CHAPTER V.

"Maria, Maria, ora pro nobis,Ora, ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria."

It is the evening hymn of the curé and his acolytes pealing out on the still evening air. Higher and higher one treble voice goes like the cry of a soul in agonized entreaty:

"Maria, Maria, Sancta Maria,Ora, ora pro nobis."

Then it dies away, and all is still except the ever-present swish! swish! of the rising tide against the great boulders on the beach.

"Oh! I say, Webster," said young Brown, in his mincing, affected tone, "why not, after they have finished in there," he pointed to the church, "go in and ask the priest whether he knows anything of these people? He ought to know them if anyone does. Good idea, eh?"

"Yes," said the old lawyer, turning round suddenly and looking rather annoyed, for in spite of his hard crust of Scotch dryness, his young clerk's voice has jarred on him at this moment. He had been deeply moved by the beauty of the scene, and the sweet tones coming from the church had stirred within him long-forgotten memories.

"Yes, for once you have hit on a bright idea, and we will act on it. Let us go in and see the priest. And, my young friend, remember that most of these priests are gentlemen, so mind your manners."

"I expect that house next the church is his," replied young Brown. "We can walk slowly on, and, in the meantime, the priest will come from his devotions."

"A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;An awful reverend and religious man.His eyes diffused a venerable grace,And charity itself was in his face.Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor(As God hath clothed his own ambassador),For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore."

Dryden.

Réné Bois-le-Duc, curé of Father Point, had just come home, and was preparing to take his ease after a hard day's toil, anticipating the arrival of the pilgrims, who were about to visit the church of the Good St. Anne.

The curé was a man of some sixty years of age, though looking older, for his had been a hard and toilsome life. Though secluded from the busy world, he had had heavy responsibilities forced upon him, and there was no one of his own class and education in these parts to cheer and sympathize with him in his rare moments of leisure.

Belonging to one of the oldest families in Brittany, Réné Bois-le-Duc had, in spite of the strong attractions of worldly society, early conceived a high ideal of what life ought to be.

This ideal was fostered by the influence of his instructors at college. His enthusiastic temperament and ascetic leanings led him to think seriously of entering holy orders when quite young, but this idea met with strong opposition from his parents; so, for a time, he abandoned it.

In Paris for one short winter with his elder brother Octave, he was much sought after for his rare musical talents, as well as his personal attractiveness, which charmed all with whom he came in contact. Madame la Marquise was proud of both her sons, but Réné she idolized, and he returned her affection with a devotion rare even in the best of children.

Like a sudden clap of thunder, there came on the gay world of Paris one spring morning the news that Réné Bois-le-Duc had joined the great Dominican order, and had been hurriedly sent off at a moment's notice on a mission to America. At first it could not be believed possible; but at length, after a year when he did not return, the fact could not be doubted. But what was the reason for this sudden step? Why had he not told his friends? Why did he leave in this way? There was a mystery about it, and his former friends were not slow in inventing evil reports about the absent one. Octave Bois-le-Duc never mentioned his brother, nor was the mystery ever cleared up.

All this, of course, happened many years before my story opens; and though at first Réné Bois-le-Duc found his new life hard, exiled as he was from all his former associates, he had never returned to France. At times he had been sorely tempted to do so, but he knew that none could replace him in his work at Father Point, and he had grown to love his people—to be, indeed, a father unto them, mindful both of their spiritual and temporal well-being.

Nor can it be said that his talents were entirely thrown away, for from time to time some highly polished poem or literary critique would find its way from the lonely little house on the banks of the St. Lawrence to a standard French magazine; and old schoolmates of the curé would shrug their shoulders and say, "Oh, here is a capital thing by Réné Bois-le-Duc. I thought he was dead and buried long ago."

And he was, indeed, so far as men of his own standing and education were concerned. Except for an annual visit from his bishop, and occasionally one from a pilot or sea captain, M. Bois le-Duc seldom heard news of the outer world. On the whole, his life was not an unhappy one, and certainly not idle. Most of the hours not spent in parish work were occupied in perfecting the education of several of the young men in whom he was interested. With Noël McAllister he took special pains. Whether the results were satisfactory in this particular case may be doubted; still he did what he considered best, and left the issue to Providence.

In Marie Gourdon, too, he took a great interest. Her mother had died when she was scarcely six months old. Her father had never troubled his dull head about her; and, after she left the convent at Rimouski, she led a very lonely life for so young a girl.

