CHAPTER XXV.

TIDINGS AT LAST.

AS the girls crept wearily homeward, the first rays of the summer dawn were breaking in the east in flushes of saffron and pink; overhead the sky held quivering lights, ready to flash into a blaze. A refreshing sense of physical renewal was in the cool blueness of the morning; there was dewy fragrance in the atmosphere; the trees gave out a breath of strength, the golden-rod gleamed in the hollows, the heights were purple bronze. Lydia moved in a state of passive exhaustion, half stupefied. As they reached home Diane turned to her companion a face which glowed with some subtle inspiration.

“Be assured that du Chesne is safe. God is good. Oh, behold! that must be a messenger from M. du Plessis, sent by M. de Callière. See how all the people are gathering to hear what the tidings may be. You are so exhausted, Lydia, it were perhaps better to retire to your room. I see my uncle. I will go to him; he will certainly know what has occurred. If there is news I will return to you.” An instant later she had joined Le Ber on the shore.

“Is there news of M. de Valrenne’s command?”

“Yes, news has come at last. Oshawa has been sent to say that they have caught sight of the enemy. M. de Callière lies ill at La Prairie. M. de Valrenne is stationed between there and Chambly.” Jacques Le Ber showed no sign of weakness save a momentary trembling of the lines about the mouth.

“Oh! my uncle, even to-night they may be with us victorious.”

The trader smiled. It would never do to admit the possibility of disaster.

“The sky may brighten for New France, my daughter. I have ever remarked that good as well as ill-luck runs in courses. Our good fortune may now commence.”

A number of women, who had been attending the early mass, were emerging from the church of Notre Dame. Among them, erect and stately, walked Madame de Monesthrol, attended by Nanon and followed by Madame de St. Rochs with her baby in her arms. Pierre, thin and dark and sallow, pushed his way through the crowd to where the demoiselle de Monesthrol stood a little apart.

“Diane, I Have here for you a picture of Our Lady of Pity surrounded by the five wounds of her Son.” He tried to fortify himself by recalling the excellence of his intention, but that only increased his nervous agitation. “I have been holding a neuvena in honor of St. Joseph and all the holy saints. For nine days, a number especially dedicated to the holy angels, have I prayed, and no light has dispersed the darkness of my soul. Dazzling visions, the creation of the Father of Evil, ever appear before my eyes. Instead of the angelic faces which once beamed upon me, it is thine I see, glorified by the crown of martyrdom.”

Until now Diane had had slight patience with Pierre’s freaks and fancies, considering them effeminate and unreasonable. Now, looking at him with wistful eyes, she said quietly:

“Dear Pierre, we are all sorely tried by anxiety and suspense. Try to forget your own temptations, my cousin, in thought for others. Could you not support my uncle, who is alone in this time of trouble? On every hand you will find those who have need of your kindly ministrations.”

In the young man’s impatient gesture there appeared all the petulance of misery. He felt it unreasonable and monstrous that anything save the painful state of his own concerns should occupy Diane’s mind.

“I stand alone,” he complained. “My father is absorbed in worldly interests; your heart is engrossed by vanity. What are the trivial affairs of this life—privation, danger, and even death—in comparison with the perils that menace the soul?”

The next day a terrible storm broke over Ville Marie. Great trees groaned and snapped like saplings in the blast, the wind raved, the whole heavens were illumined by the swift electric flashes. Such a storm had never been known in the colony. Nature, in her convulsive throes smote the stoutest heart with terror. Late in the afternoon the tempest ceased. The sun set fair and beautiful, with rays of purple and gold smiling on the waters of the river; the clouds, black with the recoil of tempest, gradually broke into rifts, trailing silvery tints of celestial hue, sublime marvels of color.

Diane joined Le Ber as he walked down to the shore. That day no news had been received, yet it was almost certain that an engagement had taken place. His face was grey with consuming care; his eyes had a famished expression. The demoiselle de Monesthrol slipped her hand within the arm of her guardian and walked quietly by his side, offering a mute responsive sympathy which was grateful to his soul.

“We shall surely have news before night, my daughter. Behold M. du Plessis on the shore; like ourselves, he looks for tidings from our men.”

Restless expectation tinged everybody’s thoughts. These were anxious moments to the French commander. No one understood better than he the reality of the danger that threatened the settlement. His brow was heavy with care, though he endeavored to seem at ease.

As she looked out upon the shining waters of the river, a strange perception came to Diane de Monesthrol. It seemed as though the world had broken into fragments and lay crumbling at her feet, while her spirit soared free above the ruins. She already understood the tragic possibilities of fear and loss and pain; she had acknowledged the necessity of devotion, self-abnegation, heroism; now a lightning flash of intuition revealed to her the terrible beauty of self-sacrifice, giving her to realize, though faintly and indistinctly, some conception of a divine help, offered with a human eagerness of sympathy, patient until the feeble mortal hands could reach up and lay hold of it. With this conviction a wonderful peace came to succeed the burning wretchedness. Just then the peals of the Angelus rang out, echoing through the mountain slopes and over the waters. It was the voice of prayer and praise, rising in triumph above all earthly passions of grief and pain.

