Mademoiselle, you must not make fun of yourself." "But why not? It is my chief amusement. I am the most ridiculous mortal that ever lived, and I know how foolish I am; but why do you not exercise your charity? You are, I hear, kind and forbearing with the worst specimens of humanity on the Bay. Why should you be severe with me?" Agapit winced as if she had pinched him. "What do you wish me to do?" "Already it is known that you avoid me," she continued, airily; "you who are so much respected. I should like to have your good opinion, and, ridiculous as I am, you know that I am less so than I used to be." She spoke with a certain dignity, and Agapit was profoundly touched. "Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, "I am ashamed of myself. You do not understand me, and I assert again that I do not dislike you." "Then why don't you come to see me?" she asked, pointedly. "I cannot tell you," he said, and his eyes blazed excitedly. "Do not urge the question. However, I will come--yes, I will. You shall not complain of me in future." Bidiane felt slightly subdued, and listened in silence to his energetic remarks suddenly addressed to the horse, who had taken advantage of his master's wandering attention by endeavoring to draw the buggy into a ditch where grew some luscious bunches of grass. "There comes Pius Poirier," she said, after a time. The young Acadien was on horseback. His stolid, fine-featured face was as immovable as marble, as he jogged by, but there was some play between his violet eyes and Bidiane's tawny ones that Agapit did not catch, but strongly suspected. "Do you wish to speak to him?" he inquired, coldly, when Bidiane stretched her neck outside the buggy to gaze after him. "No," she said, composedly, "I only want to see how he sits his horse. He is my first admirer," she added, demurely, but with irrepressible glee. "Indeed,--I should fancy that mademoiselle might have had several." "What,--and I am only seventeen? You are crazy, my dear sir,--I am only beginning that sort of thing. It is very amusing to have young men come to see you; although, of course," she interpolated, modestly, "I shall not make a choice for some years yet." "I should hope not," said her companion, stiffly. "I say I have never had an admirer; yet sometimes gay young men would stare at me in the street,--I suppose on account of this red hair,--and Mr. Nimmo would be very much annoyed with them." "A city is a wicked place; it is well that you have come home." "With that I console myself when I am sometimes lonely for Paris," said Bidiane, wistfully. "I long to see those entrancing streets and parks, and to mingle with the lively crowds of people; but I say to myself what Mr. Nimmo often told me, that one can be as happy in one place as in another, and home is the best of all to keep the heart fresh. 'Bidiane,' he said, one day, when I was extolling the beauties of Paris, 'I would give it all for one glimpse of the wind-swept shores of your native Bay.'" "Ah, he still thinks that!" "Yes, yes; though I never after heard him say anything like it. I only know his feelings through his mother." Agapit turned the conversation to other subjects. He never cared to discuss Vesper Nimmo for any length of time. When they reached the Sleeping Water Inn, Bidiane hospitably invited him to stay to supper. "No, thank you,--I must hurry on to Chéticamp." "Good-by, then; you were kind to bring me home. Shall we not be better friends in future?" "Yes, yes," said Agapit, hurriedly. "I apologize, mademoiselle," and jumping into his buggy, he drove quickly away. Bidiane's gay face clouded. "You are not very polite to me, sir. Sometimes you smile like a sunbeam, and sometimes you glower like a rain-cloud, but I'll find out what is the matter with you, if it takes me a year. It is very discomposing to be treated so." CHAPTER VI. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS INTERFERES WITH THE EDUCATION OF MIRABELLE MARIE. "Fair is the earth and fair is the sky; God of the tempest, God of the calm, What must be heaven when here is such balm?" --_Aminta._ Bidiane, being of a practical turn of mind, and having a tremendous fund of energy to bestow upon the world in some way or other, was doing her best to follow the hint given her by Vesper Nimmo, that she should, as a means of furthering her education, spend some time at the Sleeping Water Inn, with the object of imparting to Mirabelle Marie a few ideas hitherto outside her narrow range of thought. Sometimes the girl became provoked with her aunt, sometimes she had to check herself severely, and rapidly mutter Vesper's incantation, "Do not despise any one; if you do, it will be at a great loss to yourself." At other times Bidiane had no need to think of the incantation. Her aunt was so good-natured, so forgiving, she was so full of pride in her young niece, that it seemed as if only the most intense provocation could justify any impatience with her. Mirabelle Marie loved Bidiane almost as well as she loved her own children, and it was only some radical measure, such as the changing of her sneaks at sundown for a pair of slippers, or the sitting in the parlor instead of the kitchen, that excited her rebellion. However, she readily yielded,--these skirmishes were not the occurrences that vexed Bidiane's soul. The renewed battles were the things that discouraged her. No victory was sustained. Each day she must contend for what had been conceded the day before, and she was tortured by the knowledge that so little hold had she on Mirabelle Marie's slippery soul that, if she were to leave Sleeping Water on any certain day, by the next one matters would at once slip back to their former condition. "Do not be discouraged," Vesper wrote her. "The Bay was not built in a day. Some of your ancestors lived in camps in the woods." This was an allusion on his part to the grandmother of Mrs. Watercrow, who had actually been a squaw, and Bidiane, as a highly civilized being, winced slightly at it. Very little of the Indian strain had entered her veins, except a few drops that were exhibited in a passion for rambling in the woods. She was more like her French ancestors, but her aunt had the lazy, careless blood, as had also her children. One of the chief difficulties that Bidiane had to contend with, in her aunt, was her irreligion. Mirabelle Marie had weak religious instincts. She had as a child, and as a very young woman, been an adherent of the Roman Catholic Church, and had obtained some grasp of its doctrines. When, in order to become "stylish," she had forsaken this church, she found herself in the position of a forlorn dog who, having dropped his substantial bone, finds himself groping for a shadow. Protestantism was an empty word to her. She could not comprehend it; and Bidiane, although a Protestant herself, shrewdly made up her mind that there was no hope for her aunt save in the church of her forefathers. However, in what way to get her back to it,--that was the question. She scolded, entreated, reasoned, but all in vain. Mirabelle Marie lounged about the house all day Sunday, very often, strange to say, amusing herself with declamations against the irreligion of the people of Boston. Bidiane's opportunity to change this state of affairs at last came, and all unthinkingly she embraced it. The opportunity began on a hot and windy afternoon, a few days after her drive with Agapit. She sat on the veranda reading, until struck by a sudden thought which made her close her book, and glance up and down the long road, to see if the flying clouds of dust were escorting any approaching traveller to the inn. No one was coming, so she hastily left the house and ran across the road to the narrow green field that lay between the inn and the Bay. The field was bounded by straggling rows of raspberry bushes, and over the bushes hung a few apple-trees,--meek, patient trees, their backs bent from stooping before the strong westerly winds, their short, stubby foliage blown all over their surprised heads. There was a sheep-pen in the corner of the field next the road, and near it was a barred gate, opening on a winding path that led down to the flat shore. Bidiane went through the gate, frowned slightly at a mowing-machine left out-of-doors for many days by the careless Claude, then laughed at the handle of its uplifted brake, that looked like a disconsolate and protesting arm raised to the sky. All the family were in the hay field. Two white oxen drew the hay wagon slowly to and fro, while Claudine and the two boys circled about it, raking together scattered wisps left from the big cocks that Claude threw up to Mirabelle Marie. The mistress of the house was in her element. She gloried in haying, which was the only form of exercise that appealed in the least to her. Her face was overspread by a grin of delight, her red dress fluttered in the strong breeze, and she gleefully jumped up and down on top of the load, and superimposed her fat jolly weight on the masses of hay. Bidiane ran towards them, dilating her small nostrils as she ran to catch the many delicious odors of the summer air. The strong perfume of the hay overpowered them all, and, in an intoxication of delight, she dropped on a heap of it, and raised an armful to her face. A squeal from Claudine roused her. Her rake had uncovered a mouse's nest, and she was busily engaged in killing every one of the tiny velvety creatures. "But why do you do it?" asked Bidiane, running up to her. Claudine stared at her. She was a magnificent specimen of womanhood as she stood in the blazing light of the sun, and Bidiane, even in the midst of her subdued indignation, thought of some lines in the Shakespeare that she had just laid down: "'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship." Claudine was carrying on a vigorous line of reasoning. She admired Bidiane intensely, and she quietly listened with pleasure to what she called her _rocamboles_ of the olden times, which were Bidiane's tales of Acadien exploits and sufferings. She was a more apt pupil than the dense and silly Mirabelle Marie. "If I was a mouse I wouldn't like to be killed," she said, presently, going on with her raking; and Bidiane, having made her think, was satisfied. "Now, Claudine," she said, "you must be tired. Give me your rake, and do you go up to the house and rest." "Yes, go, Claudine," said Mirabelle Marie, from her height, "you look drug out." "I am not tired," said Claudine, in French, "and I shall not give my rake to you, Bidiane. You are not used to work." Bidiane bubbled over into low, rippling laughter. "I delicate,--ah, that is good! Give me your rake, Claude. You go up to the barn now, do you not?" Claude nodded, and extended a strong hand to assist his wife in sliding to the ground. Then, accompanied by his boys, he jogged slowly after the wagon to the barn, where the oxen would be unyoked, and the grasping pitcher would lift the load in two or three mouthfuls to the mows. Bidiane threw down her rake and ran to the fence for some raspberries, and while her hands were busy with the red fruit, her bright eyes kept scanning the road. She watched a foot-passenger coming slowly from the station, pausing at the corner, drifting in a leisurely way towards the inn, and finally, after a glance at Mirabelle Marie's conspicuous gown, climbing the fence, and moving deliberately towards her. "H'm--a snake in the grass," murmured Bidiane, keeping an eye on the new arrival, and presently she, too, made her way towards her aunt and Claudine, who had ceased work and were seated on the hay. "This is Nannichette," said Mirabelle Marie, somewhat apprehensively, when Bidiane reached them. "Yes, I know," said the girl, and she nodded stiffly to the woman, who was almost as fat and as easy-going as Mirabelle Marie herself. Nannichette was half Acadien and half English, and she had married a pure Indian who lived back in the woods near the Sleeping Water Lake. She was not a very desirable acquaintance for Mirabelle Marie, but she was not a positively bad woman, and no one would think of shutting a door against her, although her acquaintance was not positively sought after by the scrupulous Acadiens. "We was gabbin' about diggin' for gold one day, Nannichette and I," said Mirabelle Marie, insinuatingly. "She knows a heap about good places, and the good time to dig. You tell us, Biddy,--I mean Bidiane,--some of yer yarns about the lake. Mebbe there's some talk of gold in 'em." Bidiane sat down on the hay. If she talked, it would at least prevent Nannichette from pouring her nonsense into her aunt's ear, so she began. "I have not yet seen this lake of _L'Eau Dormante_, but I have read of it. Long, long ago, before the English came to this province, and even before the French came, there was an Indian encampment on the shores of this deep, smooth, dark lake. Many canoes shot gaily across its glassy surface, many camp-fires sent up their smoke from among the trees to the clear, blue sky. The encampment was an old, old one. The Indians had occupied it for many winters; they planned to occupy it for many more, but one sweet spring night, when they were dreaming of summer roamings, a band of hostile Indians came slipping behind the tree-trunks. A bright blaze shot up to the clear sky, and the bosom of Sleeping Water looked as if some one had drawn a bloody finger across it. Following this were shrieks and savage yells, and afterward a profound silence. The Indians left, and the shuddering trees grew closer together to hide the traces of the savage invaders--no, the marks of devastation," she said, stopping suddenly and correcting herself, for she had a good memory, and at times was apt to repeat verbatim the words of some of her favorite historians or story-tellers. "The green running vines, also," she continued, "made haste to spread over the blackened ground, and the leaves fell quietly over the dead bodies and warmly covered them. Years went by, the leaf-mould had gathered thick over the graves of the Indians, and then, on a memorable day, the feast of Sainte-Anne's, the French discovered the lovely, silent Sleeping Water, the gem of the forest, and erected a fort on its banks. The royal flag floated over the trees, a small space of ground was cleared for the planting of corn, and a garden was laid out, where seeds from old France grew and flourished, for no disturbing gales from the Bay ever reached this sanctuary of the wildwood. "All went merrily as a marriage bell until one winter night, when the bosom of the lake was frosted with ice, and the snow-laden branches of the trees hung heavily earthward. Then, in the hush before morning, a small detachment of men on snowshoes, arrayed in a foreign uniform, and carrying hatchets in their hands--" "More Injuns!" gasped Mirabelle Marie, clapping her hand to her mouth in lively distress at Bidiane's tragic manner. "No, no! I didn't say tomahawks," said Bidiane, who started nervously at the interruption; "the hatchets weren't for killing,--they were to cut the branches. These soldiers crept stealthily and painfully through the underbrush, where broken limbs and prickly shrubs stretched out detaining arms to hold them back; but they would not be held, for the lust of murder was in their hearts. When they reached the broad and open lake--" "You jist said it was frozen," interrupted the irrepressible Mirabelle Marie. "I beg your pardon,--the ice-sealed sheet of water,--the soldiers threw away their hatchets and unslung their guns, and again a shout of horror went up to the clear vault of heaven. White men slew white men, for the invaders were not Indians, but English soldiers, and there were streaks of crimson on the snow where the French soldiers laid themselves down to die. "There seemed to be a curse on the lake, and it was deserted for many years, until a band of sorrowing Acadien exiles was forced to take refuge in the half-ruined fort. They summered and wintered there, until they all died of a strange sickness and were buried by one man who, only, survived. He vowed that the lake was haunted, and would never be an abode for human beings; so he came to the shore and built himself a log cabin, that he occupied in fear and trembling until at last the time came when the French were no longer persecuted." "Agapit LeNoir also says that the lake is haunted," exclaimed Claudine, in excited French. "He hates the little river that comes stealing from it. He likes the Bay, the open Bay. There is no one here that loves the river but Rose à Charlitte." "But dere is gold dere,--heaps," said the visitor, in English, and her eyes glistened. "Only foolish people say that," remarked Claudine, decidedly, "and even if there should be gold there, it would be cursed." "You not think that," said Nannichette, shrinking back. "Oh, how stupid all this is!" said Bidiane. "Up the Bay I used to hear this talk of gold. You remember, my aunt?" Mirabelle Marie's shoulders shook with amusement. "_Mon jheu_, yes, on the stony Dead Man's Point, where there ain't enough earth to _fricasser les cailloux_" (fricassee the pebbles); "it's all dug up like graveyards. Come on, Nannichette, tell us ag'in of yer fantome." Nannichette became suddenly shy, and Mirabelle Marie took it upon herself to be spokeswoman. "She was rockin' her baby, when she heard a divil of a noise. The ceiling gapped at her, jist like you open yer mouth, and a fantome voice says--" "'Dere is gole in Sleepin' Water Lake,'" interrupted Nannichette, hastily. "'Only women shall dig,--men cannot fine.'" "An' Nannichette was squshed,--she fell ag'in the floor with her baby." "And then she ran about to see if she could find some women foolish enough to believe this," said Bidiane, with fine youthful disdain. A slow color crept into Nannichette's brown cheek. "Dere is gole dere," she said, obstinately. "De speerit tell me where to look." "That was Satan who spoke to you, Nannichette," said Claudine, seriously; "or maybe you had had a little rum. Come now, hadn't you?" Nannichette scowled, while Mirabelle Marie murmured, with reverent admiration, "I dessay the divil knows where there is lots of gold." "It drives me frantic to hear you discuss this subject," said Bidiane, suddenly springing to her feet. "Oh, if you knew how ignorant it sounds, how way back in the olden times! What would the people in Paris say if they could hear you? Oh, please, let us talk of something else; let us mention art." "What's dat?" asked Nannichette, pricking up her ears. "It is all about music, and writing poetry, and making lovely pictures, and all kinds of elegant things,--it elevates your mind and soul. Don't talk about hateful things. What do you want to live back in the woods for? Why don't you come out to the shore?" "Dat's why I wan' de gole," said Nannichette, triumphantly. "Of'en I use to hunt for some of Cap'en Kidd's pots." "Good gracious!" said Bidiane, with an impatient gesture, "how much money do you suppose that man had? They are searching for his treasure all along the coast. I don't believe he ever had a bit. He was a wicked old pirate,--I wouldn't spend his money if I found it--" Mirabelle Marie and Nannichette surveyed each other's faces with cunning, glittering eyes. There was a secret understanding between them; no speech was necessary, and they contemplated Bidiane as two benevolent wild beasts might survey an innocent and highly cultured lamb who attempted to reason with them. Bidiane dimly felt her powerlessness, and, accompanied by Claudine, went back to her raking, and left the two sitting on the hay. While the girl was undressing that night, Claudine tapped at her door. "It is all arranged, Bidiane. They are going to dig." Bidiane impatiently shook her hanging mass of hair, and stamped her foot on the floor. "They shall not." "Nannichette did not go away," continued Claudine. "She hung about the stable, and Mirabelle Marie took her up some food. I was feeding the pig, and I overheard whispering. They are to get some women together, and Nannichette will lead them to the place the spirit told her of." "Oh, the simpleton! She shall not come here again, and my aunt shall not accompany her--but where do they wish to go?" "To the Sleeping Water Lake." "Claudine, you know there is no gold there. The Indians had none, the French had none,--where would the poor exiles get it?" "All this is reasonable, but there are people who are foolish,--always foolish. I tell you, this seeking for gold is like a fever. One catches it from another. I had an uncle who thought there was a treasure hid on his farm; he dug it all over, then he went crazy." Bidiane's head, that, in the light of her lamp, had turned to a dull red-gold, sank on her breast. "I have it," she said at last, flinging it up, and choking with irrepressible laughter. "Let them go,--we will play them a trick. Nothing else will cure my aunt. Listen,--" and she laid a hand on the shoulder of the young woman confronting her, and earnestly unfolded a primitive plan. Claudine at once fell in with it. She had never yet disapproved of a suggestion of Bidiane, and after a time she went chuckling to bed. CHAPTER VII. GHOSTS BY SLEEPING WATER. "Which apparition, it seems, was you." --_Tatler._ The next day Claudine's left eyelid trembled in Bidiane's direction. The girl followed her to the pantry, where she heard, murmured over a pan of milk, "They go to-night, as soon as it is dark,--Mirabelle Marie, Suretta, and Mosée-Délice." "Very well," said Bidiane, curling her lip, "we will go too." Accordingly, that evening, when Mirabelle Marie clapped her rakish hat on her head,--for nothing would induce her to wear a handkerchief,--and said that she was going to visit a sick neighbor, Bidiane demurely commended her thoughtfulness, and sent an affecting message to the invalid. However, the mistress of the inn had no sooner disappeared than her younger helpmeets tied black handkerchiefs on their heads, and slipped out to the yard, each carrying a rolled-up sheet and a paper of pins. With much suppressed laughter they glided up behind the barn, and struck across the fields to the station road. When half-way there, Bidiane felt something damp and cold touch her hand, and, with a start and a slight scream, discovered that her uncle's dog, Bastarache, in that way signified his wish to join the expedition. "Come, then, good dog," she said, in French, for he was a late acquisition and, having been brought up in the woods, understood no English, "thou, too, shalt be a ghost." It was a dark, furiously windy night, for the hot gale that had been blowing over the Bay for three days was just about dying away with a fiercer display of energy than before. The stars were out, but they did not give much light, and Bidiane and Claudine had only to stand a little aside from the road, under a group of spruces, in order to be completely hidden from the three women as they went tugging by. They had met at the corner, and, in no fear of discovery, for the night was most unpleasant and there were few people stirring, they trudged boldly on, screaming neighborhood news at the top of their voices, in order to be heard above the noise of the wind. Bidiane and Claudine followed them at a safe distance. "_Mon Dieu_, but Mirabelle Marie's fat legs will ache to-morrow," said Claudine, "she that walks so little." "If it were an honest errand that she was going on, she would have asked for the horse. As it is, she was ashamed to do so." The three women fairly galloped over the road to the station, for, at first, both tongues and heels