There was much to interest even such a cultivated man as M. Bois-le-Duc in Marie Gourdon. She had inherited from her mother a remarkable talent for music, such as many of the French Canadians have strongly developed. Her soprano voice was powerful, clear and flexible, and her ear was very correct. The good curé judged that, if given proper training, and the advantages Paris alone could afford, the little Canadian girl might become an artist of the first rank. But how send her to Paris? The thing seemed impossible. Where was the money to come from? True, M. le curé had been well paid for his last review in the Catholic Journal, but he had exhausted this money in sending Eugène Lacroix, anotherprotégé, to Laval for a twelvemonth. Alas now his treasury was empty; his cupboard was bare!

This evening he was thinking all these matters over, when suddenly he was roused from his meditations by the voice of Julie, his old housekeeper, calling out:

"M. le curé, there is a gentleman asking for you at the door."

"For me, Julie, at this hour? Who is he?"

"Not a Frenchman, that is very certain, monsieur; I should think not, indeed; his accent is execrable;" and the good woman lifted her hands with a gesture of despair.

"Could you not understand what he wanted?" asked the priest.

"No, monsieur; the only word I could make out was 'la cooré,' so I thought that might mean you."

"Well, well," said M. Bois-le-Duc, laughing, "the best thing is for me to see him myself."

He went out into the tiny dark passage where Mr. Webster and his clerk were standing.

"Good-evening," he said, in his polished courtly manner. "I must apologize for having kept you waiting so long. Pray come into my study. I fear Julie was somewhat brusque and rude to you. She is a good soul, though. Please be seated, gentlemen."

"M.la cooré," said Webster, struggling hard with his one French word, and breaking down lamentably.

"I can speak English," said the priest, "if that will help you."

"Oh, yes," replied Webster, drawing a deep sigh of relief; "thank Heaven for that."

M. le curé smiled benignly.

"Well, sir," went on the lawyer, "I've come to ask you whether you knew a family called McAllister, supposed to be living in these parts."

"McAllister! Why, of course I do. I have known them for years."

"Oh, my good sir, you have relieved my mind of a heavy burden. For the last three weeks my clerk and I have been searching every churchyard round about here for the name, and have hitherto failed to find it. To-night the idea entered my head that you might know."

"My head, if you please," murmured young Brownsotto voce.

"I shall be most happy to be of any service to you," said M. Bois-le-Duc. "Madame McAllister, with her son Noël, lives about three miles down the road. You cannot mistake the cottage. It is a plain white one with a red-tiled roof—the only red-roofed cottage on the road."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Webster.

"You will like Noël McAllister," went on the curé; "he is a fine manly young fellow, and was my pupil for many years, so I know him well."

"I am infinitely obliged to you, sir," said Webster, gratefully. "I suppose we may call at the cottage the first thing in the morning. The only house on the road with a red-tiled roof you said? Thanks. We shall not detain you longer. Good-evening, sir, good-evening."

And Webster, having obtained the desired information, marched off with his clerk, leaving the curé in wondering perplexity as to his relations with the McAllisters.

"The love of money is the root of all evil."

"Yes, Mr. McAllister, there is no choice. The estates are so left by the old lord that unless you marry your cousin you can have no part of them. An empty title you will have, to be sure; much good that is to anyone nowadays! In case of your refusing the conditions imposed upon you by the late lord's will, which Lady McAllister is determined to see faithfully carried out, my advice to you is to stay here and remain a fisherman all your life. A pleasant prospect that for a young fellow of your talents."

"I must marry my cousin?" questioned Noël.

"Yes, that is imperative."

"What is she like?"

"Oh, she is like herself, no one else I ever saw. I'm not good at descriptions, especially of ladies. She has yellow hair, I can tell you that."

"Yellow hair—yes, yes; but her disposition, her character? Is she amiable?"

"Well, I don't think that amiable is quite the word to apply to Lady Margaret. She is self-reliant, sensible, a thorough woman of business, and the very one to help you on in the world."

"Oh, indeed; but if I ever possess Dunmorton I shall be helped on enough."

"What! have you no wish for more? Would you not like to go into Parliament to make a name for yourself? Your cousin could help you in that. They say she used to write all her father's speeches, and very good speeches they were."

"And Marie Gourdon?" said Noël slowly. "What of her? How can I leave her?"