Groups of women, with heavy eyes and care-worn faces, holding their rosaries with fingers which still mechanically pressed the beads as they walked, while their lips moved in silent prayer, came out from the dusky seclusion of the church, where day and night lights burned and prayers were offered. The beadle of the Parish Church, in full uniform, mace in hand, was narrating with much dramatic emphasis all the particulars of a supposed engagement, to a keenly interested group of listeners, when the tide of his eloquence was abruptly checked by a sharp poke in the ribs that deprived him of breath. Nanon, her face flushed like a peony, the lappets of her cap flying, swept past like a whirlwind.

“Seigneur dieu!I would know the truth, me, after waiting so long—a canoe!”

“A boat arriving!—tidings!—tidings!” The words passed from one to another, and were repeated in a variety of keys, as, moved by a common impulse, the group rapidly dispersed, flying down to the shore, where the whole population of the town seemed to have gathered.

Propelled by four strong arms, skimming lightly as foam over the surface of the water, leaving a faint track behind it as it moved, the frail craft advanced. As it came between the eager spectators and the sun, the forms of those it contained stood out like silhouettes against the light. The citizens of Ville Marie waited with quickened breath and beating hearts, hoping, fearing, expecting—they dared not think what. Le Ber gazed with the wrinkles deepening on his brow. The setting sun shone so brilliantly in his eyes that he raised his hand to shade them; and for the moment could see nothing.

“Le Canotier and Madouaska—the Blessed Virgin send us good news,” du Plessis announced hurriedly, speaking with a catch in his breath.

Then again a breathless silence settled on the crowd; not a sound was heard but the dipping of the paddles and the soft murmur of the waves as they caressed the shore. Silently, swiftly the canoe advanced. Beside the Canotier was an Indian, a tall, superbly built man, whose remarkably regular features might have been sculptured out of Florentine bronze. Over his shoulders was thrown a mantle of caribou skin with pink and lilac border. His head was shaved, with the exception of a tuft on the crown, which was ornamented with hawk feathers, resembling the crest of an antique helmet. His face was absolutely impassive in its immobility. As the canoe grated on the shore, a dozen willing hands offered aid in landing her.

“All is well?” cried du Plessis, unable longer to restrain his anxiety. Then a shuddering, convulsive sob ran through the ranks of the women as a French officer appeared, bearing, in haggard eye and ghastly pallor, traces of the fatal wound which was rapidly draining his life-blood. Tender hands lifted him from the boat.

“It is M. le Capitaine de Breteuil. He is dying!” The women separated to allow a lady, with three little children clinging to her gown, to push her way to the front.

“Carry him home,” she said quietly. “At least the good Lord has granted the favor of permitting him to die with me. I must have courage; he will need me beside him. Let us be together while we may.”

For an instant she had seemed on the point of breaking into a wild outcry, but quickly checking the impulse, had braced herself for the duty waiting her. Now, as she spoke, the icy composure of voice and manner seemed almost like indifference. A black-robed nun silently detached herself from the crowd, and placed herself at the side of the stricken wife. Dollier de Casson, his brown earnest face all quivering with emotion, solemnly raised his hands in benediction over the living and the dying.

“You will not grudge the sacrifice, my daughter? It is a hero willingly and gallantly laying down his life for his faith and his King.”

“There will be plenty of time to consider that later,” she answered, very quietly. “Now he needs me. I have no thought to spare for aught else.”

The whole assembly were hanging eagerly upon the accents of le Canotier, who had already delivered the despatches he had brought to M. du Plessis.

“We marched straight to Chambly—such were our orders. The object of M. de Valrenne was to permit those devils of English to pass, and then, by placing himself in their rear, to cut them off from their canoes. Our scouts—and there are none better than Misti, Tshinespek and Mushawana,—soon discovered the advance of the enemy, and then we marched six or seven miles towards La Prairie, on the path by which Schuyler was retreating. The sun stood high; it was nine o’clock when our scouts met those of the foe, and then—Dianthe!—the woods resounded with the shrill yells of the Indians as their war-whoops gave the alarm. You all know how that part of the country is buried in forests. We take possession of a ridge of ground that crosses the way of those English wolves. Two enormous trees thrown down by the storm have fallen along the crest of this rising ground, and behind these we crouch in a triple row, well hidden by bushes and thick standing stumps, like wolves ready to spring upon their prey. Believe me, Mesdames and Messieurs, I have witnessed much of forest warfare, yet never before have I seen so hot a conflict. The English charged like devils—(to give them their due they do not lack courage)—and were sent reeling back by a close and deadly volley. Like hail the balls flew—three times were we mingled together, scorching each other’s shirts by the flash of our guns. With still greater fury our enemies repeated the attack, and dislodged us from our place of ambush. It was then the veritable struggle commenced. Figure to yourself that they determined to break through our lines, and our commandant desired, above all else, to drive them back within the reach of our people at La Prairie. Our muskets thirsted to kill. There, amidst that storm of hell-fire, stood M. de Valrenne, giving his orders, calm and smiling as at a ball. Forty dead they left behind them, those English, yet they managed to cut their way through and drive us from the path.”