were excited, and even Mirabelle Marie, although she was the only fat one of the party, managed to keep up with the others. To Claudine, Bidiane, and the dog, the few miles to the station were a mere bagatelle. However, after crossing the railway track, they were obliged to go more slowly, for the three in front had begun to flag. They also had stopped gossiping, and when an occasional wagon approached, they stepped into the bushes beside the road until it had passed by. The dog, in great wonderment of mind, chafed at the string that Bidiane took from her pocket and fastened around his neck. He scented his mistress on ahead, and did not understand why the two parties might not be amicably united. A mile beyond the station, the three gold-seekers left the main road and plunged into a rough wood-track that led to the lake. Here the darkness was intense; the trees formed a thick screen overhead, through which only occasional glimpses of a narrow lane of stars could be obtained. "This is terrible," gasped Bidiane, as her foot struck a root; "lift your feet high, Claudine." Claudine gave her a hand. She was almost hysterical from listening to the groaning on ahead. "Since the day of my husband's death, I have not laughed so much," she said, winking away the nervous tears in her eyes. "I do not love fun as much as some people, but when I laugh, I laugh hard." "My aunt will be in bed to-morrow," sighed Bidiane; "what a pity that she is such a goose." "She is tough," giggled Claudine, "do not disturb yourself. It is you that I fear for." At last, the black, damp, dark road emerged on a clearing. There stood the Indian's dwelling,--small and yellow, with a fertile garden before it, and a tiny, prosperous orchard at the back. "You must enter this house some day," whispered Claudine. "Everything shines there, and they are well fixed. Nannichette has a sewing-machine, and a fine cook-stove, and when she does not help her husband make baskets, she sews and bakes." "Will her husband approve of this expedition?" "No, no, he must have gone to the shore, or Nannichette would not undertake it,--listen to what Mirabelle Marie says." The fat woman had sunk exhausted on the doorstep of the yellow house. "Nannichette, I be _dèche_ if I go a step furder, till you gimme _checque chouse pour mouiller la langue_" (give me something to wet my tongue). "All right," said Nannichette, in the soft, drawling tones that she had caught from the Indians, and she brought her out a pitcher of milk. Mirabelle Marie put the pitcher to her lips, and gurgled over the milk a joyful thanksgiving that she had got away from the rough road, and the rougher wind, that raged like a bull; then she said, "Your husband is away?" "No," said Nannichette, in some embarrassment, "he ain't, but come in." Mirabelle Marie rose, and with her companions went into the house, while Bidiane and Claudine crept to the windows. "Dear me, this is the best Indian house that I ever saw," said Bidiane, taking a survey, through the cheap lace curtains, of the sewing-machine, the cupboard of dishes, and the neat tables and chairs inside. Then she glided on in a voyage of discovery around the house, skirting the diminutive bedrooms, where half a dozen children lay snoring in comfortable beds, and finally arriving outside a shed, where a tall, slight Indian was on his knees, planing staves for a tub by the light of a lamp on a bracket above him. His wife's work lay on the floor. When not suffering from the gold fever, she twisted together the dried strips of maple wood and scented grasses, and made baskets that she sold at a good price. The Indian did not move an eyelid, but he plainly saw Bidiane and Claudine, and wondered why they were not with the other women, who, in some uneasiness of mind, stood in the doorway, looking at him over each other's shoulders. After his brief nod and taciturn "Hullo, ladies," his wife said, "We go for walk in woods." "What for you lie?" he said, in English, for the Micmacs of the Bay are accomplished linguists, and make use of three languages. "You go to dig gold," and he grunted contemptuously. No one replied to him, and he continued, "Ladies, all religions is good. I cannot say, you go hell 'cause you Catholic, an' I go heaven 'cause I Protestant. All same with God, if you believe your religion. But your priesties not say to dig gold." He took up the stave that he had laid down, and went on with his work of smoothing it, while the four "ladies," Mirabelle Marie, Suretta, Mosée-Délice, and his wife, appeared to be somewhat ashamed of themselves. "'Pon my soul an' body, there ain't no harm in diggin' gold," said Mirabelle Marie. "That gives us fun." "How many you be?" he asked. "Four," said Nannichette, who was regarding her lord and master with some shyness; for stupid as she was, she recognized the fact that he was the more civilized being, and that the prosperity of their family was largely due to him. The Indian's liquid eyes glistened for an instant towards the window, where stood Bidiane and Claudine. "Take care, ladies, there be ghosties in the woods." The four women laughed loudly, but in a shaky manner; then taking each a handful of raspberries, from a huge basketful that Nannichette offered them, and that was destined for the preserve pot on the morrow, they once more plunged into the dark woods. Bidiane and Claudine restrained the leaping dog, and quietly followed them. The former could not conceal her delight when they came suddenly upon the lake. It lay like a huge, dusky mirror, turned up to the sky with a myriad stars piercing its glassy bosom. "Stop," murmured Claudine. The four women had paused ahead of them. They were talking and gesticulating violently, for all conversation was forbidden while digging. One word spoken aloud, and the charm would be broken, the spirit would rush angrily from the spot. Therefore they were finishing up their ends of talk, and Nannichette was assuring them that she would take them to the exact spot revealed to her in the vision. Presently they set off in Indian file, Nannichette in front, as the one led by the spirit, and carrying with her a washed and polished spade, that she had brought from her home. Claudine and Bidiane were careful not to speak, for there was not a word uttered now by the women in front, and the pursuers needed to follow them with extreme caution. On they went, climbing silently over the grassy mounds that were now the only reminders of the old French fort, or stumbling unexpectedly and noisily into the great heap of clam shells, whose contents had been eaten by the hungry exiles of long ago. At last they stopped. Nannichette stared up at the sky, down at the ground, across the lake on her right, and into the woods on her left, and then pointed to a spot in the grass, and with a magical flourish of the spade began to dig. Having an Indian husband, she was accustomed to work out-of-doors, and was therefore able to dig for a long time before she became sensible of fatigue, and was obliged mutely to extend the spade to Suretta. Not so enduring were the other women. Their ancestors had ploughed and reaped, but Acadiennes of the present day rarely work on the farms, unless it is during the haying season. Suretta soon gave out. Mosée-Délice took her place, and Mirabelle Marie hung back until the last. Bidiane and Claudine withdrew among the trees, stifling their laughter and trying to calm the dog, who had finally reached a state of frenzy at this mysterious separation. "My unfortunate aunt!" murmured Bidiane; "do let us put an end to this." Claudine was snickering convulsively. She had begun to array herself in one of the sheets, and was transported with amusement and anticipation. Meanwhile, doubt and discord had reared their disturbing heads among the members of the digging party. Mirabelle Marie persisted in throwing up the spade too soon, and the other women, regarding her with glowing, eloquent looks, quietly arranged that the honorable agricultural implement, now perverted to so unbecoming a use, should return to her hands with disquieting frequency. The earth was soft here by the lake, yet it was heavy to lift out, for the hole had now become quite deep. Suddenly, to the horror and anger of Nannichette and the other two women, both of whom were beginning to have mysterious warnings and impressions that they were now on the brink of discovery of one pot of gold, and perhaps two, there was an impatient exclamation from Mirabelle Marie. "The divil!" she cried, and her voice broke out shrilly in the deathly silence; "Bidiane was right. It ain't no speerit you saw. I'm goin'," and she scrambled out of the hole. With angry reproaches for her precipitancy and laziness, the other women fell upon her with their tongues. She had given them this long walk to the lake, she had spoiled everything, and, as their furious voices smote the still air, Bidiane, Claudine, and the dog emerged slowly and decently from the heavy gloom behind them like ghosts rising from the lake. "I will give you a bit of my sheet," Bidiane had said to Bastarache; consequently he stalked beside them like a diminutive bogey in a graceful mantle of white. "_Ah, mon jheu! chesque j'vois?_" (what do I see), screamed Suretta, who was the first to catch sight of them. "Ten candles to the Virgin if I get out of this!" and she ran like a startled deer. With various expressions of terror, the others followed her. They carried with them the appearance of the white ethereal figures, standing against the awful black background of the trees, and as they ran, their shrieks and yells of horror, particularly those from Mirabelle Marie, were so heartrending that Bidiane, in sudden compunction, screamed to her, "Don't you know me, my aunt? It is Bidiane, your niece. Don't be afraid!" Mirabelle Marie was making so much noise herself that she could scarcely have heard a trumpet sounding in her ears, and fear lent her wings of such extraordinary vigor in flight that she was almost immediately out of sight. Bidiane turned to the dog, who was tripping and stumbling inside his snowy drapery, and to Claudine, who was shrieking with delight at him. "Go then, good dog, console your mistress," she said. "Follow those piercing screams that float backward," and she was just about to release him when she was obliged to go to the assistance of Claudine, who had caught her foot, and had fallen to the ground, where she lay overcome by hysterical laughter. Bidiane had to get water from the lake to dash on her face, and when at last they were ready to proceed on their way, the forest was as still as when they had entered it. "Bah, I am tired of this joke," said Bidiane. "We have accomplished our object. Let us throw these things in the lake. I am ashamed of them;" and she put a stone inside their white trappings, and hurled them into Sleeping Water, which mutely received and swallowed them. "Now," she said, impatiently, "let us overtake them. I am afraid lest Mirabelle Marie stumble, she is so heavy." Claudine, leaning against a tree and mopping her eyes, vowed that it was the best joke that she had ever heard of; then she joined Bidiane, and they hurriedly made their way to the yellow cottage. It was deserted now, except for the presence of the six children of mixed blood, who were still sleeping like six little dark logs, laid three on a bed. "We shall overtake them," said Bidiane; "let us hurry." However, they did not catch up to them on the forest path, nor even on the main road, for when the terrified women had rushed into the presence of the Indian and had besought him to escort them away from the spirit-haunted lake, that amused man, with a cheerful grunt, had taken them back to the shore by a short cut known only to himself. Therefore, when Bidiane and Claudine arrived breathlessly home, they found Mirabelle Marie there before them. She sat in a rocking-chair in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by a group of sympathizers, who listened breathlessly to her tale of woe, that she related with chattering teeth. Bidiane ran to her and threw her arms about her neck. "_Mon jheu_, Biddy, I've got such a fright. I'm mos' dead. Three ghosties came out of Sleepin' Water, and chased us,--we were back for gold. Suretta an' Mosée-Délice have run home. They're mos' scairt to pieces. Oh, I'll never sin again. I wisht I'd made my Easter duties. I'll go to confession to-morrer." "It was I, my aunt," cried Bidiane, in distress. "It was awful," moaned Mirabelle Marie. "I see the speerit of me mother, I see the speerit of me sister, I see the speerit of me leetle lame child." "It was the dog," exclaimed Bidiane, and, gazing around the kitchen for him, she discovered Agapit sitting quietly in a corner. "Oh, how do you do?" she said, in some embarrassment; then she again gave her attention to her distressed aunt. "The dogue,--Biddy, you ain't crazy?" "Yes, yes, the dog and Claudine and I. See how she is laughing. We heard your plans, we followed you, we dressed in sheets." "The dogue," reiterated Mirabelle Marie, in blank astonishment, and pointing to Bastarache, who lay under the sofa solemnly winking at her. "Ain't he ben plumped down there ever since supper, Claude?" "Yes, he's ben there." "But Claude sleeps in the evenings," urged Bidiane. "I assure you that Bastarache was with us." "Oh, the dear leetle liar," said Mirabelle Marie, affectionately embracing her. "But I'm glad to git back again to yeh." "I'm telling the truth," said Bidiane, desperately. "Can't you speak, Claudine?" "We did go," said Claudine, who was still possessed by a demon of laughter. "We followed you." "Followed us to Sleepin' Water! You're lyin', too. _Sakerjé_, it was awful to see me mother and me sister and the leetle dead child," and she trotted both feet wildly on the floor, while her rolling eye sought comfort from Bidiane. "What shall I do?" said Bidiane. "Mr. LeNoir, you will believe me. I wanted to cure my aunt of her foolishness. We took sheets--" "Sheets?" repeated Mirabelle. "Whose sheets?" "Yours, my aunt,--oh, it was very bad in us, but they were old ones; they had holes." "What did you do with 'em?" "We threw them in the lake." "Come, now, look at that, ha, ha," and Mirabelle Marie laughed in a quavering voice. "I can see Claudine throwing sheets in the lake. She would make pickin's of 'em. Don't lie, Bidiane, me girl, or you'll see ghosties. You want to help your poor aunt,--you've made up a nice leetle lie, but don't tell it. See, Jude and Edouard are heatin' some soup. Give some to Agapit LeNoir and take a cup yourself." Bidiane, with a gesture of utter helplessness, gave up the discussion and sat down beside Agapit. "You believe me, do you not?" she asked, under cover of the joyful bustle that arose when the two boys began to pass around the soup. "Yes," he replied, making a wry face over his steaming cup. "And what do you think of me?" she asked, anxiously. Agapit, although an ardent Acadien, and one bent on advancing the interests of his countrymen in every way, had yet little patience with the class to which Mirabelle Marie belonged. Apparently kind and forbearing with them, he yet left them severely alone. His was the party of progress, and he had been half amused, half scornful of the efforts that Bidiane had put forth to educate her deficient relative. "On general principles," he said, coolly, "it is better not to chase a fat aunt through dark woods; yet, in this case, I would say it has done good." "I did not wish to be heartless," said Bidiane, with tears in her eyes. "I wished to teach her a lesson." "Well, you have done so. Hear her swear that she will go to mass,--she will, too. The only way to work upon such a nature is through fear." "I am glad to have her go to mass, but I did not wish her to go in this way." "Be thankful that you have attained your object," he said, dryly. "Now I must go. I hoped to spend the evening with you, and hear you sing." "You will come again, soon?" said Bidiane, following him to the door. "It is a good many miles to come, and a good many to go back, mademoiselle. I have not always the time--and, besides that, I have soon to go to Halifax on business." "Well, I thank you for keeping your promise to come," said Bidiane, humbly, and with gratitude. She was completely unnerved by the events of the evening, and was in no humor to find fault. Agapit clapped his hat firmly on his head as a gust of wind whirled across the yard and tried to take it from him. "We are always glad to see you here," said Bidiane, wistfully, as she watched him step across to the picket fence, where his white horse shone through the darkness; "though I suppose you have pleasant company in Weymouth. I have been introduced to some nice English girls from there." "Yes, there are nice ones," he said. "I should like to see more of them, but I am usually busy in the afternoons and evenings." "Do not work too hard,--that is a mistake. One must enjoy life a little." He gathered up the reins in his hands and paused a minute before he stepped into the buggy. "I suppose I seem very old to you." She hesitated for an instant, and the wind dying down a little seemed to take the words from her lips and softly breathe them against his dark, quiet face. "Not so very old,--not as old as you did at first. If I were as old as you, I should not do such silly things." He stared solemnly at her wind-blown figure swaying lightly to and fro on the gravel, and at the little hands put up to keep her dishevelled hair from her eyes and cheeks, which were both glowing from her hurried scamper home. "Are you really worried because you played this trick on your aunt?" "Yes, terribly, she has been like a mother to me. I would be ashamed for Mr. Nimmo to know." "And will you lie awake to-night and vex yourself about it?" "Oh, yes, yes,--how can you tell? Perhaps you also have troubles." Agapit laughed in sudden and genuine amusement. "Mademoiselle, my cousin, let me say something to you that you may perhaps remember when you are older. It is this: you have at present about as much comprehension and appreciation of real heart trouble, and of mental struggles that tear one first this way, then that way,--you have about as much understanding of them as has that kitten sheltering itself behind you." Bidiane quietly stowed away this remark among the somewhat heterogeneous furniture of her mind; then she said, "I feel quite old when I talk to my aunt and to Claudine." "You are certainly ahead of them in some mental experiences, but you are not yet up to some other people." "I am not up to Madame de Forêt," she said, gently, "nor to you. I feel sure now that you have some troubles." "And what do you imagine they are?" "I imagine that they are things that you will get over," she said, with spirit. "You are not a coward." He smiled, and softly bade her good night. "Good night, _mon cousin_," she said, gravely, and taking the crying kitten in her arms, she put her head on one side and listened until the sound of the carriage wheels grew faint in the distance. CHAPTER VIII. FAIRE BOMBANCE. "Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate, And see their offspring thus degenerate, How we contend for birth and names unknown; And build on their past acts, and not our own; They'd cancel records and their tombs deface, And then disown the vile, degenerate race; For families is all a cheat, 'Tis personal virtue only, makes us great." THE TRUE BORN ENGLISHMAN. DEFOE. Bidiane was late for supper, and Claudine was regretfully remarking that the croquettes and the hot potatoes in the oven would all be burnt to cinders, when the young person herself walked into the kitchen, her face a fiery crimson, a row of tiny beads of perspiration at the conjunction of her smooth forehead with her red hair. "I have had a glorious ride," she said, opening the door of the big oven and taking out the hot dishes. Claudine laid aside the towel with which she was wiping the cups and saucers that Mirabelle Marie washed. "Go sit down at the table, Bidiane; you must be weary." The girl, nothing loath, went to the dining-room, while Claudine brought her in hot coffee, buttered toast, and preserved peaches and cream, and then returning to the kitchen watched her through the open door, as she satisfied the demands of a certainly prosperous appetite. "And yet, it is not food I want, as much as drink," said Bidiane, gaily, as she poured herself out a second glass of milk. "Ah, the bicycle, Claudine. If you rode, you would know how one's mouth feels like a dry bone." "I think I would like a wheel," said Claudine, modestly. "I have enough money saved." "Have you? Then you must get one, and I will teach you to ride." "How would one go about it?" "We will do it in this way," said Bidiane, in a business-like manner, for she loved to arrange the affairs of other people. "How much money have you?" "I have one hundred dollars." "'Pon me soul an' body, I'd have borrered some if I'd known that," interrupted Mirabelle Marie, with a chuckle. "Good gracious," observed Bidiane, "you don't want more than half that. We will give fifty to one of the men on the schooners. Isn't _La Sauterelle_ going to Boston, to-morrow?" "Yes; the cook was just in for yeast." "Has he a head for business?" "Pretty fair." "Does he know anything about machines?" "He once sold sewing-machines, and he also would show how to work them." "The very man,--we will give him the fifty dollars and tell him to pick you out a good wheel and bring it back in the schooner." "Then there will be no duty to pay," said Claudine, joyfully. "H'm,--well, perhaps we had better pay the duty," said Bidiane; "it won't be so very much. It is a great temptation to smuggle things from the States, but I know we shouldn't. By the way, I must tell Mirabelle Marie a good joke I just heard up the Bay. My aunt,--where are you?" Mirabelle Marie came into the room and seated herself near Claudine. "Marc à Jaddus à Dominique's little girl gave him away," said Bidiane, laughingly. "She ran over to the custom-house in Belliveau's Cove and told the man what lovely things her papa had brought from Boston, in his schooner, and the customs man hurried over, and Marc had to pay--I must tell you, too, that I bought some white ribbon for Alzélie Gauterot, while I was in the Cove," and Bidiane pulled a little parcel from her pocket. Mirabelle Marie was intensely interested. Ever since the affair of the ghosts, which Bidiane had given up trying to persuade her was not ghostly, but very material, she had become deeply religious, and took her whole family to mass and vespers every Sunday. Just now the children of the parish were in training for their first communion. She watched the little creatures daily trotting up the road towards the church to receive instruction, and she hoped that her boys would soon be among them. In the small daughter of her next-door neighbor, who was to make her first communion with the others, she took a special interest, and in her zeal had offered to make the dress, which kind office had devolved upon Bidiane and Claudine. "Also, I have been thinking of a scheme to save money," said Bidiane. "For a veil we can just take off this fly screen," and she pointed to white netting on the table. "No one but you and Claudine will know. It is fine and soft, and can be freshly done up." "_Mon jheu!