"Oh, nonsense!" said the little lawyer impatiently; "really I wonder at a man of your sense hesitating in such a matter. This Marie will get over it; all girls do. It's only a matter of time. She'll forget all about you in a month."

Noël's thoughts went back to the scene on the beach two evenings ago, and he did not consider it at all probable that Marie Gourdon would ever forget him. At any rate, he did not care to entertain the possibility.

"Yes," went on Webster, "I don't see that you can have any hesitation. Here you are, at the opening of your life, offered one of the finest chances I ever heard of, hesitating because of a little French girl. Umph! I've no patience with you, but, young man, you've got to decide before to-morrow's mail goes out. I must write to Lady McAllister. Good-bye I'm going for a walk to the light-house. The keeper is a most interesting man, and a great mathematician. Good-bye. I hope next time I see you you'll have come to your senses."

And Webster walked off, evidently imagining that there could be no hesitation about the matter of the inheritance.

The whole of that day was a miserable failure to Noël McAllister. He had one of those natures which hate making a decision. He was restless, and could settle down to nothing, and walked up and down his mother's little verandah like a caged animal. He could not bear the thought of giving up Marie, yet, on the other hand, he could not bear the thought of giving up his inheritance. It was too tempting. To leave forever the monotony of a life at Father Point, to plunge all at once into luxury and riches, that was a dazzling prospect, with only Marie Gourdon on the other side to counter-balance these attractions. And she had been so slow in telling him she cared for him that even now he half doubted whether she really did, in spite of the truthfulness in her great brown eyes, when she repeated the refrain of that old French song. And the lawyer had said she would forget in a month, like all other girls, and she was not different from other girls. Yes, it was a difficult question to decide, there was no doubt about that. He despised himself for thinking of giving up Marie, the mere thought horrified him, and yet—Dunmorton, ease, riches, luxury!

To give all these up without a struggle would have been difficult, even to a more heroic nature than Noël McAllister's.

There was not long, however, for him to decide the question, and as evening came on, and he thought that by next morning the die must be cast one way or the other, his head ached with the effort of anxious thought. Fresh air he felt he must have, so he went out from the cottage, and walked hurriedly down the road.

The moon was shining cold and clear, showing distinctly the delicate tracery of each branch and leaf overhanging the pathway. The cold, clear light threw into strong relief each giant maple tree darkly looming against the silvery evening sky.

McAllister walked hurriedly on, deeply thinking, for about a quarter of a mile. His head was bent, and he saw nothing, so absorbed was he in his own meditations. Presently, however, a figure crossed his path. He started, and looked up to see a girl in a red cloak standing in the pathway. She stopped before him. It was Marie Gourdon, the last person in the world he wished to meet just then.

"Marie, my dear one," he said, "what are you doing out so far alone, and at this hour too? Come; let me take you home."

"Noël, I came to see you. I hoped to have met you. I have something important to say to you."

"Indeed, Marie, what can it be? You should have sent for me. You cannot talk to me here. Let me take you home, and then you can tell me."

"No, no," said Marie persistently. "Jean and my father are in the house, and I wish to speak to you alone, and what I am going to tell you I must say to-night."

"What is this tremendous secret?"

She did not answer the question but said abruptly:

"M. Bois-le-Duc tells me you are going away."

"Going away? Um—um—I don't know," Noël replied hesitatingly. "I think not. No no, M. Bois-le-Duc makes a great mistake."

"You are not going away?" said the girl, a glad light coming into her eyes. "What, Noël you have not come into this fortune?"

"Oh! yes, there is no doubt about that; but there are conditions, and I can't accept them."

"What are the conditions?"

"One is that I shall have to leave you, to give you up."

"Noël, there would be no need of that."

"Why, what do you mean, Marie?"

"I giveyouup," said Marie proudly. "I could never stand in your way of advancement."

"Marie, did you not say to me most solemnly only the other night:

'Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,Jamais je ne t'oublierai.'"

"What has that to do with it, Noël? That does not alter the case. It is just because of that I will not let you stay here. You may think it an easy thing to decide now, but in after years you would regret remaining here. With your gifts, your ambition, you would be thrown away. No, Noël,Ibid you go. You must not stay. Good-bye, dear one, for the last time. You must tell them to-morrow that you will go."

"It is impossible," said Noël, in an angry tone. "You can never have cared for me to give me up in a moment like this."