To the anxious listeners the prospect appeared to grow darker and more appalling. There had been a sharp engagement, many lives apparently had been lost, and who could divine whose heart had been smitten, whose home rendered desolate?

“M. le Lieutenant Dumerque?” asked a timorous voice.

“Dead; shot at my side,” responded le Canotier, with the sharp brevity of excitement. “I see a little officer with hair as red as his coat, fighting like a Turk. I send him a sugar plum—v’là!—his legs in the air, but not before mon Lieutenant had fallen, pierced by a shot from his hand.”

There was a faint stifled cry. A pale young girl, who had been listening eagerly, fell on the ground in a nerveless heap; an elderly woman, with face set in lines of stony composure, bent anxiously over her; then Dollier de Casson, raising the slight form in his strong arms, bore her away to her home.

“It is Mademoiselle Adèle de Montigny; they were to have been married in the early days of September. And his mother—it is the fourth son she has lost.”

It seemed that those who listened to the vivid recital could see the dim forests and floating smoke-wreaths, with vague glimpses of the hidden foe. They could imagine the incessant rattle of musketry, could see terrible figures looming through the haze, and watch the gleaming of the war-axes as the weapons fell clattering from stricken hands.

CHAPTER XXVI.

DU CHESNE’S RETURN.

“AND M. de St. Rochs?”

Cecile was clinging to Diane’s gown, trembling, shivering, half believing herself already a widow, the soft outlines and fresh bloom of youth contrasting oddly with the pathetic trouble of her eyes.

“M. de St. Rochs was safe, Madame, when I left. I was sent away in charge of mon Capitaine before the fight was fairly over.”

Like a little tempest, Madame de St. Rochs rushed into Diane’s arms, sobbing, laughing, uttering inarticulate exclamations of joy.

Le Ber’s grasp on his ward’s arm tightened. She understood that he desired her to ask the question which his own lips could not frame. Twice Diane tried to speak, but her throat seemed to close each time; the words would not come. It was Cecile who, in a burst of joyful confidence, found voice for the consuming desire of the French girl’s heart.

“And M. Le Ber du Chesne—he is safe, of course?”

“Ah! yes, Madame, our brave young commandant. And is it any wonder that the bluecoats love their leader? He fought like all the king’s troops in one, being of a valor truly marvellous.”

The father caught his breath sharply and drew a hand across his eyes, as if to clear his mind from confused ideas. Diane had been watching the working of le Canotier’s scarred and weather-beaten face with vigilant scrutiny. The reaction, the sweetness of relief, was almost as poignant a sensation as pain. For an instant she closed her eyes and clung to Le Ber’s arm. With what trembling thanksgiving she welcomed this gleam of hope. The Blessed Virgin had granted her prayer; the Holy Mother had a woman’s heart, and was touched by compassion. Though du Chesne would never be hers, yet he would live; his career, in the brilliancy of its promise, would not be cut short; he would continue to move in the light of God’s earth; she would be spared the supreme anguish of yielding him up to death.

Absorbed in the interest of le Canotier’s narrative, and in the incidents attending it, no one perceived the rapid advance of another canoe. The shrill voice of a child proclaimed the fact.

“Voilà!yet another canoe,” exclaimed one of the group. “Truly, more news. It is M. le Chevalier and the Sieur d’Ordieux—yes, and Baptiste Bras de Fer.”

Le Ber, turning abruptly, withdrew his support. Diane, gazing but not seeing, sickened with a sudden sense of dread. She made a hasty step forward, staggering like one blind, then, stretching her hands with a long, gasping cry, that seemed to carry with it the trouble of those last terrible days, recovered herself by a supreme effort.

“Mademoiselle, I have failed in my commission, believe me, through no negligence or fault of mine. I have brought back my brave and faithful comrade. Do me the justice to believe that I would willingly have given my own life in his stead.” It was the Chevalier de Crisasi who spoke, the disorder of his dress showing plainly the desperateness of the conflict through which he had passed.