_ but you are smart, and a real Acadien brat," said her aunt. "Claudine, will you go to the door? Some divil rings,--that is, some lady or gentleman," she added, as she caught a menacing glance from Bidiane. "If you keep a hotel you must always be glad to see strangers," said Bidiane, severely. "It is money in your pocket." "But such a trouble, and I am sleepy." "If you are not careful you will have to give up this inn,--however, I must not scold, for you do far better than when I first came." "It is the political gentleman," said Claudine, entering, and noiselessly closing the door behind her. "He who has been going up and down the Bay for a day or two. He wishes supper and a bed." "_Sakerjé!_" muttered Mirabelle Marie, rising with an effort. "If I was a man I guess I'd let pollyticks alone, and stay to hum. I s'ppose he's got a nest with some feathers in it. I guess you'd better ask him out, though. There's enough to start him, ain't there?" and she waddled out to the kitchen. "Ah, the political gentleman," said Bidiane. "It was he for whom I helped Maggie Guilbaut pick blackberries, yesterday. They expected him to call, and were going to offer him berries and cream." Mirabelle Marie, on going to the kitchen, had left her niece sitting composedly at the table, only lifting an eyelid to glance at the door by which the stranger would enter; but when she returned, as she almost immediately did, to ask the gentleman whether he would prefer tea to coffee, a curious spectacle met her gaze. Bidiane, with a face that was absolutely furious, had sprung to her feet and was grasping the sides of her bicycle skirt with clenched hands, while the stranger, who was a lean, dark man, with a pale, rather pleasing face, when not disfigured by a sarcastic smile, stood staring at her as if he remembered seeing her before, but had some difficulty in locating her among his acquaintances. Upon her aunt's appearance, Bidiane found her voice. "Either I or that man must leave this house," she said, pointing a scornful finger at him. [Illustration: "'EITHER THAT MAN OR I MUST LEAVE THIS HOUSE.'"] Mirabelle Marie, who was not easily shocked, was plainly so on the present occasion. "Whist, Bidiane," she said, trying to pull her down on her chair; "this is the pollytickle genl'man,--county member they call 'im." "I do not care if he is member for fifty counties," said Bidiane, in concentrated scorn. "He is a libeller, a slanderer, and I will not stay under the same roof with him,--and to think it was for him I picked the blackberries,--we cannot entertain you here, sir." The expression of disagreeable surprise with which the man with the unpleasant smile had regarded her gave way to one of cool disdain. "This is your house, I think?" he said, appealing to Mirabelle Marie. "Yessir," she said, putting down her tea-caddy, and arranging both her hands on her hips, in which position she would hold them until the dispute was finished. "And you do not refuse me entertainment?" he went on, with the same unpleasant smile. "You cannot, I think, as this is a public house, and you have no just reason for excluding me from it." "My aunt," said Bidiane, flashing around to her in a towering passion, "if you do not immediately turn this man out-of-doors, I shall never speak to you again." "I be _dèche_," sputtered the confused landlady, "if I see into this hash. Look at 'em, Claudine. This genl'man'll be mad if I do one thing, an' Biddy'll take my head off if I do another. _Sakerjé!_ You've got to fit it out yourselves." "Listen, my aunt," said Bidiane, excitedly, and yet with an effort to control herself. "I will tell you what happened. On my way here I was in a hotel in Halifax. I had gone there with some people from the steamer who were taking charge of me. We were on our way to our rooms. We were all speaking English. No one would think that there was a French person in the party. We passed a gentleman, this gentleman, who stood outside his door; he was speaking to a servant. 'Bring me quickly,' he said, 'some water,--some hot water. I have been down among the evil-smelling French of Clare. I must go again, and I want a good wash first.'" Mirabelle Marie was by no means overcome with horror at the recitation of this trespass on the part of her would-be guest; but Claudine's eyes blazed and flashed on the stranger's back until he moved slightly, and shrugged his shoulders as if he felt their power. "Imagine," cried Bidiane, "he called us 'evil-smelling,'--we, the best housekeepers in the world, whose stoves shine, whose kitchen floors are as white as the beach! I choked with wrath. I ran up to him and said, '_Moi, je suis Acadienne_'" (I am an Acadienne). "Did I not, sir?" The stranger lifted his eyebrows indulgently and satirically, but did not speak. "And he was astonished," continued Bidiane. "_Ma foi_, but he was astonished! He started, and stared at me, and I said, 'I will tell you what you are, sir, unless you apologize.'" "I guess yeh apologized, didn't yeh?" said Mirabelle Marie, mildly. "The young lady is dreaming," said the stranger, coolly, and he seated himself at the table. "Can you let me have something to eat at once, madame? I have a brother who resembles me; perhaps she saw him." Bidiane grew so pale with wrath, and trembled so violently that Claudine ran to support her, and cried, "Tell us, Bidiane, what did you say to this bad man?" Bidiane slightly recovered herself. "I said to him, 'Sir, I regret to tell you that you are lying.'" The man at the table surveyed her in intense irritation. "I do not know where you come from, young woman," he said, hastily, "but you look Irish." "And if I were not Acadien I would be Irish," she said, in a low voice, "for they also suffer for their country. Good-by, my aunt, I am going to Rose à Charlitte. I see you wish to keep this story-teller." "Hole on, hole on," ejaculated Mirabelle Marie in distress. "Look here, sir, you've gut me in a fix, and you've gut to git me out of it." "I shall not leave your house unless you tell me to do so," he said, in cool, quiet anger. Bidiane stretched out her hands to him, and with tears in her eyes exclaimed, pleadingly, "Say only that you regret having slandered the Acadiens. I will forget that you put my people to shame before the English, for they all knew that I was coming to Clare. We will overlook it. Acadiens are not ungenerous, sir." "As I said before, you are dreaming," responded the stranger, in a restrained fury. "I never was so put upon in my life. I never saw you before." Bidiane drew herself up like an inspired prophetess. "Beware, sir, of the wrath of God. You lied before,--you are lying now." The man fell into such a repressed rage that Mirabelle Marie, who was the only unembarrassed spectator, inasmuch as she was weak in racial loves and hatreds, felt called upon to decide the case. The gentleman, she saw, was the story-teller. Bidiane, who had not been particularly truthful as a child, had yet never told her a falsehood since her return from France. "I'm awful sorry, sir, but you've gut to go. I brought up this leetle girl, an' her mother's dead." The gentleman rose,--a gentleman no longer, but a plain, common, very ugly-tempered man. These Acadiens were actually turning him, an Englishman, out of the inn. And he had thought the whole people so meek, so spiritless. He was doing them such an honor to personally canvass them for votes for the approaching election. His astonishment almost overmastered his rage, and in a choking voice he said to Mirabelle Marie, "Your house will suffer for this,--you will regret it to the end of your life." "I know some business," exclaimed Claudine, in sudden and irrepressible zeal. "I know that you wish to make laws, but will our men send you when they know what you say?" He snatched his hat from the seat behind him. His election was threatened. Unless he chained these women's tongues, what he had said would run up and down the Bay like wildfire,--and yet a word now would stop it. Should he apologize? A devil rose in his heart. He would not. "Do your worst," he said, in a low, sneering voice. "You are a pack of liars yourselves," and while Bidiane and Claudine stiffened themselves with rage, and Mirabelle Marie contemptuously muttered, "Get out, ole beast," he cast a final malevolent glance on them, and left the house. For a time the three remained speechless; then Bidiane sank into her chair, pushed back her half-eaten supper, propped her red head on her hand, and burst into passionate weeping. Claudine stood gloomily watching her, while Mirabelle Marie sat down, and shifting her hands from her hips, laid them on her trembling knees. "I guess he'll drive us out of this, Biddy,--an' I like Sleepin' Water." Bidiane lifted her face to the ceiling, just as if she were "taking a vowel," her aunt reflected, in her far from perfect English. "He shall not ruin us, my aunt,--we will ruin him." "What'll you do, sissy?" "I will tell you something about politics," said Bidiane, immediately becoming calm. "Mr. Nimmo has explained to me something about them, and if you listen, you will understand. In the first place, do you know what politics are?" and hastily wiping her eyes, she intently surveyed the two women who were hanging on her words. "Yes, I know," said her aunt, joyfully. "It's when men quit work, an' gab, an' git red in the face, an' pass the bottle, an' pick rows, to fine out which shall go up to the city of Boston to make laws an' sit in a big room with lots of other men." Bidiane, with an impatient gesture, turned to Claudine. "You know better than that?" "Well, yes,--a little," said the black-eyed beauty, contemptuously. "My aunt," said Bidiane, solemnly, "you have been out in the world, and yet you have many things to learn. Politics is a science, and deep, very deep." "Is it?" said her aunt, humbly. "An' what's a science?" "A science is--well, a science is something wonderfully clever--when one knows a great deal. Now this Dominion of Canada in which we live is large, very large, and there are two parties of politicians in it. You know them, Claudine?" "Yes, I do," said the young woman, promptly; "they are Liberals and Conservatives." "That is right; and just now the Premier of the Dominion is a Frenchman, my aunt,--I don't believe you knew that,--and we are proud of him." "An' what's the Premier?" "He is the chief one,--the one who stands over the others, when they make the laws." "Oh, the boss!--you will tell him about this bad man." "No, it would grieve him too much, for the Premier is always a good man, who never does anything wrong. This bad man will impose on him, and try to get him to promise to let him go to Ottawa--oh, by the way, Claudine, we must explain about that. My aunt, you know that there are two cities to which politicians go to make the laws. One is the capital." "Yes, I know,--in Boston city." "Nonsense,--Boston is in the United States. We are in Canada. Halifax is the capital of Nova Scotia." "But all our folks go to Boston when they travels," said Mirabelle Marie, in a slightly injured tone. "Yes, yes, I know,--the foolish people; they should go to Halifax. Well, that is where the big house is in which they make the laws. I saw it when I was there, and it has pictures of kings and queens in it. Now, when a man becomes too clever for this house, they send him to Ottawa, where the Premier is." "Yes, I remember,--the good Frenchman." "Well, this bad man now wishes to go to Halifax; then if he is ambitious,--and he is bad enough to be anything,--he may wish to go to Ottawa. But we must stop him right away before he does more mischief, for all men think he is good. Mr. Guilbaut was praising him yesterday." "He didn't say he is bad?" "No, no, he thinks him very good, and says he will be elected; but we know him to be a liar, and should a liar make laws for his country?" "A liar should stay to hum, where he is known," was the decisive response. "Very good,--now should we not try to drive this man out of Clare?" "But what can we do?" asked Mirabelle Marie. "He is already out an' lying like the divil about us--that is, like a man out of the woods." "We can talk," said her niece, seriously. "There are women's rights, you know." "Women's rights," repeated her aunt, thoughtfully. "It is not in the prayer-book." "No, of course not." "Come now, Biddy, tell us what it is." "It is a long subject, my aunt. It would take too many words to explain, though Mr. Nimmo has often told me about it. Women who believe that--can do as men. Why should we not vote,--you, and I, and Claudine?" "I dunno. I guess the men won't let us." "I should like to vote," said Bidiane, stoutly, "but even though we cannot, we can tell the men on the Bay of this monster, and they will send him home." "All right," said her aunt; while Claudine, who had been sitting with knitted brows during the last few minutes, exclaimed, "I have it, Bidiane; let us make _bombance_" (feasting). "Do you know what it means?" No, Bidiane did not, but Mirabelle Marie did, and immediately began to make a gurgling noise in her throat. "Once I helped to make it in the house of an aunt. Glory! that was fun. But the tin, Claudine, where'll you git that?" "My one hundred dollars," cried the black-eyed assistant. "I will give them to my country, for I hate that man. I will do without the wheel." "But what is this?" asked Bidiane, reproachfully. "What are you agreeing to? I do not understand." "Tell her, Claudine," said Mirabelle Marie, with a proud wave of her hand. "She's English, yeh know." Claudine explained the phrase, and for the next hour the three, with chairs drawn close together, nodded, talked, and gesticulated, while laying out a feminine electioneering campaign. CHAPTER IX. LOVE AND POLITICS. "Calm with the truth of life, deep with the love of loving, New, yet never unknown, my heart takes up the tune. Singing that needs no words, joy that needs no proving, Sinking in one long dream as summer bides with June." One morning, three weeks later, Rose, on getting up and going out to the sunny yard where she kept her fancy breed of fowls, found them all overcome by some strange disorder. The morning was bright and inspiring, yet they were all sleeping heavily and stupidly under, instead of upon, their usual roosting-place. She waked up one or two, ran her fingers through their showy plumage, and, after receiving remonstrating glances from reproachful and recognizing eyes, softly laid them down again, and turned her attention to a resplendent red and gold cock, who alone had not succumbed to the mysterious malady, and was staggering to and fro, eyeing her with a doubtful, yet knowing look. "Come, Fiddéding," she said, gently, "tell me what has happened to these poor hens?" Fiddéding, instead of enlightening her, swaggered towards the fence, and, after many failures, succeeded in climbing to it and in propping his tail against a post. Then he flapped his gorgeous wings, and opened his beak to crow, but in the endeavor lost his balance, and with a dismal squawk fell to the ground. Sheepishly resigning himself to his fate, he tried to gain the ranks of the somniferous hens, but, not succeeding, fell down where he was, and hid his head under his wing. A slight noise caught Rose's attention, and looking up, she found Jovite leaning against the fence, and grinning from ear to ear. "Do you know what is the matter with the hens?" she asked. "Yes, madame; if you come to the stable, I will show you what they have been taking." Rose, with a grave face, visited the stable, and then instructed him to harness her pony to the cart and bring him around to the front of the house. Half an hour later she was driving towards Weymouth. As it happened to be Saturday, it was market-day, and the general shopping-time for the farmers and the fishermen all along the Bay, and even from back in the woods. Many of them, with wives and daughters in their big wagons, were on their way to sell butter, eggs, and farm produce, and obtain, in exchange, groceries and dry goods, that they would find in larger quantities and in greater varieties in Weymouth than in the smaller villages along the shore. Upon reaching Weymouth, she stopped on the principal street, that runs across a bridge over the lovely Sissiboo River, and leaving the staid and sober pony to brush the flies from himself without the assistance of her whip, she knocked at the door of her cousin's office. "Come in," said a voice, and she was speedily confronted by Agapit, who sat at a table facing the door. He dropped his book and sprang up, when he saw her. "Oh! _ma chère_, I am glad to see you. I was just feeling dull." She gently received and retained both his hands in hers. "One often does feel dull after a journey. Ah! but I have missed you." "It has only been two weeks--" "And you have come back with that same weary look on your face," she said, anxiously. "Agapit, I try to put that look in the back of my mind, but it will not stay." He lightly kissed her fingers, and drew a chair beside his own for her. "It amuses you to worry." "My cousin!" "I apologize,--you are the soul of angelic concern for the minds and bodies of your fellow mortals. And how goes everything in Sleeping Water? I have been quite homesick for the good old place." Rose, in spite of the distressed expression that still lingered about her face, began to smile, and said, impulsively, "Once or twice I have almost recalled you, but I did not like to interrupt. Yours was a case at the supreme court, was it not, if that is the way to word it?" "Yes, Rose; but has anything gone wrong? You mentioned nothing in your letters," and, as he spoke, he took off his glasses and began to polish them with his handkerchief. "Not wrong, exactly, yet--" and she laughed. "It is Bidiane." The hand with which Agapit was manipulating his glasses trembled slightly, and hurriedly putting them on, he pushed back the papers on the table before him, and gave her an acute and undivided attention. "Some one wants to marry her, I suppose," he said, hastily. "She is quite a flirt." "No, no, not yet,--Pius Poirier may, by and by, but do not be too severe with her, Agapit. She has no time to think of lovers now. She is--but have you not heard? Surely you must have--every one is laughing about it." "I have heard nothing. I returned late last night. I came directly here this morning. I intended to go to see you to-morrow." "I thought you would, but I could not wait. Little Bidiane should be stopped at once, or she will become notorious and get into the papers,--I was afraid it might already be known in Halifax." "My dear Rose, there are people in Halifax who never heard of Clare, and who do not know that there are even a score of Acadiens left in the country; but what is she doing?" and he masked his impatience under an admirable coolness. "She says she is making _bombance_," said Rose, and she struggled to repress a second laugh; "but I will begin from the first, as you know nothing. The very day you left, that Mr. Greening, who has been canvassing the county for votes, went to our inn, and Bidiane recognized him as a man who had spoken ill of the Acadiens in her presence in Halifax." "What had he said?" "He said that they were 'evil-smelling,'" said Rose, with reluctance. "Oh, indeed,--he did," and Agapit's lip curled. "I would not have believed it of Greening. He is rather a decent fellow. Sarcastic, you know, but not a fool, by any means. Bidiane, I suppose, cut him." "No, she did not cut him; he had not been introduced. She asked him to apologize, and he would not. Then she told Mirabelle Marie to request him to leave the house. He did so." "Was he angry?" "Yes, and insulting; and you can figure to yourself into what kind of a state our quick-tempered Bidiane became. She talked to Claudine and her aunt, and they agreed to pass Mr. Greening's remark up and down the Bay." Agapit began to laugh. Something in his cousin's strangely excited manner, in the expression of her face, usually so delicately colored, now so deeply flushed and bewildered over Bidiane's irrepressibility, amused him intensely, but most of all he laughed from sheer gladness of heart, that the question to be dealt with was not one of a lover for their distant and youthful cousin. Rose was delighted to see him in such good spirits. "But there is more to come, Agapit. The thing grew. At first, Bidiane contented herself with flying about on her wheel and telling all the Acadien girls what a bad man Mr. Greening was to say such a thing, and they must not let their fathers vote for him. Following this, Claudine, who is very excited in her calm way, began to drive Mirabelle Marie about. They stayed at home only long enough to prepare meals, then they went. It is all up and down the Bay,--that wretched epithet of the unfortunate Mr. Greening,--and while the men laugh, the women are furious. They cannot recover from it." "Well, 'evil-smelling' is not a pretty adjective," said Agapit, with his lips still stretched back from his white teeth. "At Bidiane's age, what a rage I should have been in!" "But you are in the affair now," said Rose, helplessly, "and you must not be angry." "I!" he ejaculated, suddenly letting fall a ruler that he had been balancing on his finger. "Yes,--at first there was no talk of another candidate. It was only, 'Let the slanderous Mr. Greening be driven away;' but, as I said, the affair grew. You know our people are mostly Liberals. Mr. Greening is the new one; you, too, are one. Of course there is old Mr. Gray, who has been elected for some years. One afternoon the blacksmith in Sleeping Water said, jokingly, to Bidiane, 'You are taking away one of our candidates; you must give us another.' He was mending her wheel at the time, and I was present to ask him to send a hoe to Jovite. Bidiane hesitated a little time. She looked down the Bay, she looked up here towards Weymouth, then she shot a quick glance at me from her curious yellow eyes, and said, 'There is my far-removed cousin, Agapit LeNoir. He is a good Acadien; he is also clever. What do you want of an Englishman?' 