"You know that is not true, Noël. I can see into the future, and it is just because I do care so much for you that I do not wish you to waste your life here." She spoke with an effort, and as if she were repeating a lesson learned beforehand.

"No, that is not it," said Noël; "I am perfectly sure you never cared for me or you could not give me up like this in a moment."

The girl did not answer for a time, for she was deeply wounded at his want of understanding, his non-comprehension of her most unselfish motives. Presently she turned to him, and said in a hurried tone, for she could scarcely control herself just then, "Noël, believe me it is for the best. Good-bye."

Before he had time to answer she had walked swiftly away, and was hid from his sight by the turn of the road. All had happened so quickly, the momentous decision had been made so entirely without effort on his part, that his breath was fairly taken away. But, beneath all his surprise and wounded pride was a feeling of relief scarce acknowledged to himself, though his first exclamation was one of distressed self-love, as he exclaimed angrily, "She has no feeling; she does not care."

Ah! M. Bois-le-Duc, your training of Noël McAllister was at fault somewhere. You grounded him thoroughly in Latin and the classics, but you taught him little of the study of human character, that most profoundly interesting of all studies. Had your teaching been different, Noël McAllister might have had a different estimation of the depths of a nature like Marie Gourdon's, of a woman's true unselfish devotion. He might have made an effort to keep what he had already won—which was above all price. Had your teaching not failed in this one essential point, Noël McAllister's life and career would have been far different. Well for him had it been so!

"O world! thy slippery turns! Friends, now fast sworn in loveinseparable, shall within this hour break out to bitterest enmity."

Coriolanus, Act iv., Scene iv.

It was two months later, a chilly October afternoon.

The glory of the maple and the sumach had departed, and a dingy russet brown had succeeded the more brilliant tints of early autumn. The tide was high, and the waves dashed angrily against the long pier at Rimouski.

On this pier were gathered six persons, awaiting the arrival from Quebec of the outward-bound steamer. They were Madame McAllister and her son Noël, Marie Gourdon, Pierre, her father, Jean, her brother, and M. Bois-le-Duc. What was the matter with M. le curé this afternoon? He looked anxious and care-worn, and scarcely spoke to anyone. Marie, on the contrary, was very bright, and tried to keep up Madame McAllister's spirits, which were at the lowest ebb.

On the whole, there was not much talking done, for a cloud seemed to hang over the whole party.

Presently, some miles out on the gulf, at first like a tiny black speck, appeared the steamer. Nearer and nearer it came, growing larger and larger as it approached. The dark waters heaved up in huge waves as her bow pierced their depths. The foam dashed high, as if in angry protest at the intruder. And Madame McAllister, glancing at the ship, said in her quaint, pathetic way: "Ah! Noël, my son, here is the ship like some huge monster come to swallow you up. I cannot let you go. Oh! my son, my son!"

At length the steamer "Peruvian"—for Lady McAllister desired that Noël should travel in every way befitting her heir—reached the pier. Ropes were thrown out and caught by the fishermen.

The mails, in great leather bags, were thrown on board, and shouts were heard of "All passengers aboard!"

During all this bustle Noël McAllister stepped aside, and said to M. Bois-le-Duc, in a hurried, anxious tone:

"And now, my father, are you not going to give me your blessing?"

M. Bois-le-Duc, strangely enough, had made no advance towards his favorite pupil; in fact, during the whole of the last month had seemed to avoid him. Now, when thus directly questioned, he answered:

"Yes, Noël, I wish you all happiness in your new life, and hope you will have a safe and pleasant voyage."

"And is that all you have to say to me, my father?"

The curé did not reply, but pointed to Madame McAllister, who was gazing at her son with eager, wistful eyes, jealously counting every moment of absence from her side. He obeyed the curé's unspoken command, and returned to his mother, conscience-stricken at the silent rebuke of this his best and most valued friend.

No change of plan was possible now. The die was cast for good or evil. Weakness had triumphed over strength. Blame him—he was worthy of blame; but, pausing for a moment, may it not be said that nine men out of ten would have decided as did Noël McAllister?

"Oh! my mother, you know I shall write every week. Do not distress yourself. Marie, good-bye. Remember always it was you who bade me go. Good-bye, Monsieur Gourdon. Good-bye, Jean."

He was off at last, and the steamer moved out from the pier. How bitter these partings are and how hard to bear, but the thought crossed M. Bois-le-Duc's mind just then that there were worse things than partings.