In the midst of this sudden panic, the downfall of all her hopes, Diane had pity to spare for him who felt so much. As he encountered her gaze he bowed his head reverently. At that moment the girl’s secret was revealed to him, and the Sicilian gentleman stood awed and abashed before the revelation.

“It was but now they said he was safe; it cannot be du Chesne.” Le Ber’s shock was so great that he looked piteously into his ward’s eyes as she stood with her white lips pressed together.

Diane’s agitation affected her strangely. She was surprised at her own composure in this supreme crisis. Hastily forming a distinct plan of action, she coolly took command, directing everything. For the first terrible interval she could not even wonder, or doubt, or question. She seemed to have known it all long ago, to have felt the cold creeping to her heart to thrill her with a shiver as of ice, to have grown used and deadened to it. It was du Chesne who was being borne away helpless in Bras de Fer’s strong arms, surrounded by anxious comrades and kindred—du Chesne, whose eyes were pathetic with the silent protest of life against death, whose bright, boyish face wore that mysterious expression, sweeter, calmer than a smile, that sometimes comes to those who look their last upon life. She saw Cecile drop down to the ground, heard Nanon’s noisy grief, was conscious of the stricken look of Le Ber’s face, yet she seemed to stand outside and beyond it all.

With the hush and awe of natural sympathy, friends and neighbors gathered around, looking with deep pity on the bereavement which might so easily have been their own. Ville Marie was overcast with mourning for the fate of the kindly, genial young fellow.

There was one whom the young Canadian sought—his wandering glances revealed the secret. All the force within Diane was torn two ways, so sorely rent as to scarcely leave her any strength for decisive action. Her own affection, jealous, restless, imperative, had claims which were irresistible. At such a moment who would remember the helpless stranger’s rights? Not Le Ber, who was absorbed in grief for the destruction of his hopes; not Madame de Monesthrol, who despised the English captive’s weakness; nor Pierre, engrossed in his prayers and penances; neither could it be Madame de St. Rochs, nor Nanon, both of whom had conceived violent prejudices against the intruder. During all the years of her after life Diane could never think of the strength of that dreadful temptation without a convulsion of her whole being. She had no choice; the steadfast spirit, holding brave sovereignty over the body and its pangs, must triumph. Hearts, apparently, were made to be crushed and broken. A little more or less, what did it matter in the vast and silent anguish that consumed her? In the heat of conflict there came a new tide in her veins, a novel force to all her thought. It was she who must break the news of this bereavement to her rival, and she would be required to comfort and sustain. It must be her part to see that du Chesne’s desire was satisfied, that the English girl should take her rightful place at her lover’s death-bed. Every trace of color died out of Lydia’s face as she listened; she turned on Diane a wild and appealing look.

“But it is not true; it cannot be true. We were to have been so happy together,” she insisted desperately, sobbing out the words in her anguish and terror.

In one of those brilliant impulses of generosity, courage and self-sacrifice which bear a noble soul on, heedless of the temptations of the body, to the performance of lofty deeds—acts of heroism in which life goes for nothing—Diane supported the pretty, frightened creature who clung to her panting and sobbing.

“You will come to him. You will try to be calm for his sake,” the demoiselle de Monesthrol urged.

But Lydia was overwhelmed with fear. The shock rendered her helpless and hysterical; she wanted to force her own complaints and grievances upon the attention of others, rather than yield to the claims of the dying man. She was utterly unable to collect her scattered faculties. This frail sufferer, with spectral eyes and pain-distorted form, seemed to have no connection with her gay and gallant young lover. She loved strength, brightness, the joy of life, and hated anything that was maimed or gloomy. She shuddered involuntarily as a feeling of repulsion crept over her; she could not look at him without whitening and shivering. She was not touched by the spectacle of a valor so steadfast, a submission so sweet; her one thought was to escape the horror of it.

Du Chesne lay in a quiet room, while the moments which no human will could arrest swept on. He had accepted the verdict passed upon him as the most natural thing in the world—“quite simple,” as he said.

He was still so young and ardent of temperament that even the dark passage to the grave abounded in hopeful portents. He would insist upon being propped up in bed, and being allowed to talk. Affection banished the solemn, wistful look from his face, and gleamed like faint flashes of sunshine from the edges of the dark shadow.

The young Canadian was tender and considerate, even on his death-bed. He was wondrously patient in his pity for Lydia’s simplicity and weakness; his dying eyes followed her ceaselessly, with a faithful love which had been born on earth, but which would last forever.

Cecile, outside the door of the sick-room, cried out, launching furious, vehement invectives against the cruelty of Fate; and Nanon, all glowing red, her eyes blazing with indignation, her lips quivering with genuine distress, stood by, with a gaze of wrath and disgust fixed on the stranger’s face.