'By Jove!' said the blacksmith, and he slapped his leather apron,--you know he has been much in the States, Agapit, and he is very wide in his opinions,--'By Jove!' he said, 'we couldn't have a better. I never thought of him. He is so quiet nowadays, though he used to be a firebrand, that one forgets him. I guess he'd go in by acclamation.' Agapit, what is acclamation? I searched in my dictionary, and it said, 'a clapping of hands.'" Agapit was thunderstruck. He stared at her confusedly for a few seconds, then he exclaimed, "The dear little diablette!" "Perhaps I should have told you before," said Rose, eagerly, "but I hated to write anything against Bidiane, she is so charming, though so self-willed. But yesterday I began to think that people may suppose you have allowed her to make use of your name. She chatters of you all the time, and I believe that you will be asked to become one of the members for this county. Though the talk has been mostly among the women, they are influencing the men, and last evening Mr. Greening had a quarrel with the Comeaus, and went away." "I must go see her,--this must be stopped," said Agapit, rising hastily. Rose got up, too. "But stay a minute,--hear all. The naughty thing that Bidiane has done is about money, but I will not tell you that. You must question her. This only I can say: my hens are all quite drunk this morning." "Quite drunk!" said Agapit, and he paused with his arms half in a dust coat that he had taken from a hook on the wall. "What do you mean?" Rose suffocated a laugh in her throat, and said, seriously, "When Jovite got up this morning, he found them quite weak in their legs. They took no breakfast, they wished only to drink. He had to watch to keep them from falling in the river. Afterwards they went to sleep, and he searched the stable, and found some burnt out matches, where some one had been smoking and sleeping in the barn, also two bottles of whiskey hidden in a barrel where one had broken on some oats that the hens had eaten. So you see the affair becomes serious when men prowl about at night, and open hen-house doors, and are in danger of setting fire to stables." Agapit made a grimace. He had a lively imagination, and had readily supplied all these details. "I suppose you do not wish to take me back to Sleeping Water?" Rose hesitated, then said, meekly, "Perhaps it would be better for me not to do it, nor for you to say that I have talked to you. Bidiane speaks plainly, and, though I know she likes me, she is most extremely animated just now. Claudine, you know, spoils her. Also, she avoids me lately,--you will not be too severe with her. It is so loving that she should work for you. I think she hopes to break down some of your prejudice that she says still exists against her." Rose could not see her cousin's face, for he had abruptly turned his back on her, and was staring out the window. "You will remember, Agapit," she went on, with gentle persistence; "do not be irritable with her; she cannot endure it just at present." "And why should I be irritable?" he demanded, suddenly wheeling around. "Is she not doing me a great honor?" Rose fell back a few steps, and clasped her amazed hands. This transfigured face was a revelation to her. "You, too, Agapit!" she managed to utter. "Yes, I, too," he said, bravely, while a dull, heavy crimson mantled his cheeks. "I, too, as well as the Poirier boy, and half a dozen others; and why not?" "You love her, Agapit?" "Does it seem like hatred?" "Yes--that is, no--but certainly you have treated her strangely, but I am glad, glad. I don't know when anything has so rejoiced me,--it takes me back through long years," and, sitting down, she covered her face with her nervous hands. "I did not intend to tell you," said her cousin, hurriedly, and he laid a consoling finger on the back of her drooping head. "I wish now I had kept it from you." "Ah, but I am selfish," she cried, immediately lifting her tearful face to him. "Forgive me,--I wish to know everything that concerns you. Is it this that has made you unhappy lately?" With some reluctance he acknowledged that it was. "But now you will be happy, my dear cousin. You must tell her at once. Although she is young, she will understand. It will make her more steady. It is the best thing that could happen to her." Agapit surveyed her in quiet, intense affection. "Softly, my dear girl. You and I are too absorbed in each other. There is the omnipotent Mr. Nimmo to consult." "He will not oppose. Oh, he will be pleased, enraptured,--I know that he will. I have never thought of it before, because of late years you have seemed not to give your thoughts to marriage, but now it comes to me that, in sending her here, one object might have been that she would please you; that you would please her. I am sure of it now. He is sorry for the past, he wishes to atone, yet he is still proud, and cannot say, 'Forgive me.' This young girl is the peace-offering." Agapit smiled uneasily. "Pardon me for the thought, but you dispose somewhat summarily of the young girl." Rose threw out her hands to him. "Your happiness is perhaps too much to me, yet I would also make her happy in giving her to you. She is so restless, so wayward,--she does not know her own mind yet." "She seems to be leading a pretty consistent course at present." Rose's face was like an exquisitely tinted sky at sunrise. "Ah! this is wonderful, it overcomes me; and to think that I should not have suspected it! You adore this little Bidiane. She is everything to you, more than I am,--more than I am." "I love you for that spice of jealousy," said Agapit, with animation. "Go home now, dear girl, and I will follow; or do you stay here, and I will start first." "Yes, yes, go; I will remain a time. I will be glad to think this over." "You will not cry," he said, anxiously, pausing with his hand on the door-knob. "I will try not to do so." "Probably I will have to give her up," he said, doggedly. "She is a creature of whims, and I must not speak to her yet; but I do not wish you to suffer." Rose was deeply moved. This was no boyish passion, but the unspeakably bitter, weary longing of a man. "If I could not suffer with others I would be dead," she said, simply. "My dear cousin, I will pray for success in this, your touching love-affair." "Some day I will tell you all about it," he said, abruptly. "I will describe the strange influence that she has always had over me,--an influence that made me tremble before her even when she was a tiny girl, and that overpowered me when she lately returned to us. However, this is not the occasion to talk; my acknowledgment of all this has been quite unpremeditated. Another day it will be more easy--" "Ah, Agapit, how thou art changed," she said, gliding easily into French; "how I admire thee for thy reserve. That gives thee more power than thou hadst when young. Thou wilt win Bidiane,--do not despair." "In the meantime there are other, younger men," he responded, in the same language. "I seem old, I know that I do to her." "Old, and thou art not yet thirty! I assure thee, Agapit, she respects thee for thy age. She laughs at thee, perhaps, to thy face, but she praises thee behind thy back." "She is not beautiful," said Agapit, irrelevantly, "yet every one likes her." "And dost thou not find her beautiful? It seems to me that, when I love, the dear one cannot be ugly." "Understand me, Rose," said her cousin, earnestly; "once when I loved a woman she instantly became an angel, but one gets over that. Bidiane is even plain-looking to me. It is her soul, her spirit, that charms me,--that little restless, loving heart. If I could only put my hand on it, and say, 'Thou art mine,' I should be the happiest man in the world. She charms me because she changes. She is never the same; a man would never weary of her." Rose's face became as pale as death. "Agapit, would a man weary of me?" He did not reply to her. Choked by some emotion, he had again turned to the door. "I thank the blessed Virgin that I have been spared that sorrow," she murmured, closing her eyes, and allowing her flaxen lashes to softly brush her cheeks. "Once I could only grieve,--now I say perhaps it was well for me not to marry. If I had lost the love of a husband,--a true husband,--it would have killed me very quickly, and it would also have made him say that all women are stupid." "Rose, thou art incomparable," said Agapit, half laughing, half frowning, and flinging himself back to the table. "No man would tire of thee. Cease thy foolishness, and promise me not to cry when I am gone." She opened her eyes, looked as startled as if she had been asleep, but submissively gave the required promise. "Think of something cheerful," he went on. She saw that he was really distressed, and, disengaging her thoughts from herself by a quiet, intense effort, she roguishly murmured, "I will let my mind run to the conversation that you will have with this fair one--no, this plain one--when you announce your love." Agapit blushed furiously, and hurried from the room, while Rose, as an earnest of her obedience to him, showed him, at the window, until he was out of sight, a countenance alight with gentle mischief and entire contentment of mind. CHAPTER X. A CAMPAIGN BEGUN IN BRIBERY. "After madness acted, question asked." TENNYSON. Before the day was many hours older, Agapit was driving his white horse into the inn yard. There seemed to be more people about the house then there usually were, and Bidiane, who stood at the side door, was handing a long paper parcel to a man. "Take it away," Agapit heard her say, in peremptory tones; "don't you open it here." The Acadien to whom she was talking happened to be, Agapit knew, a ne'er-do-weel. He shuffled away, when he caught sight of the young lawyer, but Bidiane ran delightedly towards him. "Oh, Mr. LeNoir, you are as welcome as Mayflowers in April!" Her face was flushed, there were faint dark circles around the light brown eyes that harmonized so much better with her red hair than blue ones would have done. The sun shone down into these eyes, emphasizing this harmony between them and the hair, and Agapit, looking deeply into them, forgot immediately the mentor's part that he was to act, and clasped her warmly and approvingly by the hand. "Come in," she said; but Agapit, who would never sit in the house if it were possible to stay out-of-doors, conducted her to one of the rustic seats by the croquet lawn. He sat down, and she perched in the hammock, sitting on one foot, swinging the other, and overwhelming him with questions about his visit to Halifax. "And what have you been doing with yourself since I have been away?" he asked, with a hypocritical assumption of ignorance. "You know very well what I have been doing," she said, rapidly. "Did not I see Rose driving in to call on you this morning? And you have come down to scold me. I understand you perfectly; you cannot deceive me." Agapit was silent, quite overcome by this mark of feminine insight. "I will never do it again," she went on, "but I am going to see this through. It is such fun--'Claude,' said my aunt to her husband, when we first decided to make _bombance_, 'what politics do you belong to?' 'I am a Conservative,' he said; because, you know, my aunt has always told him to vote as the English people about him did. She has known nothing of politics. 'No, you are not,' she replied, 'you are a Liberal;' and Claudine and I nearly exploded with laughter to hear her trying to convince him that he must be a Liberal like our good French Premier, and that he must endeavor to drive the Conservative candidate out. Claude said, 'But we have always been Conservatives, and our house is to be their meeting-place on the day of election.' 'It is the meeting-place for the Liberals,' said my aunt. But Claude would not give in, so he and his party will have the laundry, while we will have the parlor; but I can tell you a secret," and she leaned forward and whispered, "Claude will vote for the Liberal man. Mirabelle Marie will see to that." "You say Liberal man,--there are two--" "But one is going to retire." "And who will take his place?" "Never mind," she said, smiling provokingly. "The Liberals are going to have a convention to-morrow evening in the Comeauville schoolhouse, and women are going. Then you will see--why there is Father Duvair. What does he wish?" She sprang lightly from the hammock, and while she watched the priest, Agapit watched her, and saw that she grew first as pale as a lily, then red as a rose. The parish priest was walking slowly towards the inn. He was a young man of tall, commanding presence, and being a priest "out of France," he had on a _soutane_ (cassock) and a three-cornered hat. On the Bay are Irish priests, Nova Scotian priests, Acadien priests, and French-Canadian priests, but only the priests "out of France" hold to the strictly French customs of dress. The others dress as do the Halifax ecclesiastics, in tall silk or shovel hats and black broadcloth garments like those worn by clergymen of Protestant denominations. "_Bon jour, mademoiselle_," he said to Bidiane. "_Bon jour, monsieur le curé_," she replied, with deep respect. "Is Madame Corbineau within?" he went on, after warmly greeting Agapit, who was an old favorite of his. "Yes, _monsieur le curé_,--I will take you to her," and she led the way to the house. In a few minutes she came dejectedly back. "You are in trouble," said Agapit, tenderly; "what is it?" She glanced miserably at him from under her curling eyelashes. "When Mirabelle Marie went into the parlor, Father Duvair said politely, so politely, 'I wish to buy a little rum, madame; can you sell me some?' My aunt looked at me, and I said, 'Yes, _monsieur le curé_,' for I knew if we set the priest against us we should have trouble,--and then we have not been quite right, I know that." "Where did you get the rum?" asked Agapit, kindly. "From a schooner,--two weeks ago,--there were four casks. It is necessary, you know, to make _bombance_. Some men will not vote without." "And you have been bribing." "Not bribing," she said, and she dropped her head; "just coaxing." "Where did you get the money to buy it?" For some reason or other she evaded a direct answer to this question, and after much deliberation murmured, in the lowest of voices, that Claudine had had some money. "Bidiane, she is a poor woman." "She loves her country," said the girl, flashing out suddenly at him, "and she is not ashamed of it. However, Claude bought the rum and found the bottles, and we always say, 'Take it home,--do not drink it here.' We know that the priests are against drinking, so we had to make haste, for Claudine said they would get after us. Therefore, just now, I at once gave in. Father Duvair said, 'I would like to buy all you have; how much is it worth?' I said fifty dollars, and he pulled the money out of his pocket and Mirabelle Marie took it, and then he borrowed a nail and a hammer and went down in the cellar, and Claudine whispered loudly as he went through the kitchen, 'I wonder whether he will find the cask under the coal?' and he heard her, for she said it on purpose, and he turned and gave her a quick look as he passed." "I don't understand perfectly," said Agapit, with patient gravity. "This seems to be a house divided against itself. Claudine spends her money for something she hates, and then informs on herself." Bidiane would not answer him, and he continued, "Is Father Duvair at present engaged in the work of destruction in the cellar?" "I just told you that he is." "How much rum will he find there?" "Two casks," she said, mournfully. "It is what we were keeping for the election." "And you think it wise to give men that poison to drink?" asked Agapit, in an impartial and judicial manner. "A little does not hurt; why, some of the women say that it makes their husbands good-natured." "If you were married, would you like your husband to be a drunkard?" "No," she said, defiantly; "but I would not mind his getting drunk occasionally, if he would be gentlemanly about it." Her tone was sharp and irritated, and Agapit, seeing that her nerves were all unstrung, smiled indulgently instead of chiding her. She smiled, too, rather uncertainly; then she said, "Hush, here is Father Duvair coming back." That muscular young priest was sauntering towards them, his stout walking-stick under his arm, while he slowly rubbed his damp hands with his white handkerchief. Agapit stood up when he saw him, and went to meet him, but Bidiane sat still in her old seat in the hammock. Agapit drew a cheque-book from his pocket, and, resting it on the picket fence, wrote something quickly on it, tore out the leaf, and extended it towards the priest. "This is for you, father; will you be good enough to hand it to some priest who is unexpectedly called upon to make certain outlays for the good of his parishioners?" Father Duvair bowed slightly, and, without offering to take it, went on wiping his hands. "How are you getting on with your business, Agapit?" "I am fully occupied. My income supports me, and I am even able to lay up a little." "Are you able to marry?" "Yes, father, whenever I wish." A gleam of humor appeared in Father Duvair's eyes, and he glanced towards the apparently careless girl seated in the hammock. "You will take the cheque, father," said Agapit, "otherwise it will cause me great pain." The priest reluctantly took the slip of paper from him, then, lifting his hat, he said to Bidiane, "I have the honor to wish you good morning, mademoiselle." "_Monsieur le curé_," she said, disconsolately, rising and coming towards him, "you must not think me too wicked." "Mademoiselle, you do not do yourself justice," he said, gravely. Bidiane's eyes wandered to the spots of moisture on his cassock. "I wish that rum had been in the Bay," she said; "yet, _monsieur le curé_, Mr. Greening is a very bad man." "Charity, charity, mademoiselle. We all speak hastily at times. Shall I tell you what I think of you?" "Yes, yes, _monsieur le curé_, if you please." "I think that you have a good heart, but a hasty judgment. You will, like many others, grow wise as you grow older, yet, mademoiselle, we do not wish you to lose that good heart. Do you not think that Mr. Greening has had his lesson?" "Yes, I do." "Then, mademoiselle, you will cease wearying yourself with--with--" "With unwomanly exertions against him," said Bidiane, with a quivering lip and a laughing eye. "Hardly that,--but you are vexing yourself unnecessarily." "Don't you think that my good cousin here ought to go to Parliament?" she asked, wistfully. Father Duvair laughed outright, refused to commit himself, and went slowly away. "I like him," said Bidiane, as she watched him out of sight, "he is so even-tempered, and he never scolds his flock as some clergymen do. Just to think of his going down into that cellar and letting all that liquor run out. His boots were quite wet, and did you notice the splashes on his nice black cassock?" "Yes; who will get the fifty dollars?" "Dear me, I forgot all about it. I have known a good deal of money to go into my aunt's big pocket, but very little comes out. Just excuse me for a minute,--I may get it if I pounce upon her at once." Bidiane ran to the house, from whence issued immediately after a lively sound of squealing. In a few minutes she appeared in the doorway, cramming something in her pocket and looking over her shoulder at her aunt, who stood slapping her sides and vowing that she had been robbed. "I have it all but five dollars," said the girl, breathlessly. "The dear old thing was stuffing it into her stocking for Mr. Nimmo. 'You sha'n't rob Peter to pay Paul,' I said, and I snatched it away from her. Then she squealed like a pig, and ran after me." "You will give this to Claudine?" "I don't know. I think I'll have to divide it. We had to give that maledicted Jean Drague three dollars for his vote. That was my money." "Where did you see Jean Drague?" "I went to his house. Some one told me that the Conservative candidate had called, and had laid seven dollars on the mantelpiece. I also called, and there were the seven dollars, so I took them up, and laid down ten instead." Agapit did not speak, but contented himself with twisting the ends of his mustache in a vigorous manner. "And the worst of it is that we are not sure of him now," she said, drearily. "I wonder what Mr. Nimmo would say if he knew how I have been acting?" "I have been wondering, myself." "Some of you will be kind enough to tell him, I suppose," she said. "Oh, dear, I'm tired," and leaning her head against the hammock supports, she began to cry wearily and dejectedly. Agapit was nearly frantic. He got up, walked to and fro about her, half stretched out his hand to touch her burnished head, drew it back upon reflecting that the eyes of the street, the neighbors, and the inn might be upon him, and at last said, desperately, "You ought to have a husband, Bidiane. You are a very torrent of energy; you will always be getting into scrapes." "Why don't you get married yourself?" and she turned an irritated eye upon him. "I cannot," said Agapit, in sudden calm, and with an inspiration; "the woman that I love does not love me." "Are you in love?" asked Bidiane, immediately drying her eyes. "Who is she?" "I cannot tell you." "Oh, some English girl, I imagine," she said, disdainfully. "Suppose Mr. Greening could hear you?" "I am not talking against the English," she retorted, snappishly, "but I should think that you, of all men, would want to marry a woman of your own nation,--the dear little Acadien nation,--the only thing that I love," and she wound up with a despairing sob. "The girl that I love is an Acadien," said Agapit, in a lower voice, for two men had just driven into the yard. "Is it Claudine?" "Claudine has a good education," he said, coldly, "yet she is hardly fitted to be my wife." "I daresay it is Rose." "It is not Rose," said Agapit; and rendered desperate by the knowledge that he must not raise his voice, must not seem excited, must not stand too close to her, lest he attract the attention of some of the people at a little distance from them, and yet that he must snatch this, the golden moment, to press his suit upon her, he crammed both hands in his coat pockets, and roamed distractedly around the square of grass. "Do I know her?" asked Bidiane when, after a time, he came back to the hammock. "A little,--not thoroughly. You do not appreciate her at her full value." "Well," said Bidiane, resignedly, "I give it up. I daresay I will find out in time. I can't go over the names of all the girls on the Bay--I wish I knew what it is that keeps our darling Rose and Mr. Nimmo apart." "I wish I could tell you." "Is it something that can be got over?" "Yes." She swung herself more vigorously in her delight. "If they could only marry, I would be willing to die an old maid." "But I thought you had already made up your mind to do that," said Agapit, striking an attitude of pretended unconcern. "Oh, yes, I forgot,--I have made up my mind that I am not suited to matrimony. Just fancy having to ask a man every time you wanted a little money,--and having to be meek and patient all the time. No, indeed, I wish to have my own way rather more than most women do," and, in a gay and heartless derision of the other sex, she hummed a little tune. "Just wait till you fall in love," said Agapit, threateningly. "A silly boy asked me to marry him, the other evening. Just as if I would! Why, he is only a baby." "That was Pius Poirier," said Agapit, delightedly and ungenerously. "I shall not tell you. I did wrong to mention him," said Bidiane, calmly. "He is a diligent student; he will get on in the world," said Agapit, more thoughtfully. "But without me,--I shall never marry." "I know a man who loves you," said Agapit, cautiously. "Do you?