"Take me home," said Madame McAllister. "I cannot stay here watching my boy disappear."

She was terribly distressed, and the curé and Jean Gourdon led her home. No one seemed to think of Marie. She had disappeared behind a huge pile of lumber, and had sat down to rest on a great log. There she sat for she knew not how long; she seemed unconscious, oblivious of all, save that tiny black speck which was sinking lower and lower on the horizon. Finally it disappeared down the great waste of interminable ocean.

The sun set, and the air grew chill; the tide rose high; the curlews hovered round with their weird cries; the Angelus from the church came wafted across the waters, faint and sweet in its distant music, and the laborers in the fields paused a moment in their tasks to do homage to the Holy Maiden in murmured prayers. But Marie Gourdon heard none of these sounds, felt not the cold of the evening air. Her senses were benumbed, and she was only conscious of a dull, aching pain.

Two hours passed, and during these two hours Marie fought out her battle with herself. When M. le curé missed her, he went to look for her at her father's house, and not finding her there, the idea occurred to him that she might be still on the pier. Returning, he found her. Laying a gentle hand on her down-bent head, he said:

"My child, come home with me. You must not give way like this, such grief is wrong, and—he is not worthy of it."

"Oh! my father," said Marie, lifting a wan, white face to his, "life is indeed hard."

"Yes," said the curé, raising his hat reverently, and looking out towards the cold, unfathomable waters of the great Gulf. "And, my child, there is only One who can help us on that rough path."

"Oh! wouldst thou set thy rank before thyself?Wouldst thou be honored for thyself or that?Rank that excels the wearer, doth degrade,Riches impoverish that divide respect."

Sheridan Knowles

The morning-room at Glen McAllister was an ideal room of its kind, in a rather plain and severe style. The floor was covered with dainty blue and white straw matting, and huge rugs of musk-ox skin, from the wilds of the great North-West of Canada, were scattered here and there about the room. At a large desk, looking as if it might belong to a man with an immense business connection, sat Lady Margaret McAllister. She was adding accounts with a methodical accuracy and speed even a bank clerk could not hope to excel. She was a woman of about forty, though looking younger, her hair being of that tawny shade of yellow that rarely turns grey, and her complexion bright and fresh, bearing witness to a healthy outdoor life.

That morning she was very busy counting up the week's expenses, and trying to explain to her husband that the conduct of their bailiff was most reprehensible. Lady Margaret always used long words in preference to short ones, which might express exactly the same meaning. This was one of her peculiarities.

"Three months' rent for the Mackay's farm is due, Noël. I really think you might bestir yourself a little to look after the estate. Jones is the most execrable manager I ever knew. Here you are, with nothing to do all day except smoke or shoot, letting things go to rack and ruin. We shall be in the poor-house soon. Umph! I've no patience with you."

"No, my dear, you never had, and each year you have less. I am, indeed, a sore trial to you," replied her husband, smiling placidly.

"You are, there can be no question about that," said Lady Margaret, bitterly.

Noël took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at her calmly for a moment, and said:

"Then why——"

"Why—Yes, I know what you are going to say, you have said it so frequently—why did I marry you?" she interrupted.

"You have guessed rightly, my dear; that was just what I was about to remark."

"I married you because I could not help myself."

"Oh, yes, you could. You might have refused, and I would have gone back to Canada—would gladly have done so."

"No, Noël," said his wife, rising and standing before him, a rather terrifying figure; "be at least truthful. You would not have given up the estate even though it was burdened with an incubus like me."

"Well, well, my dear," said Noël, yawning aggravatingly, "all that is over. As your poet says, 'Let the dead past bury its dead.'"

"Inexact in small things as well as great," said Lady Margaret, who had returned to her accounts. "Your poet, you mean, for your quotation is from Longfellow, and he lived nearer your country than mine."

"Oh! I never remember these fellows' names. I take it for granted you are right. You always are, my dear. But let us return to prose. Are you going to Lady Severn's to-night to dinner?"

"Of course I am, and so are you. You know the famous prima donna, Mademoiselle Laurentia is staying at the Castle, and we shall hear her sing."

"Who is she? Another of old Lady Severn'sprotégées, I suppose. All her swans turn out geese. I only hope this one will not be a worse failure than usual."

"You at least, Noël, ought to be interested in Mademoiselle Laurentia, for she comes from your part of the world—from the backwoods of Canada."