But Lydia was too completely absorbed in her own fright and misery to be sensible of criticism, animosity, or even the evidences of tenderest affection. All her complacent little vanities had vanished as, clinging to her friend with piteous, shaking hands, she sought vainly to obtain some inspiration from the desperate bravery of Diane’s face.

“Diane, be good to her,” pleaded the dying man. “You are her only protector. You are strong and tender and loyal. I can trust you, my brave and faithful sister.”

In the constancy of her courage Diane never either faltered or failed. If she was crushed beneath the cross which was laid upon her, she at least tasted the supreme blessedness of sacrificing self. Tender affection gave sight to her eyes, and taught her how to comfort and solace the sufferer to beguile the pain and tedium of a death-bed, to staunch those wounds for which human art has no remedy.

A consciousness came over the household that sad change and revolution hung over the family. Jean Le Ber du Chesne was going away in the bloom of his days to that unknown bourn of which God alone knows the secret. It was very quiet in the death-chamber, where the young hero lay looking at the distant tapers, the one centre of light in the great gloomy room, gazing with eyes from which all conflict had departed, abstracted in their wistfulness. He had grown calm in absolute self-surrender, giving a sigh occasionally to what might have been, and feeling perhaps an awakening thrill of anticipation of what was to come. The room was filled with dusky, wavering shadows. On aprie-dieuclose at hand knelt Diane. The torture of one who had fought a protracted battle was ended by the hard-won victory over self. In this solemn hour she felt the stirring of some wider, grander life within, and the human eyes gazed appealingly across the darkness of present things, striving to see, no matter how indistinctly, the first faint glimmer of that light which glows beyond the grave. Farther from the bed, two nuns of the Congregation, Sister Marguerite Bourgeois, an aged woman whose serenity of countenance was like a benediction, and sister Berbier, Superior of the Convent of the Congregation, whispered together.

Something stirred softly. At the sound of the measured, ill-assured movements, timid yet rushing, with a definite purpose underlying the desperate haste, even Diane raised her head, and the nuns, crossing themselves, drew closer together. A wan, hollow-eyed form, gliding from among the shadows, advanced towards the bed, stood for a moment gazing down upon du Chesne’s peaceful face, and then disappeared as noiselessly as it had entered. The strong and subtle tie of kindred had drawn Jeanne Le Ber from the seclusion of years. The spectators were awed by the sight of a mortal, divided from all human hopes and interests, yet still firmly bound to its inheritance of human woe.

Night had passed. The stars paled in the sky, lingering shadows dispersed, the dawn was breaking in the east. Sister Berbier rose, and crossing the room, threw open the heavy wooden shutters. The fresh, cool air, moist and odorous, rushed in; and with it a searching ray of light, clear and terrible, fell upon the calm dead face on the pillow.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A COMPLETED SACRIFICE.

“MY daughter, when the earthly hope that lights existence has faded, and we find it impossible to lay down our lives to perish in the grave beside it—when we can neither endure our trouble nor be reconciled to it—we can only disengage ourselves and leave it behind us, dead and buried. The true and genuine portion of our sorrow lives; the base regrets we must learn to cast from us; there is no companionship between the living and the dead,” Dollier de Casson assured Diane.

All had come to an abrupt and ruthless end; the anxiety and suspense had terminated in dread certainty. Hope and fear had perished with du Chesne, yet the tense throb of anguish survived. The girl was crushed under the cross which had been laid upon her, and which she did not know how to bear. Pleasure and hope had broken off short; existence was a solitude. Often it struck her as strange that no one had ever suspected that she, as well as the gallant young Canadian, had died.

Lydia’s forlorn condition attracted much sympathy; the sentimental appreciation of a dramatic situation, so dear to the French heart, operated in her favor. She enjoyed posing as a victim of affliction, and performed the role so modestly and gracefully that she won all hearts. Du Chesne to her would remain a tender, pensive memory, which throughout her life would be capable of affording occupation for an idle hour, comfort for a distressed one, and which would not forbid consolation.

Two years later, the Sieur d’Ordieux, by the death of his uncle, became Duke de Ronceval, and triumphed over his enemies. Though he had entered upon a great inheritance, and become a peer of France, the pompous little man was faithful in his attachments. He did not forget those who had befriended him in the day of adversity; his heart remained true to the woman whom he had loved with all the devotion of which he was capable.

The future of her niece had furnished the consuming anxiety of Madame de Monesthrols existence. If her protector Le Ber should die, what would become of the beautiful portionless girl? If Diane only had a vocation, that would simplify matters; she might become a nun, and a safe retreat would be secured from the perils of the world. But Diane had no vocation, and the Duke de Ronceval’s affection offered a solution of the difficulty.