--well, don't tell me. Tell him, if you have his confidence, that he is a goose for his pains," and Bidiane reclined against her hammock cushions in supreme indifference. "But he is very fond of you," said Agapit, with exquisite gentleness, "and very unhappy to think that you do not care for him." Bidiane held her breath and favored him with a sharp glance. Then she sat up very straight. "What makes you so pale?" "I am sympathizing with that poor man." "But you are trembling, too." "Am I?" and with the pretence of a laugh he turned away. "_Mon cousin_," she said, sweetly, "tell that poor man that I am hoping soon to leave Sleeping Water, and to go out in the world again." "No, no, Bidiane, you must not," he said, turning restlessly on his heel, and coming back to her. "Yes, I am. I have become very unhappy here. Every one is against me, and I am losing my health. When I came, I was intoxicated with life. I could run for hours. I was never tired. It was a delight to live. Now I feel weary, and like a consumptive. I think I shall die young. My parents did, you know." "Yes; they were both drowned. You will pardon me, if I say that I think you have a constitution of iron." "You are quite mistaken," she said, with dignity. "Time will show that I am right. Unless I leave Sleeping Water at once, I feel that I shall go into a decline." "May I ask whether you think it a good plan to leave a place immediately upon matters going wrong with one living in it?" "It would be for me," she said, decidedly. "Then, mademoiselle, you will never find rest for the sole of your foot." "I am tired of Sleeping Water," she said, excitedly quitting the hammock, and looking as if she were about to leave him. "I wish to get out in the world to do something. This life is unendurable." "Bidiane,--dear Bidiane,--you will not leave us?" "Yes, I will," she said, decidedly; "you are not willing for me to have my own way in one single thing. You are not in the least like Mr. Nimmo," and holding her head well in the air, she walked towards the house. "Not like Mr. Nimmo," said Agapit, with a darkening brow. "Dear little fool, one would think you had never felt that iron hand in the velvet glove. Because I am more rash and loud-spoken, you misjudge me. You are so young, so foolish, so adorable, so surprised, so intoxicated with what I have said, that you are beside yourself. I am not discouraged, oh, no," and, with a sudden hopeful smile overspreading his face, he was about to spring into his buggy and drive away, when Bidiane came sauntering back to him. "I am forgetting the duties of hospitality," she said, stiffly. "Will you not come into the house and have something to eat or drink after your long drive?" "Bidiane," he said, in a low, eager voice, "I am not a harsh man." "Yes, you are," she said, with a catching of her breath. "You are against me, and the whole Bay will laugh at me,--and I thought you would be pleased." "Bidiane," he muttered, casting a desperate glance about him, "I am frantic--oh, for permission to dry those tears! If I could only reveal my heart to you, but you are such a child, you would not understand." "Will you do as I wish you to?" she asked, obstinately. "Yes, yes, anything, my darling one." "Then you will take Mr. Greening's place?" "Oh, the baby,--you do not comprehend this question. I have talked to no one,--I know nothing,--I am not one to put myself forward." "If you are requested or elected to-night,--or whatever they call it,--will you go up to Halifax to 'make the laws,' as my aunt says?" inquired Bidiane, smiling slightly, and revealing to him just the tips of her glittering teeth. "Yes, yes,--anything to please you." She was again about to leave him, but he detained her. "I, also, have a condition to make in this campaign of bribery. If I am nominated, and run an election, what then,--where is my reward?" She hesitated, and he hastened to dissipate the cloud overspreading her face. "Never mind, I bind myself with chains, but I leave you free. Go, little one, I will not detain you,--I exact nothing." "Thank you," she said, soberly, and, instead of hurrying away, she stood still and watched him leaving the yard. Just before he reached Weymouth, he put his hand in his pocket to take out his handkerchief. To his surprise there came fluttering out with it a number of bills. He gathered them together, counted them, found that he had just forty-five dollars, and smiling and muttering, "The little sharp-eyes,--I did not think that she took in my transaction with Father Duvair," he went contentedly on his way. CHAPTER XI. WHAT ELECTION DAY BROUGHT FORTH. "Oh, my companions, now should we carouse, now we should strike the ground with a free foot, now is the time to deck the temples of the gods." ODE 37. HORACE. It was election time all through the province of Nova Scotia, and great excitement prevailed, for the Bluenoses are nothing if not keen politicians. In the French part of the county of Digby there was an unusual amount of interest taken in the election, and considerable amusement prevailed with regard to it. Mr. Greening had been spirited away. His unwise and untrue remark about the inhabitants of the township Clare had so persistently followed him, and his anger with the three women at the Sleeping Water Inn had at last been so stubbornly and so deeply resented by the Acadiens, who are slow to arouse but difficult to quiet when once aroused, that he had been called upon to make a public apology. This he had refused to do, and the discomfited Liberals had at once relegated him to private life. His prospective political career was ruined. Thenceforward he would lead the life of an unostentatious citizen. He had been chased and whipped out of public affairs, as many another man has been, by an unwise sentence that had risen up against him in his day of judgment. The surprised Liberals had not far to go to seek his successor. The whole French population had been stirred by the cry of an Acadien for the Acadiens; and Agapit LeNoir, _nolens volens_, but in truth quite _volens_, had been called to become the Liberal nominee. There was absolutely nothing to be said against him. He was a young man,--not too young,--he was of good habits; he was well educated, well bred, and he possessed the respect not only of the population along the Bay, but of many of the English residents of the other parts of the county, who had heard of the diligent young Acadien lawyer of Weymouth. The wise heads of the Liberal party, in welcoming this new representative to their ranks, had not the slightest doubt of his success. Without money, without powerful friends, without influence, except that of a blameless career, and without asking for a single vote, he would be swept into public life on a wave of public opinion. However, they did not tell him this, but in secret anxiety they put forth all their efforts towards making sure the calling and election of their other Liberal candidate, who would, from the very fact of Agapit's assured success, be more in danger from the machinations of the one Conservative candidate that the county had returned for years. One Liberal and one Conservative candidate had been elected almost from time immemorial. This year, if the campaign were skilfully directed in the perilously short time remaining to them, there might be returned, on account of Agapit's sudden and extraordinary popularity, two Liberals and no Conservative at all. Agapit, in truth, knew very little about elections, although he had always taken a quiet interest in them. He had been too much occupied with his struggle for daily bread for mind and body, to be able to afford much time for outside affairs, and he showed his inexperience immediately after his informal nomination by the convention, and his legal one by the sheriff, by laying strict commands upon Bidiane and her confederates that they should do no more canvassing for him. Apparently they subsided, but they had gone too far to be wholly repressed, and Mirabelle Marie and Claudine calmly carried on their work of baking enormous batches of pies and cakes, for a whole week before the election took place, and of laying in a stock of confectionery, fruit, and raisins, and of engaging sundry chickens and sides of beef, and also the ovens of neighbors to roast them in. "For men-folks," said Mirabelle Marie, "is like pigs; if you feed 'em high, they don' squeal." Agapit did not know what Bidiane was doing. She was shy and elusive, and avoided meeting him, but he strongly suspected that she was the power behind the throne in making these extensive preparations. He was not able to visit the inn except very occasionally, for, according to instructions from headquarters, he was kept travelling from one end of the county to the other, cramming himself with information _en route_, and delivering it, at first stumblingly, but always modestly and honestly, to Acadien audiences, who wagged delighted heads, and vowed that this young fellow should go up to sit in Parliament, where several of his race had already honorably acquitted themselves. What had they been thinking of, the last five years? Formerly they had always had an Acadien representative, but lately they had dropped into an easy-going habit of allowing some Englishman to represent them. The English race were well enough, but why not have a man of your own race? They would take up that old habit again, and this time they would stick to it. At last the time of canvassing and lecturing was over, and the day of the election came. The Sleeping Water Inn had been scrubbed from the attic to the cellar, every article of furniture was resplendent, and two long tables spread with every variety of dainties known to the Bay had been put up in the two large front rooms of the house. In these two rooms, the smoking-room and the parlor, men were expected to come and go, eating and drinking at will,--Liberal men, be it understood. The Conservatives were restricted to the laundry, and Claude ruefully surveyed the cold stove, the empty table, and the hard benches set apart for him and his fellow politicians. He was exceedingly confused in his mind. Mirabelle Marie had explained to him again and again the reason for the sudden change in her hazy beliefs with regard to the conduct of state affairs, but Claude was one Acadien who found it inconsistent to turn a man out of public life on account of one unfortunate word, while so many people in private life could grow, and thrive, and utter scores of unfortunate words without rebuke. However, his wife had stood over him until he had promised to vote for Agapit, and in great dejection of spirit he smoked his pipe and tried not to meet the eyes of his handful of associates, who did not know that he was to withhold his small support from them. From early morn till dewy eve the contest went on between the two parties. All along the shore, and back in the settlements in the woods, men left their work, and, driving to the different polling-places, registered their votes, and then loitered about to watch others do likewise. It was a general holiday, and not an Acadien and not a Nova Scotian would settle down to work again until the result of the election was known. Bidiane early retreated to one of the upper rooms of the house, and from the windows looked down upon the crowd about the polling-booth at the corner, or crept to the staircase to listen to jubilant sounds below, for Mirabelle Marie and Claudine were darting about, filling the orders of those who came to buy, but in general insisting on "treating" the Liberal tongues and palates weary from much talking. Bidiane did not see Agapit, although she had heard some one say that he had gone down the Bay early in the morning. She saw the Conservative candidate, Mr. Folsom, drive swiftly by, waving his hat and shouting a hopeful response to the cheering that greeted him from some of the men at the corner, and her heart died within her at the sound. Shortly before noon she descended from her watch-tower, and betook herself to the pantry, where she soberly spent the afternoon in washing dishes, only turning her head occasionally as Mirabelle Marie or Claudine darted in with an armful of soiled cups and saucers and hurried ejaculations such as "They vow Agapit'll go in. There's an awful strong party for him down the Bay. Every one's grinning over that story about old Greening. They say we'll not know till some time in the night--Bidiane, you look pale as a ghost. Go lie down,--we'll manage. I never did see such a time,--and the way they drink! Such thirsty throats! More lemonade glasses, Biddy. It's lucky Father Duvair got that rum, or we'd have 'em all as drunk as goats." And the girl washed on, and looked down the road from the little pantry window, and in a fierce, silent excitement wished that the thing might soon be over, so that her throbbing head would be still. Soon after five o'clock, when the legal hour for closing the polling-places arrived, they learned the majority for Agapit, for he it was that obtained it in all the villages in the vicinity of Sleeping Water. "He's in hereabouts," shouted Mirabelle Marie, joyfully, as she came plunging into the pantry, "an' they say he'll git in everywheres. The ole Conservative ain't gut a show at all. Oh, ain't you glad, Biddy?" "Of course she's glad," said Claudine, giving Mrs. Corbineau a push with her elbow, "but let her alone, can't you? She's tired, so she's quiet about it." As it grew dark, the returns from the whole, or nearly the whole county came pouring in. Men mounted on horseback, or driving in light carts, came dashing up to the corner to receive the latest news from the crowd about the telephone office, and receiving it, dashed on again to impart the news to others. Soon they knew quite surely, although there were some backwoods districts still to be heard from. In them the count could be pretty accurately reckoned, for it did not vary much from year to year. They could be relied on to remain Liberal or Conservative, as the case might be. Bidiane, who had again retreated up-stairs, for nothing would satisfy her but being alone, heard, shortly after it grew quite dark, a sudden uproar of joyous and incoherent noises below. She ran to the top of the front staircase. The men, many of whom had been joined by their wives, had left the dreary polling-place, which was an unused shop, and had sought the more cheerful shelter of the inn. Soft showers of rain were gently falling, but many of the excited Acadiens stood heedlessly on the grass outside, or leaned from the veranda to exchange exultant cries with those of their friends who went driving by. Many others stalked about the hall and front rooms, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, congratulating, laughing, joking, and rejoicing, while Mirabelle Marie, her fat face radiant with glee, plunged about among them like a huge, unwieldy duck, flourishing her apron, and making more noise and clatter than all the rest of the women combined. Agapit was in,--in by an overwhelming majority. His name headed the lists; the other Liberal candidate followed him at a respectful distance, and the Conservative candidate was nowhere at all. Bidiane trembled like a leaf; then, pressing her hands over her ears, she ran to hide herself in a closet. In the meantime, the back of the house was gloomy. One by one the Conservatives were slipping away home; still, a few yet lingered, and sat dispiritedly looking at each other and the empty wash-tubs in the laundry, while they passed about a bottle of weak raspberry vinegar and water, which was the only beverage Mirabelle and Claudine had allowed them. Claude, as in honor bound, sat with them until his wife, who gloried in including every one within reach in what she called her "jollifications," came bounding in, and ordered them all into the front of the house, where the proceedings of the day were to be wound up with a supper. Good-humored raillery greeted Claude and his small flock of Conservatives when Mirabelle Marie came driving them in before her. "Ah, Joe à Jack, where is thy doubloon?" called out a Liberal. "Thou hast lost it,--thy candidate is in the Bay. It is all up with him. And thou, Guillaume,--away to the shore with thee. You remember, boys, he promised to swallow a dog-fish, tail first, if Agapit LeNoir went in." A roar of laughter greeted this announcement, and the unfortunate Guillaume was pushed into a seat, and had a glass thrust into his hand. "Drink, cousin, to fortify thee for thy task. A dog-fish,--_sakerjé!_ but it will be prickly swallowing." "Biddy Ann, Biddy Ann," shrieked her aunt, up the staircase, "come and hear the good news," but Bidiane, who was usually social in her instincts, was now eccentric and solitary, and would not respond. "Skedaddle up-stairs and hunt her out, Claudine," said Mrs. Corbineau; but Bidiane, hearing the request, cunningly ran to the back of the house, descended the kitchen stairway, and escaped out-of-doors. She would go up to the horseshoe cottage and see Rose. There, at least, it would be quiet; she hated this screaming. Her small feet went pit-a-pat over the dark road. There were lights in all the windows. Everybody was excited to-night. Everybody but herself. She was left out of the general rejoicing, and a wave of injured feeling and of desperate dissatisfaction and bodily fatigue swept over her. And she had fancied that Agapit's election would plunge her into a tumult of joy. However, she kept on her way, and dodging a party of hilarious young Acadiens, who were lustily informing the neighborhood that the immortal Malbrouck had really gone to the wars at last, she took to the wet grass and ran across the fields to the cottage. There were two private bridges across Sleeping Water just here, the Comeau bridge and Rose à Charlitte's. Bidiane trotted nimbly over the former, jumped a low stone wall, and found herself under the windows of Rose's parlor. Why, there was the hero of the day talking to Rose! What was he doing here? She had fancied him the centre of a crowd of men,--he, speech-making, and the cynosure of all eyes,--and here he was, quietly lolling in an easy chair by the fire that Rose always had on cool, rainy evenings. However, he had evidently just arrived, for his boots were muddy, and his white horse, instead of being tied to the post, was standing patiently by the door,--a sure sign that his master was not to stay long. Well, she would go home. They looked comfortable in there, and they were carrying on an animated conversation. They did not want her, and, frowning impatiently, she uttered an irritable "Get away!" to the friendly white horse, who, taking advantage of one of the few occasions when he was not attached to the buggy, which was the bane of his existence, had approached, and was extending a curious and sympathetically quivering nose in her direction. The horse drew back, and, moving his ears sensitively back and forth, watched her going down the path to the river. CHAPTER XII. BIDIANE FALLS IN A RIVER. "He laid a finger under her chin, His arm for her girdle at waist was thrown; Now, what will happen, and who will win, With me in the fight and my lady-love? "Sleek as a lizard at round of a stone, The look of her heart slipped out and in. Sweet on her lord her soft eyes shone, As innocents clear of a shade of sin." GEORGE MEREDITH. Five minutes later, Agapit left Rose, and, coming out-of-doors, stared about for his horse, Turenne, who was nowhere to be seen. While he stood momentarily expecting to see the big, familiar white shape loom up through the darkness, he fancied that he heard some one calling his name. He turned his head towards the river. There was a fine, soft wind blowing, the sky was dull and moist, and, although the rain had ceased for a time, it was evidently going to fall again. Surely he had been mistaken about hearing his name, unless Turenne had suddenly been gifted with the power of speech. No,--there it was again; and now he discovered that it was uttered in the voice that, of all the voices in the world, he loved best to hear, and it was at present ejaculating, in peremptory and impatient tones, "Agapit! Agapit!" He precipitated himself down the hill, peering through the darkness as he went, and on the way running afoul of his white nag, who stood staring with stolid interest at a small round head beside the bridge, and two white hands that were clinging to its rustic foundations. "Do help me out," said Bidiane; "my feet are quite wet." Agapit uttered a confused, smothered exclamation, and, stooping over, seized her firmly by the shoulders, and drew her out from the clinging embrace of Sleeping Water. "I never saw such a river," said Bidiane, shaking herself like a small wet dog, and avoiding her lover's shocked glance. "It is just like jelly." "Come up to the house," he ejaculated. "No, no; it would only frighten Rose. She is getting to dislike this river, for people talk so much against it. I will go home." "Then let me put you on Turenne's back," said Agapit, pointing to his horse as he stood curiously regarding them. "No, I might fall off--I have had enough frights for to-night," and she shuddered. "I shall run home. I never take cold. _Ma foi!_ but it is good to be out of that slippery mud." Agapit hurried along beside her. "How did it happen?" "I was just going to cross the bridge. The river looked so sleepy and quiet, and so like a mirror, that I wondered if I could see my face, if I bent close to it. I stepped on the bank, and it gave way under me, and then I fell in; and to save myself from being sucked down I clung to the bridge, and waited for you to come, for I didn't seem to have strength to drag myself out." Agapit could not speak for a time. He was struggling with an intense emotion that would have been unintelligible to her if he had expressed it. At last he said, "How did you know that I was here?" "I saw you," said Bidiane, and she slightly slackened her pace, and glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. "Through the window?" "Yes." "Why did you not come in?" "I did not wish to do so." "You are jealous," he exclaimed, and he endeavored to take her hand. "Let my hand alone,--you flatter yourself." "You were frightened there in the river, little one," he murmured. Bidiane paused for an instant, and gazed over her shoulder. "Your old horse is nearly on my heels, and his eyes are like carriage lamps." "Back!" exclaimed Agapit, to the curious and irrepressible Turenne. "You say nothing of your election," remarked Bidiane. "Are you glad?" He drew a rapid breath, and turned his red face towards her again. "My mind is in a whirl, little cousin, and my pulses are going like hammers. You do not know what it is to sway men by the tongue. When one stands up, and speaks, and the human faces spreading out like a flower-bed change and lighten, or grow gloomy, as one wishes, it is majestic,--it makes a man feel like a deity." "You will get on in the world," said Bidiane, impulsively. "You have it in you." "But must I go alone?" he said, passionately. "Bidiane, you, though so much younger, you understand me. I have been happy to-day, yes, happy, for amid all the excitement, the changing faces, the buzzing of talk in my ears, there has been one little countenance before me--" "Yes,--Rose's." "You treat me as if I were a boy," he said, vehemently, "on this day when I was so important. Why are you so flippant?" "Don't be angry with me," she said, coaxingly. "Angry," he muttered, in a shocked voice. "I am not angry. How could I be with you, whom I love so much?" "Easily," she murmured. "I scarcely wished to see you to-day. I almost dreaded to hear you had been elected, for I thought you would be angry because we--because Claudine, and my aunt, and I, talked against Mr. Greening, and drove him out, and suggested you. I know men don't like to be helped by women." "Your efforts counted," he said, patiently, and yet with desperate haste, for they were rapidly nearing the inn, "yet you know Sleeping Water is a small district, and the county is large. There was in some places great dissatisfaction with Mr. Greening, but don't talk of him. My dear one, will you--" "You don't know the worst thing about me," she interrupted, in a low voice. "There was one dreadful thing I did." He checked an oncoming flow of endearing words, and stared at her. "You have been flirting," he said at last. "Worse than that," she said, shamefacedly. "If you say first that you will forgive me, I will tell you about it--no, I will not either. I shall just tell you, and if you don't want to overlook it you need not--why, what is the matter with you?" "Nothing, nothing," he muttered, with an averted face. He had suddenly become as rigid as marble, and Bidiane surveyed him in bewildered surprise, until a sudden illumination broke over her, when she lapsed into nervous amusement. "You have always been very kind to me, very interested," she said, with the utmost gentleness and sweetness; "surely you are not going to lose patience now." "Go on," said Agapit, stonily, "tell me about this--this escapade." "How bad a thing would I have to do for you not to forgive me?" she asked. "Bidiane--_de grâce_, continue." "But I want to know," she said, persistently. "Suppose I had just murdered some one, and had not a friend in the world, would you stand by me?" He would not reply to her, and she went on, "I know you think a good deal of your honor, but the world is full of bad people. Some one ought to love them--if you were going to be hanged to-morrow I would visit you in your cell. I would take you flowers and something to eat, and I might even go to the scaffold with you." Agapit in dumb anguish, and scarcely knowing what he did, snatched his hat from his head and swung it to and fro. "You had better put on your hat," she said, amiably, "you will take cold." Agapit, suddenly seized her by the shoulders and, holding her firmly, but gently, stared into her eyes that were full of tears. "Ah! you amuse yourself by torturing me," he said, with a groan of relief. "You are as pure as a snowdrop, you have not been flirting." "Oh, I am so angry with you for being hateful and suspicious," she said, proudly, and with a heaving bosom, and she averted her face to brush the tears from her eyes. "You know I don't care a rap for any man in the world but Mr. Nimmo, except the tiniest atom of respect for you." Agapit at once broke into abject apologies, and being graciously forgiven, he humbly entreated her to continue the recital of her misdeeds. "It was when we began to make _bombance_" she said, in a lofty tone. "Every one assured us that we must have rum, but Claudine would not let us take her money for it, because her husband drank until he made his head queer and had that dreadful fall. She said to buy anything with her money but liquor. We didn't know what to do until one day a man came in and told us that if we wanted money we should go to the rich members of our party. He mentioned Mr. Smith, in Weymouth, and I said, 'Well, I will go and ask him for money to buy something for these wicked men to stop them from voting for a wretch who calls us names.' 