"Really?" he questioned, with some show of interest at last.

"Yes; and Elsie Severn began to tell me some romantic story about her which I can't remember, for, just as she was at the most exciting part, Jones came in and related the account of the arrears in the Mackays' rent, and that put all Elsie's story out of my head."

"Yes, my dear, you have a faculty of remembering all the disagreeable things and forgetting all the pleasant ones. This adds much to your worth as a charming companion. I, who am honored with so much of your society, fully appreciate this quality."

Fortunately Lady Margaret did not hear this tender speech, for she was again deep in the recalcitrant Jones' accounts.

Let us glance for a moment at Noël McAllister, and see how years and prosperity have agreed with him. Lazily smoking in a comfortable arm-chair, this man is very different from the tall and slender youth we saw last on the pier at Rimouski.

He certainly had improved in appearance, and was a tall, fine-looking man of about five-and-thirty. He wore a light-colored tweed shooting suit, which contrasted well with his dark hair and bronzed complexion. A remarkably handsome man was The McAllister of Dunmorton, but to a close observer there was something lacking in his face—the old weakness about the mouth and chin, which time, instead of eradicating, had only served to develop. The hard school of adversity would have been a wholesome experience for Noël McAllister.

His life was not a busy one by any means: in fact, he spent most of his time in hunting or shooting, taking little interest in his tenants. After much persuasion from Lady Margaret, he had been induced to run for the county, and was returned unopposed, owing to the energetic canvassing of his wife, and the fact that most of the electors were his own tenants.

Poor Lady Margaret! she, indeed, had her trials. A woman of unbounded energy and ambition, she wished above all things that her husband should make his mark in the world. Vain hope!—a silent member in the House of Commons he was, and a silent member he would remain.

When he first arrived from Canada, ten years ago, his cousin anticipated great things from him. She saw his strong points as well as his weaknesses, and, being by some years his senior, hoped to mould him to her will. Alas! it was like beating against a stone wall—a wall of indifference and apathy.

McAllister had got his estate and the large revenue it yielded, and that was all he wanted. Lady Margaret was an appendage, and a very tiresome one into the bargain. She could not touch his sympathies, for whatever heart he ever had was far across the sea, where the cold green waters of the great St. Lawrence beat in unceasing murmur against the rocky beach at Father Point.

McAllister heard occasionally from his mother, whom he had often begged to come over to Scotland to share his prosperity, but the old lady always refused, saying that she was too old to venture so far from home.

He had written several times to M. Bois-le-Duc, but never had received any answer or news of the curé until a year ago, when a friar from Quebec had come to Scotland on a visit, and had brought a letter of introduction from the curé of Father Point to McAllister. The letter consisted only of a few short lines. Noël had often questioned his mother about Marie Gourdon, but on this subject the old lady was silent,—it is so easy to leave questions unanswered in letters.

"Margaret," Noël called out suddenly, rousing himself from his meditations, "I am going out now, and I shall not be back till five o'clock. I am going to ride up the Glen."

"Very well, but remember to be back in time to dress for dinner. Last time we were invited to the Severn's you were half an hour late, and Lady Severn has not forgiven you yet."

"Oh! all right. I shall be strictly on time this evening, and trust to make my peace with the old lady. Au revoir."

"Alas! our memories may retraceEach circumstance of time and place;Season and scene come back again,And outward things unchanged remain:The rest we cannot reinstate;Ourselves we cannot re-create,Nor get our souls to the same keyOf the remember'd harmony."

Longfellow.

The dinner party at Mount Severn this evening was an undoubted success, as were most of Lady Severn's entertainments, for she possessed to a great degree that invaluable gift of a hostess—the art of allowing people to entertain themselves. And, added to the charm of her manner, and her undoubted tact in bringing the right people together, Lady Severn had all the accessories to make a dinner party go off well. The large dining-room was a long, low, octagonal apartment, with a small conservatory opening out at the lower end. There were numerous small alcoves in the wall, and in the recesses of each of these were huge pots of maidenhair fern.

All along the oak-panelled walls at short intervals were placed old-fashioned brass sconces with candles in them, which shed a clear though subdued light on the dinner table and the faces of the guests, and brought into prominence the bright hues of the ladies' gowns and the sparkling crystal and silver on the dinner table.