When an advantageous settlement was in question, it was not the custom in those days to consult the bride’s taste. The sacrifice of the individual for the good of the race was then—as it still to a large extent remains—a generally accepted principle among the French. A well-bred damsel, trained in the traditions of the ancientrégime, would make it a point of honor to accept the fate which her family chose for her, just as a high-spirited girl of our generation would take a pride in rendering herself independent.

Youth and hope had perished, but the claims of duty remained imperative; so when Madame de Monesthrol urged, “By marrying the Duke you will not only secure a great establishment for yourself; you will also purchase peace for me. When I know that you are provided for, I can spend my last days in repose. I have suffered, my child, you will never know how much”—Diane could not turn a deaf ear to the prayer of the kinswoman who loved her well.

The annual ship was returning to France, an event always of the deepest importance to the whole colony. Every man, woman, and child who could manage to get to the water-side at Quebec, gathered to view the departure.

The most prominent passengers were the Duke and Duchess de Ronceval. Curled, powdered and decorated, the nobleman stormed at his obsequious lackeys, or gesticulated wildly as he jested with his friends. The pale, beautiful bride was composed and dignified. Madame de Monesthrol remarked with satisfaction that her niece bore herself with an air of the very highest distinction.

A little desolate group had gathered about Diane. This parting meant the sundering forever of ties which had been very close and dear. Jacques Le Ber was there. He had aged, and the stern lines of his face were visibly deepened. Madame de Monesthrol, older, frailer, always bearing her infirmities with suave dignity, leaned upon his arm. Nanon, her comely honest face disfigured by the tears which she made no effort to restrain, pressed close to her mistress.

“The sunshine of my life goes with thee.” Le Ber spoke in a low, moved voice.

“It is your desire that I should serve your interests at the Court, my uncle.”

“My little one, could I but accompany thee!” Then the Marquise added brightly, “Though the journey is beyond my strength, I can always pray for thy welfare. I can think of thee as occupying thy rightful place in the world, and I can praise the good God that the desire of my heart has been realized. Thy marriage has removed the last trace of anxiety from my mind; I can await my end in peace. Thy duty lies before thee, my daughter. Let no remembrance of a feeble old woman, whose stormy life is ending in a haven of rest, weaken thy peace. Think of me always as rejoicing in thy prosperity.”

As the good shipRenomméedisappeared below the horizon, Nanon lifted up her voice and wept with boisterous vehemence.

“When I looked my last look upon my demoiselle her face was like that of an angel. Never shall I see the like again. My little one, that I cradled in my arms, and who loved me with her whole heart. I am but of the people—if my heart is broken I have no need to look like a stone; now that she has left me I shall please myself by weeping like a waterspout. She said to me, speaking, oh! so gently, at the very last, ‘It is thy duty to stay with Madame, to comfort and care for her, as it is mine to leave her. Neither of us must forget her obligations, we will both strive to fulfil them nobly and faithfully, good and loving Nanon.’ Oh! my brave and beautiful demoiselle, I coveted greatness for her, I wanted to see her set high above all the world, and behold! Her Grace Madame la Duchess de Ronceval is taken away from my sight. It sounds well, that title, even if my heart is broken. How can I live without her? what can the blessed saints be thinking of up in heaven there? Behold that blonde English sheep, selfish and cold-blooded as a snake, the happy wife of M. de Gallifet, no less! No one will ever cry her eyes out for her.”

At the Court of Louis the Magnificent, Diane de Ronceval lived out the years that remained to her. The vivifying breath of an utterly unselfish affection had touched her. All egotism had been annihilated by the fierce sweep of a spiritual flame, before which every unworthy desire and ambition had perished. In the midst of a corrupt society, she preserved a noble and lofty ideal. With an earnest and simple contriving of gentle charities, she strove to make some rough places smooth. Brave with the inspiration of faith and hope, she found happiness in identifying herself with the needs and claims of others.

If she were conscious of a wound which throbbed and bled, of unquenchable longings, of memories which never were to be forgotten, she contrived to carry her cross in such fashion that no other heart should be saddened, no other’s joy shadowed. And the world was purer and brighter for one woman’s faith and courage.

THE END.

Mrs. Traill’s Works

PEARLS AND PEBBLES: or Notes of an OldNaturalist.With Biographical Sketch by Mary Agnes FitzGibbon. Cloth, with portrait, $1.25.

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“Her delight has been the observation of nature, the fruits of which, gathered into this volume, form a sort of Canadian counterpart to White’s “Selborne.”—IllustratedLondon News.

COT AND CRADLE STORIES.Edited by Mary Agnes FitzGibbon. Cloth, illustrated, $1.00.