'But you must not say that,' replied the man, and he laughed. 'You must go to Mr. Smith and say, "There is an election coming on, and there will be great doings at the Sleeping Water Inn, and it ought to be painted."' 'But it has just been painted,' I said. 'Never mind,' he told me, 'it must be painted.' Then I understood, and Claudine and I went to Mr. Smith, and asked him if it would not be a wise thing to paint the inn, and he laughed and said, 'By all manner of means, yes,--give it a good thick coat and make it stick on well,' and he gave us some bills." "How many?" asked Agapit, for Bidiane's voice was sinking lower and lower. "One hundred dollars,--just what Claudine had." "And you spent it, dearest child?" "Yes, it just melted away. You know how money goes. But I shall pay it back some day." "How will you get the money?" "I don't know," she said, with a sigh. "I shall try to earn it." "You may earn it now, in the quarter of a minute," he said, fatuously. "And you call yourself an honest man--you talk against bribery and corruption, you doubt poor lonely orphans when they are going to confess little peccadilloes, and fancy in your wicked heart that they have committed some awful sin!" said Bidiane, in low, withering tones. "I think you had better go home, sir." They had arrived in front of the inn, and, although Agapit knew that she ought to go at once and put off her wet shoes, he still lingered, and said, delightedly, in low, cautious tones, "But, Bidiane, you have surely a little affection for me--and one short kiss--very short--certainly it would not be so wicked." "If you do not love a man, it is a crime to embrace him," she said, with cold severity. "Then I look forward to more gracious times," he replied. "Good night, little one, in twenty minutes I must be in Belliveau's Cove." Bidiane, strangely subdued in appearance, stood watching him as, with eyes riveted on her, he extended a grasping hand towards Turenne's hanging bridle. When he caught it he leaped into the saddle, and Bidiane, supposing herself to be rid of him, mischievously blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. In a trice he had thrown himself from Turenne's back and had caught her as she started to run swiftly to the house. "Do not squeal, dear slippery eel," he said, laughingly, "thou hast called me back, and I shall kiss thee. Now go," and he released her, as she struggled in his embrace, laughing for the first time since her capture by the river. "Once I have held you in my arms--now you will come again," and shaking his head and with many a backward glance, he set off through the rain and the darkness towards his waiting friends and supporters, a few miles farther on. An hour later, Claudine left the vivacious, unwearied revellers below, and went up-stairs to see whether Bidiane had returned home. She found her in bed, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Claudine," she said, turning her brown eyes on her friend and admirer, "how did you feel when Isidore asked you to marry him?" "How did I feel--_miséricorde_, how can I tell? For one thing, I wished that he would give up the drink." "But how did you feel towards him?" asked Bidiane, curiously. "Was it like being lost in a big river, and swimming about for ages, and having noises in your head, and some one else was swimming about trying to find you, and you couldn't touch his hand for a long time, and then he dragged you out to the shore, which was the shore of matrimony?" Claudine, who found nothing in the world more delectable than Bidiane's fancies, giggled with delight. Then she asked her where she had spent the evening. Bidiane related her adventure, whereupon Claudine said, dryly, "I guess the other person in your river must be Agapit LeNoir." "Would you marry him if he asked you?" said Bidiane. "Mercy, how do I know--has he said anything of me?" "No, no," replied Bidiane, hastily. "He wants to marry me." "That's what I thought," said Claudine, soberly. "I can't tell you what love is. You can't talk it. I guess he'll teach you if you give him a chance. He's a good man, Bidiane. You'd better take him--it's an opening for you, too. He'll get on out in the world." Bidiane laid her head back on her pillow, and slipped again into a hazy, dreamy condition of mind, in which the ever recurring subject of meditation was the one of the proper experience and manifestation of love between men and the women they adore. "I don't love him, yet what makes me so cross when he looks at another woman, even my beloved Rose?" she murmured; and with this puzzling question bravely to the fore she fell asleep. CHAPTER XIII. CHARLITTE COMES BACK. "From dawn to gloaming, and from dark to dawn, Dreams the unvoiced, declining Michaelmas. O'er all the orchards where a summer was The noon is full of peace, and loiters on. The branches stir not as the light airs run All day; their stretching shadows slowly pass Through the curled surface of the faded grass, Telling the hours of the cloudless sun." J. F. H. The last golden days of summer had come, and the Acadien farmers were rejoicing in a bountiful harvest. Day by day huge wagons, heaped high with grain, were driven to the threshing-mills, and day by day the stores of vegetables and fruit laid in for the winter were increased in barn and store-house. Everything had done well this year, even the flower gardens, and some of the more pious of the women attributed their abundance of blossoms to the blessing of the seeds by the parish priests. Agapit LeNoir, who now naturally took a broader and wider interest in the affairs of his countrymen, sat on Rose à Charlitte's lawn, discussing matters in general. Soon he would have to go to Halifax for his first session of the local legislature. Since his election he had come a little out of the shyness and reserve that had settled upon him in his early manhood. He was now usually acknowledged to be a rising young man, and one sure to become a credit to his nation and his province. He would be a member of the Dominion Parliament some day, the old people said, and in his more mature age he might even become a Senator. He had obtained just what he had needed,--a start in life. Everything was open to him now. With his racial zeal and love for his countrymen, he could become a representative man,--an Acadien of the Acadiens. Then, too, he would marry an accomplished wife, who would be of great assistance to him, for it was a well-known fact that he was engaged to his lively distant relative, Bidiane LeNoir, the young girl who had been educated abroad by the Englishman from Boston. Just now he was talking to this same relative, who, instead of sitting down quietly beside him, was pursuing an erratic course of wanderings about the trees on the lawn. She professed to be looking for a robin's deserted nest, but she was managing at the same time to give careful attention to what her lover was saying, as he sat with eyes fixed now upon her, now upon the Bay, and waved at intervals the long pipe that he was smoking. "Yes," he said, continuing his subject, "that is one of the first things I shall lay before the House--the lack of proper schoolhouse accommodation on the Bay." "You are very much interested in the schoolhouses," said Bidiane, sarcastically. "You have talked of them quite ten minutes." His face lighted up swiftly. "Let us return, then, to our old, old subject,--will you not reconsider your cruel decision not to marry me, and go with me to Halifax this autumn?" "No," said Bidiane, decidedly, yet with an evident liking for the topic of conversation presented to her. "I have told you again and again that I will not. I am surprised at your asking. Who would comfort our darling Rose?" "Possibly, I say, only possibly, she is not as dependent upon us as you imagine." "Dependent! of course she is dependent. Am I not with her nearly all the time. See, there she comes,--the beauty! She grows more charming every day. She is like those lovely Flemish women, who are so tall, and graceful, and simple, and elegant, and whose heads are like burnished gold. I wish you could see them, Agapit. Mr. Nimmo says they have preserved intact the admirable _naïveté_ of the women of the Middle Ages. Their husbands are often brutal, yet they never rebel." "Is _naïveté_ justifiable under those circumstances, _mignonne_?" "Hush,--she will hear you. Now what does that boy want, I wonder. Just see him scampering up the road." He wished to see her, and was soon stumbling through a verbal message. Bidiane kindly but firmly followed him in it, and, stopping him whenever he used a corrupted French word, made him substitute another for it. "No, Raoul, not _j'étions_ but _j'étais_" (I was). "_Petit mieux_" (a little better), "not _p'tit mieux_. _La rue_ not _la street_. _Ces jeunes demoiselles_" (those young ladies), "not _ces jeunes ladies_." "They are so careless, these Acadiens of ours," she said, turning to Agapit, with a despairing gesture. "This boy knows good French, yet he speaks the impure. Why do his people say _becker_ for _baiser_" (kiss) "and _gueule_ for _bouche_" (mouth) "and _échine_ for _dos_" (back)? "It is so vulgar!" "Patience," muttered Agapit, "what does he wish?" "His sister Lucie wants you and me to go up to Grosses Coques this evening to supper. Some of the D'Entremonts are coming from Pubnico. There will be a big wagon filled with straw, and all the young people from here are going, Raoul says. It will be fun; will you go?" "Yes, if it will please you." "It will," and she turned to the boy. "Run home, Raoul, and tell Lucie that we accept her invitation. Thou art not vexed with me for correcting thee?" "_Nenni_" (no), said the child, displaying a dimple in his cheek. Bidiane caught him and kissed him. "In the spring we will have great fun, thou and I. We will go back to the woods, and with a sharp knife tear the bark from young spruces, and eat the juicy _bobillon_ inside. Then we will also find candy. Canst thou dig up the fern roots and peel them until thou findest the tender morsel at the bottom?" "_Oui_," laughed the child, and Bidiane, after pushing him towards Rose, for an embrace from her, conducted him to the gate. "Is there any use in asking Rose to go with us this evening?" she said, coming back to Agapit, and speaking in an undertone. "No, I think not." "Why is it that she avoids all junketing, and sits only with sick people?" He murmured an uneasy, unintelligible response, and Bidiane again directed her attention to Rose. "What are you staring at so intently, _ma chère_?" "That beautiful stranger," said Rose, nodding towards the Bay. "It is a new sail." "Every woman on the Bay knows the ships but me," said Bidiane, discontentedly. "I have got out of it from being so long away." "And why do the girls know the ships?" asked Agapit. Bidiane discreetly refused to answer him. "Because they have lovers on board. Your lover stays on shore, little one." "And poor Rose looks over the sea," said Bidiane, dreamily. "I should think that you might trust me now with the story of her trouble, whatever it is, but you are so reserved, so fearful of making wild statements. You don't treat me as well even as you do a business person,--a client is it you call one?" Agapit smiled happily. "Marry me, then, and in becoming your advocate I will deal plainly with you as a client, and state fully to you all the facts of this case." "I daresay we shall have frightful quarrels when we are married," said Bidiane, cheerfully. "I daresay." "Just see how Rose stares at that ship." "She is a beauty," said Agapit, critically, "and foreign rigged." There was "a free wind" blowing, and the beautiful stranger moved like a graceful bird before it. Rose--the favorite occupation in whose quiet life was to watch the white sails that passed up and down the Bay--still kept her eyes fixed on it, and presently said, "The stranger is pointing towards Sleeping Water." "I will get the marine glass," said Bidiane, running to the house. "She is putting out a boat," said Rose, when she came back. "She is coming in to the wharf." "Allow me to see for one minute, Rose," said Agapit, and he extended his hand for the glass; then silently watched the sailors running about and looking no larger than ants on the distant deck. "They are not going to the wharf," said Bidiane. "They are making for that rock by the inn bathing-house. Perhaps they will engage in swimming." A slight color appeared in Rose's cheeks, and she glanced longingly at the glass that Agapit still held. The mystery of the sea and the magic of ships and of seafaring lives was interwoven with her whole being. She felt an intense gentle interest in the strange sail and the foreign sailors, and nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to have shown them some kindness. "I wish," she murmured, "that I were now at the inn. They should have a jug of cream, and some fresh fruit." The horseshoe cottage being situated on rising ground, a little beyond the river, afforded the three people on the lawn an uninterrupted view of the movements of the boat. While Bidiane prattled on, and severely rebuked Agapit for his selfishness in keeping the glass to himself, Rose watched the boat touching the big rocks, where one man sprang from it, and walked towards the inn. She could see his figure in the distance, looking at first scarcely larger than a black lead pencil, but soon taking on the dimensions of a rather short, thick-set man. He remained stationary on the inn veranda for a few minutes, then, leaving it, he passed down the village street. "It is some stranger from abroad, asking his way about," said Bidiane; "one of the numerous Comeau tribe, no doubt. Oh, I hope he will go on the drive to-night." "Why, I believe he is coming here," she exclaimed, after another period of observation of the stranger's movements; "he is passing by all the houses. Yes, he is turning in by the cutting through the hill. Who can he be?" Rose and Agapit, grown strangely silent, did not answer her, and, without thinking of examining their faces, she kept her eyes fixed on the man rapidly approaching them. "He is neither old nor young," she said, vivaciously. "Yes, he is, too,--he is old. His hair is quite gray. He swaggers a little bit. I think he must be the captain of the beautiful stranger. There is an indefinable something about him that doesn't belong to a common sailor; don't you think so, Agapit?" Her red head tilted itself sideways, yet she still kept a watchful eye on the newcomer. She could now see that he was quietly dressed in dark brown clothes, that his complexion was also brown, his eyes small and twinkling, his lips thick, and partly covered by a short, grizzled mustache. He wore on his head a white straw hat, that he took off when he neared the group. His face was now fully visible, and there was a wild cry from Rose. "Ah, Charlitte, Charlitte,--you have come back!" CHAPTER XIV. BIDIANE RECEIVES A SHOCK. "Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be,-- Confess thy folly, kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrow, see The hand of God." MONTGOMERY. Bidiane flashed around upon her companions. Rose--pale, trembling, almost unearthly in a beauty from which everything earthly and material seemed to have been purged away--stood extending her hands to the wanderer, her only expression one of profound thanksgiving for his return. Agapit, on the contrary, sat stock-still, his face convulsed with profound and bitter contempt, almost with hatred; and Bidiane, in speechless astonishment, stared from him to the others. Charlitte was not dead,--he had returned; and Rose was not surprised,--she was even glad to see him! What did it mean, and where was Mr. Nimmo's share in this reunion? She clenched her hands, her eyes filled with despairing tears, and, in subdued anger, she surveyed the very ordinary-looking man, who had surrendered one of his brown hands to Rose, in pleased satisfaction. "You are more stunning than ever, Rose," he said, coolly kissing her; "and who is this young lady?" and he pointed a sturdy forefinger at Bidiane, who stood in the background, trembling in every limb. "It is Bidiane LeNoir, Charlitte, from up the Bay. Bidiane, come shake hands with my husband." "I forbid," said Agapit, calmly. He had recovered himself, and, with a face as imperturbable as that of the sphinx, he now sat staring up into the air. "Agapit," said Rose, pleadingly, "will you not greet my husband after all these years?" "No," he said, "I will not," and coolly taking up his pipe he lighted it, turned away from them, and began to smoke. Rose, with her blue eyes dimmed with tears, looked at her husband. "Do not be displeased. He will forgive in time; he has been a brother to me all the years that you have been away." Charlitte understood Agapit better than she did, and, shrugging his shoulders as if to beg her not to distress herself, he busied himself with staring at Bidiane, whose curiosity and bewilderment had culminated in a kind of stupefaction, in which she stood surreptitiously pinching her arm in order to convince herself that this wonderful reappearance was real,--that the man sitting so quietly before her was actually the husband of her beloved Rose. Charlitte's eyes twinkled mischievously, as he surveyed her. "Were you ever shipwrecked, young lady?" he asked. Bidiane shuddered, and then, with difficulty, ejaculated, "No, never." "I was," said Charlitte, unblushingly, "on a cannibal island. All the rest of the crew were eaten. I was the only one spared, and I was left shut up in a hut in a palm grove until six months ago, when a passing ship took me off and brought me to New York." Bidiane, by means of a vigorous effort, was able to partly restore her mind to working order. Should she believe this man or not? She felt dimly that she did not like him, yet she could not resist Rose's touching, mute entreaty that she should bestow some recognition on the returned one. Therefore she said, confusedly, "Those cannibals, where did they live?" "In the South Sea Islands, 'way yonder," and Charlitte's eyes seemed to twinkle into immense distance. Rose was hanging her head. This recital pained her, and before Bidiane could again speak, she said, hurriedly, "Do not mention it. Our Lord and the blessed Virgin have brought you home. Ah! how glad Father Duvair will be, and the village." "Good heavens!" said Charlitte. "Do you think I care for the village. I have come to see you." For the first time Rose shrank from him, and Agapit brought down his eyes from the sky to glance keenly at him. "Charlitte," faltered Rose, "there have been great changes since you went away. I--I--" and she hesitated, and looked at Bidiane. Bidiane shrank behind a spruce-tree near which she was standing, and from its shelter looked out like a small red squirrel of an inquiring turn of mind. She felt that she was about to be banished, and in the present dazed state of her brain she dreaded to be alone. Agapit's inexorable gaze sought her out, and, taking his pipe from his mouth, he sauntered over to her. "Wilt thou run away, little one? We may have something to talk of not fit for thy tender ears." "Yes, I will," she murmured, shocked into unexpected submission by the suppressed misery of his voice. "I will be in the garden," and she darted away. The coast was now clear for any action the new arrival might choose to take. His first proceeding was to stare hard at Agapit, as if he wished that he, too, would take himself away; but this Agapit had no intention of doing, and he smoked on imperturbably, pretending not to see Charlitte's irritated glances, and keeping his own fixed on the azure depths of the sky. "You mention changes," said Charlitte, at last, turning to his wife. "What changes?" "You have just arrived, you have heard nothing,--and yet there would be little to hear about me, and Sleeping Water does not change much,--yet--" Charlitte's cool glance wandered contemptuously over that part of the village nearest them. "It is dull here,--as dull as the cannibal islands. I think moss would grow on me if I stayed." "But it would break my heart to leave it," said Rose, desperately. "I would take good care of you," he said, jocularly. "We would go to New Orleans. You would amuse yourself well. There are young men there,--plenty of them,--far smarter than the boys on the Bay." Rose was in an agony. With frantic eyes she devoured the cool, cynical face of her husband, then, with a low cry, she fell on her knees before him. "Charlitte, Charlitte, I must confess." Charlitte at once became intensely interested, and forgot to watch Agapit, who, however, got up, and, savagely biting his pipe, strolled to a little distance. "I have done wrong, my husband," sobbed Rose. Charlitte's eyes twinkled. Was he going to hear a confession of guilt that would make his own seem lighter? "Forgive me, forgive me," she moaned. "My heart is glad that you have come back, yet, oh, my husband, I must tell you that it also cries out for another." "For Agapit?" he said, kindly, stroking her clenched hands. "No,--no, no, for a stranger. You know I never loved you as a woman should love her husband. I was so young when I married. I thought only of attending to my house. Then you went away; I was sorry, so sorry, when