“A veritable children’s book, but of that best kind which grown-up people also enjoy.”—Canada Presbyterian.“This is a delightful book for little children; bright, wholesome, full of subtle touches of nature, and the best of teaching. . . We tried the book on a bright boy of four, and found it take immensely and at once.”—The Wesleyan.A Lady writes from London, Eng. “ ‘Cot and Cradle Stories’ is a delightful collection of the realistic, detailed histories of animals, birds and children, so dear to little people. . . It is difficult to overrate the charm of a book like this to young children, and the only difficulty I found in reading it aloud was that each story was asked for so often that I nearly despaired of getting to the next.”

“A veritable children’s book, but of that best kind which grown-up people also enjoy.”—Canada Presbyterian.

“This is a delightful book for little children; bright, wholesome, full of subtle touches of nature, and the best of teaching. . . We tried the book on a bright boy of four, and found it take immensely and at once.”—The Wesleyan.

A Lady writes from London, Eng. “ ‘Cot and Cradle Stories’ is a delightful collection of the realistic, detailed histories of animals, birds and children, so dear to little people. . . It is difficult to overrate the charm of a book like this to young children, and the only difficulty I found in reading it aloud was that each story was asked for so often that I nearly despaired of getting to the next.”

CANADIAN WILD FLOWERS.By Agnes (FitzGibbon) Chamberlin. With botanical descriptions by Mrs. Traill. Embellished with ten full-page plates of native wild flowers, drawn and colored by hand by Mrs. Chamberlin. Extra English cloth, with floral design and title in gold, and with floral title-page in natural colors. Limited edition. Price, $6.00.LOST IN THE BACKWOODS: A Tale of the CanadianForest.This story, written in 1846, and which so many of the men and women of Canada read with delight in the days of childhood, under its then title of the “Canadian Crusoes,” is still a favorite with the young. Cloth, illustrated, 90 cents.IN THE FOREST: or, Pictures of Life and Scenery in the Woods of Canada.As with all Mrs. Traill’s works, this story abounds in references to the wild animals and the birds of the Canadian forests. Cloth, illustrated, 70 cents.

LOST IN THE BACKWOODS: A Tale of the CanadianForest.This story, written in 1846, and which so many of the men and women of Canada read with delight in the days of childhood, under its then title of the “Canadian Crusoes,” is still a favorite with the young. Cloth, illustrated, 90 cents.

IN THE FOREST: or, Pictures of Life and Scenery in the Woods of Canada.As with all Mrs. Traill’s works, this story abounds in references to the wild animals and the birds of the Canadian forests. Cloth, illustrated, 70 cents.

WILLIAM BRIGGS

In the Days of the

Canada Company

...By...

ROBINA AND KATHLEEN M. LIZARS

With Introduction by

Rev. Principal Grant, D. D., LL. D.

Price, postpaid • $2.00

CONTENTS:Spirit of the Times—The Father of the Company—Canada as the Company Found It—The Face of the Land—From Champlain to Gooding—The Kings of the Canada Company—The Colborne Clique—Gairbraid—Lunderston—Meadowlands—The Canada Companyvs.The People—The Peoplevs.The Canada Company—A Social Pot-Pourri—The Heart of Huron—The Bonnie Easthopes—The Cairn.Personal and Press Comments.“From beginning to end the charm of the book holds us.”—Stratford Herald.“It is full of the most readable gossip and the spiciest of sketches.”—StratfordBeacon.“This is a book purely Canadian, and a credit to our literature.”—EducationalJournal.“No more entertaining book has ever been written about early life in British North America.”—Montreal Witness.“Few productions of a woman’s pen show sounder judgment, higher culture and better literary taste than this book.”—Mail and Empire.“The authors have thoroughly imbued themselves with the ’spirit of the times’ of which they wrote. Their sympathy is infectious.”—Ottawa Citizen.“The authors have a keen sense of the ludicrous side of things, and a happy knack of seizing the salient traits of a personality and bringing it strongly before the reader.”—Kingston News.“Unquestionably one of the best local histories. It possesses a permanent value as a realistic and thoroughly intelligent record of the condition of pioneer colonial life.”—Prof. Mavor, inMassey’s Magazine.“It is a lively, interesting and perfectly fresh opening of a field of history of which people in the Old Country know little, and which even to Canadians must be full of the attraction of novelty and originality both in subject and treatment.”—Prof.Herbert Story, of Glasgow University.

CONTENTS:

Spirit of the Times—The Father of the Company—Canada as the Company Found It—The Face of the Land—From Champlain to Gooding—The Kings of the Canada Company—The Colborne Clique—Gairbraid—Lunderston—Meadowlands—The Canada Companyvs.The People—The Peoplevs.The Canada Company—A Social Pot-Pourri—The Heart of Huron—The Bonnie Easthopes—The Cairn.

Personal and Press Comments.

“From beginning to end the charm of the book holds us.”—Stratford Herald.

“It is full of the most readable gossip and the spiciest of sketches.”—StratfordBeacon.