news came of your death, but my heart was not broken. Five years ago this stranger came, and I felt--oh, I cannot tell you--but I found what this love was. Then I had to send him away, but, although he was gone, he seemed to be still with me. I thought of him all the time,--the wind seemed to whisper his words in my ear as I walked. I saw his handsome face, his smiling eyes. I went daily over the paths his feet used to take. After a long, long time, I was able to tear him from my mind. Now I know that I shall never see him again, that I shall only meet him after I die, yet I feel that I belong to him, that he belongs to me. Oh, my husband, this is love, and is it right that, feeling so, I should go with you?" "Who is this man?" asked Charlitte. "What is he called?" Rose winced. "Vesper is his name; Vesper Nimmo,--but do not let us talk of him. I have put him from my mind." "Did he make love to you?" "Oh, yes; but let us pass that over,--it is wicked to talk of it now." Charlitte, who was not troubled with any delicacy of feeling, was about to put some searching and crucial questions to her, but forbore, moved, despite himself, by the anguish and innocence of the gaze bent upon him. "Where is he now?" "In Paris. I have done wrong, wrong," and she again buried her face in her hands, and her whole frame shook with emotion. "Having had one husband, it would have been better to have thought only of him. I do not think one should marry again, unless--" "Nonsense," said Charlitte, abruptly. "The fellow should have married you. He got tired, I guess. By this time he's had half a dozen other fancies." Rose shrank from him in speechless horror, and, seeing it, Charlitte made haste to change the subject of conversation. "Where is the boy?" "He is with him," she said, hurriedly. "That was pretty cute in you," said Charlitte, with a good-natured vulgar laugh. "You were afraid I'd come home and take him from you,--you always were a little fool, Rose. Get up off the grass, and sit down, and don't distress yourself so. This isn't a hanging matter, and I'm not going to bully you; I never did." "No, never," she said, with a fresh outburst of tears. "You were always kind, my husband." "I think our marriage was all a mistake," he said, good-humoredly, "but we can't undo it. I knew you never liked me,--if you had, I might never--that is, things might have been different. Tell me now when that fool, Agapit, first began to set you against me?" "He has not set me against you, my husband; he rarely speaks of you." "When did you first find out that I wasn't dead?" said Charlitte, persistently; and Rose, who was as wax in his hands, was soon saying, hesitatingly, "I first knew that he did not care for you when Mr. Nimmo went away." "How did you know?" "He broke your picture, my husband,--oh, do not make me tell what I do not wish to." "How did he break it?" asked Charlitte, and his face darkened. "He struck it with his hand,--but I had it mended." "He was mad because I was keeping you from the other fellow. Then he told you that you had better give him the mitten?" "Yes," said Rose, sighing heavily, and sitting mute, like a prisoner awaiting sentence. "You have not done quite right, Rose," said her husband, mildly, "not quite right. It would have been better for you to have given that stranger the go by. He was only amusing himself. Still, I can't blame you. You're young, and mighty fine looking, and you've kept on the straight through your widowhood. I heard once from some sailors how you kept the young fellows off, and you always said you'd had a good husband. I shall never forget that you called me good, Rose, for there are some folks that think I am pretty bad." "Then they are evil folks," she said, tremulously; "are we not all sinners? Does not our Lord command us to forgive those who repent?" A curious light came into Charlitte's eyes, and he put his tongue in his cheek. Then he went on, calmly. "I'm on my way from Turk's Island to Saint John, New Brunswick,--I've got a cargo of salt to unload there, and, 'pon my word, I hadn't a thought of calling here until I got up in the Bay, working towards Petit Passage. I guess it was old habit that made me run for this place, and I thought I'd give you a call, and see if you were moping to death, and wanted to go away with me. If you do, I'll be glad to have you. If not, I'll not bother you." A deadly faintness came over Rose. "Charlitte, are you not sorry for your sin? Ah! tell me that you repent. And will you not talk to Father Duvair? So many quiet nights I think of you and pray that you may understand that you are being led into this wickedness. That other woman,--she is still living?" "What other woman? Oh, Lord, yes,--I thought that fool Agapit had had spies on me." Rose was so near fainting that she only half comprehended what he said. "I wish you'd come with me," he went on, jocosely. "If you happened to worry I'd send you back to this dull little hole. You're not going to swoon, are you? Here, put your head on this," and he drew up to her a small table on which Bidiane had been playing solitaire. "You used not to be delicate." "I am not now," she whispered, dropping her head on her folded arms, "but I cannot hold myself up. When I saw you come, I thought it was to say you were sorry. Now--" "Come, brace up, Rose," he said, uneasily. "I'll sit down beside you for awhile. There's lots of time for me to repent yet," and he chuckled shortly and struck his broad chest with his fist. "I'm as strong as a horse; there's nothing wrong with me, except a little rheumatism, and I'll outgrow that. I'm only fifty-two, and my father died at ninety. Come on, girl,--don't cry. I wish I hadn't started this talk of taking you away. You'd be glad of it, though, if you'd go. Listen till I tell you what a fine place New Orleans is--" Rose did not listen to him. She still sat with her flaxen head bowed on her arms, that rested on the little table. She was a perfect picture of silent, yet agitated distress. "You are not praying, are you?" asked her husband, in a disturbed manner. "I believe you are. Come, I'll go away." For some time there was no movement in the half prostrated figure, then the head moved slightly, and Charlitte caught a faint sentence, "Repent, my husband." "Yes, I repent," he said, hastily. "Good Lord, I'll do anything. Only cheer up and let me out of this." The grief-stricken Rose pushed back the hair from her tear-stained face and slowly raised her head from her arms. It was only necessary for her to show that face to her husband. So impressed was it with the stamp of intense anguish of mind, of grief for his past delinquencies of conduct, of a sorrow nobly, quietly borne through long years, that even he--callous, careless, and thoughtless--was profoundly moved. For a long time he was silent. Then his lip trembled and he turned his head aside. "'Pon my word, Rose,--I didn't think you'd fret like this. I'll do better; let me go now." One of her hands stole with velvety clasp to his brown wrists, and while the gentle touch lasted he sat still, listening with an averted face to the words whispered in his ear. Agapit, in the meantime, was walking in the garden with Bidiane. He had told her all that she wished to know with regard to the recreant husband, and in a passionate, resentful state of mind she was storming to and fro, scarcely knowing what she said. "It is abominable, treacherous!--and we stand idly here. Go and drive him away, Agapit. He should not be allowed to speak to our spotless Rose. I should think that the skies would fall--and I spoke to him, the traitor! Go, Agapit,--I wish you would knock him down." Agapit, with an indulgent glance, stood at a little distance from her, softly murmuring, from time to time, "You are very young, Bidiane." "Young! I am glad that I am young, so that I can feel angry. You are stolid, unfeeling. You care nothing for Rose. I shall go myself and tell that wretch to his face what I think of him." She was actually starting, but Agapit caught her gently by the arm. "Bidiane, restrain yourself," and drawing her under the friendly shade of a solitary pine-tree that had been left when the garden was made, he smoothed her angry cheeks and kissed her hot forehead. "You condone his offence,--you, also, some day, will leave me for some woman," she gasped. "This from you to me," he said, quietly and proudly, "when you know that we Acadiens are proud of our virtue,--of the virtue of our women particularly; and if the women are pure, it is because the men are so." "Rose cannot love that demon," exclaimed Bidiane. "No, she does not love him, but she understands what you will understand when you are older,--the awful sacredness of the marriage tie. Think of one of the sentences that she read to us last Sunday from Thomas à Kempis: 'A pure heart penetrates heaven and hell.' She has been in a hell of suffering herself. I think when in it she wished her husband were dead. Her charity is therefore infinite towards him. Her sins of thought are equal in her chastened mind to his sins of body." "But you will not let her go away with him?" "She will not wish to go, my treasure. She talks to him, and repent, repent, is, I am sure, the burden of her cry. You do not understand that under her gentleness is a stern resolve. She will be soft and kind, yet she would die rather than live with Charlitte or surrender her child to him." "But he may wish to stay here," faltered Bidiane. "He will not stay with her, _chérie_. She is no longer a girl, but a woman. She is not resentful, yet Charlitte has sinned deeply against her, and she remembers,--and now I must return to her. Charlitte has little delicacy of feeling, and may stay too long." "Wait a minute, Agapit,--is it her money that he is after?" "No, little one, he is not mercenary. He would not take money from a woman. He also would not give her any unless she begged him to do so. I think that his visit is a mere caprice that, however, if humored, would degenerate into a carrying away of Rose,--and now _au revoir_." Bidiane, in her excited, overstrained condition of mind, bestowed one of her infrequent caresses on him, and Agapit, in mingled surprise and gratification, found a pair of loving arms flung around his neck, and heard a frantic whisper: "If you ever do anything bad, I shall kill you; but you will not, for you are good." "Thank you. If I am faithless you may kill me," and, reluctantly leaving her, he strode along the summit of the slight hill on which the house stood, until he caught sight of the tableau on the lawn. Charlitte was just leaving his wife. His head was hanging on his breast; he looked ashamed of himself, and in haste to be gone, yet he paused and cast an occasional stealthy and regretful glance at Rose, who, with a face aglow with angelic forgiveness, seemed to be bestowing a parting benediction on him. The next time that he lifted his head, his small, sharp eyes caught sight of Agapit, whereupon he immediately snatched his hand from Rose, and hastily began to descend the hill towards the river. Rose remained standing, and silently watched him. She did not look at Agapit,--her eyes were riveted on her husband. Something within her seemed to cry out as his feet carried him down the hill to the brink of the inexorable stream, where the bones of so many of his countrymen lay. "_Adieu_, my husband," she called, suddenly and pleadingly, "thou wilt not forget." Charlitte paused just before he reached the bridge, and, little dreaming that his feet were never to cross its planks, he swept a glance over the peaceful Bay, the waiting boat, and the beautiful ship. Then he turned and waved his hand to his wife, and for one instant, they remembered afterwards, he put a finger on his breast, where lay a crucifix that she had just given him. "_Adjheu_, Rose," he called, loudly, "I will remember." At the same minute, however, that the smile of farewell lighted up his face, an oath slipped to his lips, and he stepped back from the bridge. CHAPTER XV. THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER GOES AWAY WITHOUT HER CAPTAIN. "Repentance is the relinquishment of any practice from the conviction that it has offended God. Sorrow, fear, and anxiety are properly not parts but adjuncts of repentance, yet they are too closely connected with it to be easily separated." --_Rambler._ Charlitte did not plan to show himself at all in Sleeping Water. He possessed a toughened conscience and moral fibre calculated to stand a considerably heavy strain, yet some blind instinct warned him that he had better seek no conversation with his friends of former days. For this reason he had avoided the corner on his way to Rose's house, but he had not been able to keep secret the news of his arrival. Some women at the windows had recognized him, and a few loungers at the corner had strolled down to his boat, and had conversed with the sailors, who, although Norwegians, yet knew enough English to tell their captain's name, which, according to a custom prevailing among Acadiens, was simply the French name turned into English. Charlitte de Forêt had become Charlitte Forrest. Emmanuel de la Rive was terribly excited. He had just come from the station with the afternoon mail, and, on hearing that Charlitte was alive, and had actually arrived, he had immediately put himself at the head of a contingent of men, who proposed to go up to the cottage and ascertain the truth of the case. If it were so,--and it must be so,--what a wonderful, what an extraordinary occurrence! Sleeping Water had never known anything like this, and he jabbered steadily all the way up to the cottage. Charlitte saw them coming,--this crowd of old friends, headed by the mail-driver in the red jacket, and he looked helplessly up at Rose. "Come back," she called; "come and receive your friends with me." Charlitte, however, glanced at Agapit, and preferred to stay where he was, and in a trice Emmanuel and the other men and boys were beside him, grasping his hands, vociferating congratulations on his escape from death, and plying him with inquiries as to the precise quarter of the globe in which the last few years of his existence had been passed. Charlitte, unable to stave off the questions showered upon him, was tortured by a desire to yield to his rough and sailorlike sense of humor, and entertain himself for a few minutes at the expense of his friends by regaling them with his monstrous yarns of shipwreck and escape from the cannibal islands. Something restrained him. He glanced up at Rose, and saw that she had lost hope of his returning to her. She was gliding down the hill towards him,--a loving, anxious, guardian angel. He could not tell lies in her presence. "Come, boys," he said, with coarse good nature. "Come on to my ship, I'll take you all aboard." Emmanuel, in a perfect intoxication of delight and eager curiosity, crowded close to Charlitte, as the throng of men and boys turned and began to surge over the bridge, and the hero of the moment, his attention caught by the bright jacket, singled Emmanuel out for special attention, and even linked his arm in his as they went. Bidiane, weary of her long stay in the garden, at that minute came around the corner of the house on a reconnoitring expedition. Her brown eyes took in the whole scene,--Rose hurrying down the hill, Agapit standing silently on it, and the swarm of men surrounding the newcomer like happy buzzing bees, while they joyfully escorted him away from the cottage. This was the picture for an instant before her, then simultaneously with a warning cry from Agapit,--"The bridge, _mon Dieu_! Do not linger on it; you are a strong pressure!"--there was a sudden crash, a brief and profound silence, then a great splashing, accompanied by shouts and cries of astonishment. The slight rustic structure had given way under the unusually heavy weight imposed upon it, and a score or two of the men of Sleeping Water were being subjected to a thorough ducking. However, they were all used to the water, their lives were partly passed on the sea, and they were all accomplished swimmers. As one head after another came bobbing up from the treacherous river, it was greeted with cries and jeers from dripping figures seated on the grass, or crawling over the muddy banks. Célina ran from the house, and Jovite from the stable, both shrieking with laughter. Only Agapit looked grave, and, snatching a hammock from a tree, he ran down the hill to the place where Rose stood with clasped hands. "Where is Charlitte?" she cried, "and Emmanuel?--they were close together; I do not see them." A sudden hush followed her words. Every man sprang to his feet. Emmanuel's red jacket was nowhere to be seen,--in the first excitement they had not missed him,--neither was Charlitte visible. They must be still at the bottom of the river, locked in a friendly embrace. Rose's wild cry pierced the hearts of her fellow countrymen, and in an instant some of the dripping figures were again in the river. Agapit was one of the most expert divers present, and he at once took off his coat and his boots. Bidiane threw herself upon him, but he pushed her aside and, putting his hands before him, plunged down towards the exact spot where he had last seen Charlitte. The girl, in wild terror, turned to Rose, who stood motionless, her lips moving, her eyes fixed on the black river. "Ah, God! there is no bottom to it,--Rose, Rose, call him back!" Rose did not respond, and Bidiane ran frantically to and fro on the bank. The muddy water was splashed up in her face, there was a constant appearance of heads, and disappearance of feet. Her lover would be suffocated there below, he stayed so long,--and in her despair she was in danger of slipping in herself, until Rose came to her rescue and held her firmly by her dress. After a space of time, that seemed interminably long, but that in reality lasted only a few minutes, there was a confused disturbance of the surface of the water about the remains of the wrecked bridge. Then two or three arms appeared,--a muddy form encased in a besmeared bright jacket was drawn out, and willing hands on the bank received it, and in desperate haste made attempts at resuscitation. "Go, Célina, to the house,--heat water and blankets," said Rose, turning her deathly pale face towards her maid; "and do you, Lionel and Sylvain, kindly help her. Run, Jovite, and telephone for a doctor--oh, be quick! Ah, Charlitte, Charlitte!" and with a distracted cry she fell on her knees beside the inanimate drenched form laid at her feet. Tears rained down her cheeks, yet she rapidly and skilfully superintended the efforts made for restoration. Her hands assisted in raising the inert back. She feverishly lifted the silent tongue, and endeavored to force air to the choked lungs, and her friends, with covert pitying glances, zealously assisted her. "There is no hope, Rose," said Agapit, at last. "You are wasting your strength, and keeping these brave fellows in their wet clothes." Her face grew stony, yet she managed to articulate, "But I have heard even if after the lapse of hours,--if one works hard--" "There is no hope," he said, again. "We found him by the bank. There was timber above him, he was suffocated in mud." She looked up at him piteously, then she again burst into tears, and threw herself across the body. "Go, dear friends,--leave me alone with him. Oh, Charlitte, Charlitte!--that I should have lived to see this day." "Emmanuel is also dead," said Agapit, in a low voice. "Emmanuel,--good, kind Emmanuel,--the beloved of all the village; not so--" and she painfully lifted her head and stared at the second prostrate figure. The men were all standing around him weeping. They were not ashamed of their tears,--these kind-hearted, gentle Acadiens. Such a calamity had seldom befallen their village. It was equal to the sad wrecks of winter. Rose's overwrought brain gave way as she gazed, and she fell senseless by Charlitte's dead body. Agapit carried her to the house, and laid her in her bed in the room that she was not to leave for many days. "This is an awful time," said Célina, sobbing bitterly, and addressing the mute and terrified Bidiane. "Let us pray for the souls of those poor men who died without the last sacraments." "Let us pray rather for the soul of one who repented on his death-bed," muttered Agapit, staring with white lips at the men who were carrying the body of Charlitte into one of the lower rooms of the house. CHAPTER XVI. AN ACADIEN FESTIVAL. "Vive Jésus! Vive Jésus! Avec la croix, son cher partage. Vive Jésus! Dans les coeurs de tous les élus! Portons la croix. * * * * * Sans choix, sans ennui, sans murmure, Portons la croix! Quoique très amère et très dure, Malgré les sens et la nature, Portons la croix!" --_Acadien Song._ Charlitte had been in his grave for nearly two years. He slept peacefully in the little green cemetery hard by the white church where a slender, sorrowful woman came twice every week to hear a priest repeat masses for the repose of his soul. He slept on and gave no sign, and his countrymen came and went above him, reflecting occasionally on their own end, but mostly, after the manner of all men, allowing their thoughts to linger rather on matters pertaining to time than on those of eternity. One fifteenth of August--the day consecrated by Acadiens all over Canada to the memory of their forefathers--had come and gone, and another had arrived. This day was one of heavenly peace and calm. The sky was faintly, exquisitely blue, and so placid was the Bay that the occupants of the boats crossing from Digby Neck to some of the churches in Frenchtown were forced to take in their sails, and apply themselves to their oars. Since early morning the roads of the parish in which Sleeping Water is situated had been black with people, and now at ten o'clock some two thousand Acadiens were assembled about the doors of the old church at Pointe à l'Eglise. There was no talking, no laughing. In unbroken silence they waited for the sound of the bell, and when it came they flocked into the church, packing it full, and overflowing out to the broad flight of steps, where they knelt in rows and tried to obtain glimpses over each other's shoulders of the blue and white decorations inside, and of the altar ablaze with lights. The priests from the college and glebe-house, robed in handsome vestments, filed out from the vestry, and, quietly approaching the silken banners standing against the low gallery, handed them to representatives of different societies connected with the church. The children of the Guardian Angel received the picture of their patron saint, and, gathering around it, fluttered soberly out to the open air through the narrow lane left among the kneeling worshippers. The children of the Society of Mary followed them, their white-clad and veiled figures clustering about the pale, pitying Virgin carried by two of their number. A banner waving beside her bore the prayer, "_Marie, Priez Pour Nous_" (Mary, pray for us), and, as if responding to the petition, her two hands were extended in blessing over them. After the troop of snowy girls walked the black sisters in big bonnets and drooping shawls, and the brown sisters, assistants to the Eudists, who wore black veils with white flaps against their pale faces. Then came the priests, altar boys, and all the congregation. Until they left the church the organ played an accompaniment to their chanting. On the steps a young deacon put a cornet to his lips, and, taking up the last note of the organ, prolonged it into a vigorous leadership of the singing: Ave maris Stella, Dei mater alma, Atque semper virgo Felix coeli porta. As the congregation sang, they crossed the road to the gates of the college grounds, and divided into two parts, the men, with heads uncovered, going one side, and the women on the other. Above the gate-posts waved two flags, the union jack and the Acadien national flag,--a French tricolor, crossed by a blue stripe, and pierced with a yellow star. Slowly and solemnly the long array of men and women passed by the glebe-house and the white marble tomb of the good Abbé, whose life was given to the Acadiens of the Bay Saint-Mary. The hymns sung by the priests at the head of the procession floated back to the congregation in the rear, and at the moment when the singing was beginning to die away in the distance and the procession was winding out of sight behind the big college, two strangers suddenly appeared on the scene. They were a slender, elegant man and a beautiful lad of a clear, healthy pallor of skin. The man, with a look of grave, quiet happiness on his handsome face, stepped from the carriage in which they were driving, fastened his horse to a near fence, and threw a longing glance after the disappearing procession. "If we hurry, Narcisse," he said, "we shall be able to overtake them." The lad at once placed himself beside him, and together they went on their way towards the gates. "Do you remember it?" asked the man, softly, as the boy lifted his hat when they passed by the door of the silent, decorated church. "Yes, perfectly," he said, with a sweet, delicate intonation of voice. "It seems as if my mother must be kneeling there." Vesper's brow and cheeks immediately became suffused with crimson. "She is probably on ahead. We will find out. If she is not, we shall drive at once to Sleeping Water." They hurried on silently. The procession was now moving through another gate, this one opening on the point of land where are the ruins of the first church that the good Abbé built on the Bay. Beside its crumbling ruins and the prostrate altarstones a new, fresh altar had been put up,--this one for temporary use. It was a veritable bower of green amid which bloomed many flowers, the fragile nurslings of the sisters in the adjacent convent. Before this altar the priests and deacons knelt for an instant on colored rugs, then, while the people gathered closely around them, an Acadien Abbé from the neighboring province of New Brunswick ascended the steps of the altar, and, standing beside the embowered Virgin mother, special patron and protectress of his race, he delivered a fervent panegyric on the ancestors of the men and women before him. While he recounted the struggles and trials of the early Acadiens, many of his hearers wept silently, but when this second good Abbé eloquently exhorted them not to linger too long on a sad past, but to gird themselves for a glorious future, to be constant to their race and to their religion, their faces cleared,--they were no longer a prey to mournful recollections. Vesper, holding his hat in his hand, and closely accompanied by Narcisse, moved slowly nearer and nearer to a man who stood with his face half hidden by his black hat. It was Agapit, and at Vesper's touch he started slightly, then, for he would not speak on this solemn occasion, he extended a hand that was grasped in the firm and enduring clasp of a friendship that would not again be broken. Vesper would never forget that, amid all the bustle and confusion succeeding Charlitte's death, Agapit had found time to send him a cable message,--"Charlitte is dead." After communicating with Agapit, Vesper drew the boy nearer to him, and fell back a little. He was inexpressibly moved. A few years ago he would have called this "perverted Christianity--Mariolatry." Now, now--"O God!" he muttered, "my pure saint, she has genuine piety," and under wet lashes he stole a glance at one form, preëminently beautiful among the group of straight and slim young Acadien women beyond him. She was there,--his heart's delight, his treasure. She was his. The holy, rapt expression would give place to one more earthly, more self-conscious. He would not surrender her to heaven just yet,--but still, would it not be heaven on earth to be united to her? She did not know that he was near. In complete oblivion of her surroundings she followed the singing of the Tantum Ergo. When the benediction was over, she lifted her bowed head, her eyes turned once towards the cemetery. She was thinking of Charlitte. The sensitive Narcisse trembled. The excess of melancholy and sentimental feeling about him penetrated to his soul, and Vesper withdrew with him to the edge of the crowd. Then before the procession re-formed to march back to the church, they took up their station by the college gates. All the Acadiens saw him there as they approached,--all but Rose. She only raised her eyes from her prayer-book to fix them on the sky. She alone of the women seemed to be so wholly absorbed in a religious fervor that she did not know where she was going nor what she was doing. Some of the Acadiens looked doubtfully at Vesper. Since the death of her husband, whose treachery towards her had in some way been discovered, she had been regarded more than ever as a saint,--as one set apart for prayer and meditation almost as much as if she had been consecrated to them. Would she give up her saintly life for marriage with the Englishman? Would she do it? Surely this holy hour was the wrong time to ask her, and they waited breathlessly until they reached the gates where the procession was to break up. There she discovered Vesper. In the face of all the congregation he had stepped up and was holding out his hand to her. She did not hesitate an instant. She did not even seem to be surprised. An expression of joyful surrender sprang to her face; in silent, solemn ecstasy she took her lover's hand, and, throwing her arm around the neck of her recovered child, she started with them on the long road down the Bay. [Illustration: "THROWING HER ARM AROUND THE NECK OF HER RECOVERED CHILD."] * * * * * All this happened a few years ago, but the story is yet going on. If you come from Boston to-day, and take your wheel or carriage at Yarmouth,--for the strong winds blow one up and not down the Bay,--you will, after passing through Salmon River, Chéticamp, Meteghan, Saulnierville, and other places, come to the swinging sign of the Sleeping Water Inn. There, if you stop, you will be taken good care of by Claudine and Mirabelle Marie,--who is really a vastly improved woman. Perhaps among all the two hundred thousand Acadiens scattered throughout the Maritime Provinces of Canada there is not a more interesting inn than that of Sleeping Water. They will give you good meals and keep your room tidy, and they will also show you--if you are really interested in the Acadien French--a pretty cottage in the form of a horseshoe that was moved bodily away from the wicked Sleeping Water River and placed in a flat green field by the shore. To it, you will be informed, comes every year a family from Boston, consisting of an Englishman and his wife, his mother and two children. They will describe the family to you, or perhaps, if it is summer-time, you may see the Englishman himself, riding a tall bay horse and looking affectionately at a beautiful lad who accompanies him on a glossy black steed rejoicing in the name of Toochune. The Englishman is a man of wealth and many schemes. He has organized a company for the planting and cultivation of trees along the shore of the charming, but certainly wind-swept Bay. He also is busy now surveying the coast for the carrying out of his long-cherished plan of an electric railway running along the shore. He will yet have it, the Acadiens say, but in the meantime he amuses himself by viewing the land and interviewing the people, and when he is weary he rides home to the cottage where his pale, fragile mother is looking eagerly for her adopted, idolized grandchild Narcisse, and where his wife sits by the window and waits for him. As she waits she often smiles and gazes down at her lap where lies a tiny creature,--a little girl whose eyes and mouth are her own, but whose hair is the hair of Vesper. Perhaps you will go to Sleeping Water by the train. If so, do not look out for the red coat which always used to be the distinguishing mark of this place, and do not mention Emmanuel's name to the woman who keeps the station, nor to her husband, for they were very fond of him, and if you speak of the red-jacketed mail-man they will turn aside to hide their tears. Nannichette and her husband have come out of the woods and live by the shore. Mirabelle Marie has persuaded the former to go to mass with her. The Indian in secret delight says nothing, but occasionally he utters a happy grunt. Bidiane and her husband live in Weymouth. Their _ménage_ is small and unambitious as yet, in order that they may do great things in the future, Bidiane says. She is absolutely charming when she ties a handkerchief on her head and sweeps out her rooms; and sometimes she cooks. Often at such times she scampers across a yard that separates her from her husband's office, and, after looking in his window to make sure that he is alone, she flies in, startles and half suffocates him by throwing her arms around his neck and stuffing in his mouth or his pocket some new and delectable dainty known only to herself and the cook-book. She is very happy, and turns with delight from her winter visits to Halifax, where, however, she manages to enjoy herself hugely, to her summer on the Bay, when she can enjoy the most congenial society in the world to her and to her husband,--that of Vesper Nimmo and his wife Rose. THE END. _SELECTIONS FROM L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S LIST OF NEW FICTION._ [Illustration] Selections from L. C. Page and Company's List of New Fiction. An Enemy to the King. From the Recently Discovered Memoirs of the Sieur de la Tournoire. By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS. Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the adventures of a young French nobleman at the Court of Henry IV., and on the field with Henry of Navarre. The Continental Dragoon. A Romance of Philipse Manor House, in 1778. By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of "An Enemy to the King." Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= A stirring romance of the Revolution, the scene being laid in and around the old Philipse Manor House, near Yonkers, which at the time of the story was the central point of the so-called "neutral territory" between the two armies. Muriella; or, Le Selve. By OUIDA. Illustrated by M. B. Prendergast. 1 vol., library 12 mo, cloth =$1.25= This is the latest work from the pen of the brilliant author of "Under Two Flags," "Moths," etc., etc. It is the story of the love and sacrifice of a young peasant girl, told in the absorbing style peculiar to the author. The Road to Paris. By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of "An Enemy to the King," "The Continental Dragoon," etc. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= An historical romance, being an account of the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite ancestry, whose family early settled in the colony of Pennsylvania. The scene shifts from the unsettled forests of the then West to Philadelphia, New York, London, Paris, and, in fact, wherever a love of adventure and a roving fancy can lead a soldier of fortune. The story is written in Mr. Stephens's best style, and is of absorbing interest. Rose à Charlitte. An Acadien Romance. By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe," etc. Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= In this novel, the scene of which is laid principally in the land of Evangeline, Marshall Saunders has made a departure from the style of her earlier successes. The historical and descriptive setting of the novel is accurate, the plot is well conceived and executed, the characters are drawn with a firm and delightful touch, and the fortunes of the heroine, Rose à Charlitte, a descendant of an old Acadien family, will be followed with eagerness by the author's host of admirers. Bobbie McDuff. By CLINTON ROSS, author of "The Scarlet Coat," "Zuleika," etc. Illustrated by B. West Clinedinst. 1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00= Clinton Ross is well known as one of the most promising of recent American writers of fiction, and in the description of the adventures of his latest hero, Bobbie McDuff, he has repeated his earlier successes. Mr. Ross has made good use of the wealth of material at his command. New York furnishes him the hero, sunny Italy a heroine, grim Russia the villain of the story, while the requirements of the exciting plot shift the scene from Paris to New York, and back again to a remote, almost feudal villa on the southern coast of Italy. In Kings' Houses. A Romance of the Reign of Queen Anne. By JULIA C. R. DORR, author of "A Cathedral Pilgrimage," etc. Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= Mrs. Dorr's poems and travel sketches have earned for her a distinct place in American literature, and her romance, "In Kings' Houses," is written with all the charm of her earlier works. The story deals with one of the most romantic episodes in English history. Queen Anne, the last of the reigning Stuarts, is described with a strong, yet sympathetic touch, and the young Duke of Gloster, the "little lady," and the hero of the tale, Robin Sandys, are delightful characterizations. Sons of Adversity. A Romance of Queen Elizabeth's Time. By L. COPE CONFORD, author of "Captain Jacobus," etc. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= A tale of adventure on land and sea at the time when Protestant England and Catholic Spain were struggling for naval supremacy. Spanish conspiracies against the peace of good Queen Bess, a vivid description of the raise of the Spanish siege of Leyden by the combined Dutch and English forces, sea fights, the recovery of stolen treasure, are all skilfully woven elements in a plot of unusual strength. The Count of Nideck. From the French of Erckman-Chatrian, translated and adapted by RALPH BROWNING FISKE. Illustrated by Victor A. Searles. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= A romance of the Black Forest, woven around the mysterious legend of the Wehr Wolf. The plot has to do with the later German feudal times, is brisk in action, and moves spiritedly from start to finish. Mr. Fiske deserves a great deal of credit for the excellence of his work. No more interesting romance has appeared recently. The Making of a Saint. By W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. Illustrated by Gilbert James. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= "The Making of a Saint" is a romance of Mediæval Italy, the scene being laid in the 15th century. It relates the life of a young leader of Free Companions who, at the close of one of the many petty Italian wars, returns to his native city. There he becomes involved in its politics, intrigues, and feuds, and finally joins an uprising of the townspeople against their lord. None can resent the frankness and apparent brutality of the scenes through which the hero and his companions of both sexes are made to pass, and many will yield ungrudging praise to the author's vital handling of the truth. In the characters are mirrored the life of the Italy of their day. The book will confirm Mr. Maugham's reputation as a strong and original writer. Omar the Tentmaker. A Romance of Old Persia. By NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. Illustrated. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= Mr. Dole's study of Persian literature and history admirably equips him to enter into the life and spirit of the time of the romance, and the hosts of admirers of the inimitable quatrains of Omar Khayyam, made famous by Fitzgerald, will be deeply interested in a tale based on authentic facts in the career of the famous Persian poet. The three chief characters are Omar Khayyam, Nizam-ul-Mulk, the generous and high-minded Vizier of the Tartar Sultan Malik Shah of Mero, and Hassan ibu Sabbah, the ambitious and revengeful founder of the sect of the Assassins. The scene is laid partly at Naishapur, in the Province of Khorasan, which about the period of the First Crusade was at its acme of civilization and refinement, and partly in the mountain fortress of Alamut, south of the Caspian Sea, where the Ismailians under Hassan established themselves towards the close of the 11th century. Human nature is always the same, and the passions of love and ambition, of religion and fanaticism, of friendship and jealousy, are admirably contrasted in the fortunes of these three able and remarkable characters as well as in those of the minor personages of the story. Captain Fracasse. A new translation from the French of Gotier. Illustrated by Victor A. Searles. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= This famous romance has been out of print for some time, and a new translation is sure to appeal to its many admirers, who have never yet had any edition worthy of the story. The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore. A farcical novel. By HAL GODFREY. Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= A fanciful, laughable tale of two maiden sisters of uncertain age who are induced, by their natural longing for a return to youth and its blessings, to pay a large sum for a mystical water which possesses the value of setting backwards the hands of time. No more delightfully fresh and original book has appeared since "Vice Versa" charmed an amused world. It is well written, drawn to the life, and full of the most enjoyable humor. Midst the Wild Carpathians. By MAURUS JOKAI, author of "Black Diamonds," "The Lion of Janina," etc. Authorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. Illustrated. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= A thrilling, historical, Hungarian novel, in which the extraordinary dramatic and descriptive powers of the great Magyar writer have full play. As a picture of feudal life in Hungary it has never been surpassed for fidelity and vividness. The translation is exceedingly well done. The Golden Dog. A Romance of Quebec. By WILLIAM KIRBY. New authorized edition. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the time of Louis XV. and Mme. de Pompadour, when the French colonies were making their great struggle to retain for an ungrateful court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of France. Bijli the Dancer. By JAMES BLYTHE PATTON. Illustrated by Horace Van Rinth. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= A novel of Modern India. The fortunes of the heroine, an Indian Naucht girl, are told with a vigor, pathos, and a wealth of poetic sympathy that makes the book admirable from first to last. "To Arms!" Being Some Passages from the Early Life of Allan Oliphant, Chirurgeon, Written by Himself, and now Set Forth for the First Time. By ANDREW BALFOUR. Illustrated. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= A romance dealing with an interesting phase of Scottish and English history, the Jacobite Insurrection of 1715, which will appeal strongly to the great number of admirers of historical fiction. The story is splendidly told, the magic circle which the author draws about the reader compelling a complete forgetfulness of prosaic nineteenth century life. Mere Folly. A novel. By MARIA LOUISE POOLE, author of "In a Dike Shanty," etc. Illustrated. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25= An extremely well-written story of modern life. The interest centres in the development of the character of the heroine, a New England girl, whose high-strung temperament is in constant revolt against the confining limitations of nineteenth century surroundings. The reader's interest is held to the end, and the book will take high rank among American psychological novels. A Hypocritical Romance and other stories. By CAROLINE TICKNOR. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00= Miss Ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of the younger school of American writers, has never done better work than in the majority of these clever stories, written in a delightful comedy vein. Cross Trails. By VICTOR WAITE. Illustrated. (In press.) 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50= A Spanish-American novel of unusual interest, a brilliant, dashing, and stirring story, teeming with humanity and life. Mr. Waite is to be congratulated upon the strength with which he has drawn his characters. A Mad Madonna and other stories. By L. CLARKSON WHITELOCK, with eight half-tone illustrations. 1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00= A half dozen remarkable psychological stories, delicate in color and conception. Each of the six has a touch of the supernatural, a quick suggestion, a vivid intensity, and a dreamy realism that is matchless in its forceful execution. On the Point. A Summer Idyl. By NATHAN HASKELL DOLE, author of "Not Angels Quite," with dainty half-tone illustrations as chapter headings. 1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00= A bright and clever story of a summer on the coast of Maine, fresh, breezy, and readable from the first to the last page. The narrative describes the summer outing of a Mr. Merrithew and his family. The characters are all honest, pleasant people, whom we are glad to know. We part from them with the same regret with which we leave a congenial party of friends. Cavalleria Rusticana; or, Under the Shadow of Etna. Translated from the Italian of Giovanni Verga, by NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry. 1 vol., 16mo, cloth =$0.50= Giovanni Verga stands at present as unquestionably the most prominent of the Italian novelists. His supremacy in the domain of the short story and in the wider range of the romance is recognized both at home and abroad. The present volume contains a selection from the most dramatic and characteristic of his Sicilian tales. Verga is himself a native of Sicily, and his knowledge of that wonderful country, with its poetic and yet superstitious peasantry, is absolute. Such pathos, humor, variety, and dramatic quality are rarely met in a single volume. Transcriber's Note Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below. Punctuation, capitalization, accents and formatting markup have been made consistent. "-" surrounding text represents italics. "=" surrounding text represents bold. "+" surrounding text represents the use of a Gothic font in the original. Page 64, 100, 176 and 202, changed "ecstacy" to "ecstasy" for continuity. Page 120, "forthfathers" changed to "forefathers" for consistency. (Our forefathers were not of Grand Pré.) Page 163, added the missing word, "to" ("I should like to see your sister, Perside.") Page 220, "pantomine" changed to "pantomime". (The unfortunate watcher, in great perplexity of mind, was going through every gesture in the pantomime of distress.) Page 294, "Agapit" changed to "Vesper". ("The doctors in Boston also say it," responded Vesper.) Page 394, "how" changed to "now". (The earth was soft here by the lake, yet it was heavy to lift out, for the hole had now become quite deep.) Page 506, "Malgre" changed to "Malgré". (Quoique très amère et très dure, Malgré les sens et la nature, Portons la croix!)