“This is a book purely Canadian, and a credit to our literature.”—EducationalJournal.

“No more entertaining book has ever been written about early life in British North America.”—Montreal Witness.

“Few productions of a woman’s pen show sounder judgment, higher culture and better literary taste than this book.”—Mail and Empire.

“The authors have thoroughly imbued themselves with the ’spirit of the times’ of which they wrote. Their sympathy is infectious.”—Ottawa Citizen.

“The authors have a keen sense of the ludicrous side of things, and a happy knack of seizing the salient traits of a personality and bringing it strongly before the reader.”—Kingston News.

“Unquestionably one of the best local histories. It possesses a permanent value as a realistic and thoroughly intelligent record of the condition of pioneer colonial life.”—Prof. Mavor, inMassey’s Magazine.

“It is a lively, interesting and perfectly fresh opening of a field of history of which people in the Old Country know little, and which even to Canadians must be full of the attraction of novelty and originality both in subject and treatment.”—Prof.Herbert Story, of Glasgow University.

WILLIAM BRIGGS

——Publisher——

Humours of ’37

GRAVE, GAY AND

GRIM . . .

REBELLION TIMES IN THE CANADAS

——By Robina and Kathleen M. Lizars

PRICE. $1.25

Postpaid

CONTENTS:Baneful Domination—More Baneful Domination—The Canadas at Westminster—A Call to Umbrellas—Le Grand Brule—Gallows Hill—Autocrats All—Huron’s Age Heroic—Deborahs of ’37.PRESS COMMENTS.“A volume of great literary and historical value, and one of deep national interest.”—St. Thomas Times.“This book is capital reading, and throws some unexpected lights on a comedy that had its tragic features.”—Montreal Gazette.“The book gives us a better idea of the condition of Canadian society when the Queen came to the throne than perhaps any history of the time does.”—Rev. Principal Grant, inToronto Globe.“The reader finds many amusing pages illustrative of the primitive ideas of the people, nor are tales of cruelty and outrage wanting to make up the grimmer side of the picture.”—Detroit Free Press.“The authors are of French extraction, and come honestly by the epigrammatic style, which their former work familiarized us with, and which renders the opening chapter of this volume brilliant.”—Montreal Witness.“The authors know their subject—their style of writing is conspicuously sprightly, full of wit, which is at times truly caustic. It is an admirable supplement to existing histories and journals and memoirs on the subject”—Buffalo Illustrated Express.“An intensely interesting book, a true and vivid picture of that confused period. If the overabundance of material has been a drawback, on the other hand it has given a style, a nervous energy and strength, and a dash that are refreshing.”—Mail and Empire.“The principal value of the book to most readers will be in the power which these pages possess of bringing the student face to face with the incidents of the epoch to which they refer, and its interest is enhanced by the manner in which toe story is told, different in various respects from that of the ordinary scribe—the style of well-bred and accomplished women, entirely free from affectation and effort.”—Prof. Wm. Clark, inMontreal Star.

CONTENTS:

Baneful Domination—More Baneful Domination—The Canadas at Westminster—A Call to Umbrellas—Le Grand Brule—Gallows Hill—Autocrats All—Huron’s Age Heroic—Deborahs of ’37.

PRESS COMMENTS.

“A volume of great literary and historical value, and one of deep national interest.”—St. Thomas Times.

“This book is capital reading, and throws some unexpected lights on a comedy that had its tragic features.”—Montreal Gazette.

“The book gives us a better idea of the condition of Canadian society when the Queen came to the throne than perhaps any history of the time does.”—Rev. Principal Grant, inToronto Globe.

“The reader finds many amusing pages illustrative of the primitive ideas of the people, nor are tales of cruelty and outrage wanting to make up the grimmer side of the picture.”—Detroit Free Press.

“The authors are of French extraction, and come honestly by the epigrammatic style, which their former work familiarized us with, and which renders the opening chapter of this volume brilliant.”—Montreal Witness.

“The authors know their subject—their style of writing is conspicuously sprightly, full of wit, which is at times truly caustic. It is an admirable supplement to existing histories and journals and memoirs on the subject”—Buffalo Illustrated Express.

“An intensely interesting book, a true and vivid picture of that confused period. If the overabundance of material has been a drawback, on the other hand it has given a style, a nervous energy and strength, and a dash that are refreshing.”—Mail and Empire.

“The principal value of the book to most readers will be in the power which these pages possess of bringing the student face to face with the incidents of the epoch to which they refer, and its interest is enhanced by the manner in which toe story is told, different in various respects from that of the ordinary scribe—the style of well-bred and accomplished women, entirely free from affectation and effort.”—Prof. Wm. Clark, inMontreal Star.

WILLIAM BRIGGS, Publisher