At the head of the table sat Lord Severn, a hale, hearty old gentleman of seventy. He was devoted to fox-hunting, and always ready to get up at five o'clock in the morning when a good run was in prospect. His wife sat opposite him. She was a beautiful old lady, her face clear-cut as a cameo. Her features were regular, and her bright black eyes flashed under her high intellectual forehead with a brilliancy a girl of sixteen might have envied. Her hair was snowy white, and rolled backà la pompadour.

To-night she was dressed in a gown of heliotrope satin, trimmed with white point lace, and here and there in her hair and gown she wore pins made of the Severn diamonds. Round her neck glistened a magnificent necklace of these gems, which were of world-wide fame, having been given to Lord Severn by an Indian rajah as a recompense for saving him from drowning.

Lady Severn had been talking about her celebrated guest, who was not at dinner this evening.

"I am sorry you have not met Mademoiselle Laurentia; unfortunately she has been suffering for the last two days with a very severe nervous headache, and to-night did not feel inclined to come to dinner. However, I hope later on she will be better, and able to sing for you. Before dinner she went out into the garden, thinking the cool air would do her head good."

"Yes, I am very anxious to meet her," replied Lady Margaret, "and Noël is, for him, quite excited about her, coming as she does from Canada."

"Yes, she comes from Canada, and she has quite a romantic history. Perhaps she will tell you about that herself some day. She has only been with us a week, but already we are very fond of her, she is such a winning little creature, and her French Canadian songs are charming."

"Oh! Noël will be delighted," said Lady Margaret; "he waxes enthusiastic on the subject of French Canadian boat-songs. Do you think Mademoiselle Laurentia would spend a week with us at the Glen?"

"No, I'm afraid not; she is engaged to sing at Her Majesty's next week, and goes from here to London. You may have better luck in the autumn, though, when her London engagement is over."

"I'm sorry she can't come now, for we should have been delighted to have her at the Glen."

"Elsie dear," said Lady Severn to her daughter, a tall, fair girl of nineteen, who was endeavoring to amuse The McAllister, a difficult task—"Elsie dear, what part of Canada does Mademoiselle Laurentia come from?"

"Oh! somewhere on the banks of the St. Lawrence—some unpronounceable name."

"Delightfully vague," said Noël McAllister. "The ideas you English people have about our country are refreshing. One young lady, whom I supposed to have been fairly well educated, asked me, in the most matter-of-fact tone, whether we went down the rapids in toboggans. I can assure you it required a strong effort of will on my part to refrain from laughing outright."

"What did you tell her?" inquired Elsie.

"Oh! I said if she had ever seen either a rapid or a toboggan; she would hardly think of associating the two."

"Some day I wish you and Lady Margaret would make an excursion to Canada, and take me with you. It would be so exciting——"

"Come, Elsie," interrupted her mother, "come, we must go. Mademoiselle Laurentia will be lonely."

The ladies rose to go, Elsie saying in an undertone to The McAllister:

"Now, don't spend an hour over those stupid politics. I want you to hear mademoiselle sing."

"Politics!" he replied, with a disdainful shrug of his shoulders. "I take no interest whatever in them. Do not fear, Miss Elsie."

"I should like to know what you do take an interest in," remarked the young lady mischievously, as she hurried out of the room.

On entering the drawing-room they failed to find Mademoiselle Laurentia, so Lady Severn proposed that they should go into the garden.

"Elsie, run up to my room and fetch some shawls; the evening is quite chilly."

It was a lovely night in the end of April; the moon was full, and glimmering with sheeny whiteness over the distant hills. The garden at Mount Severn was an old-fashioned one, laid out in the early Elizabethan style in stately terraces and winding paths.

On each terrace were planted beds of luxuriant scarlet geraniums and early spring flowers. Every once in a while one came across a huge copper beech, and gloomy close-clipped hedges of yew divided the garden proper from the adjacent park.

Somewhere in the distance could be heard the trickling of a tiny rivulet, which supplied the fountain in the middle of the garden. There were many roughly-hewn, picturesque-looking rustic chairs scattered about, and near one of these Lady Margaret paused.

"May we sit here?" she said, turning to her hostess. "I really think this is the most delightful garden I ever saw in my life. They talk about Devonshire; I never saw anything half so lovely there."

"Yes, certainly it is pretty," assented its proprietress. "But where is Mademoiselle Laurentia?"

"In her favorite nook beside the old copper beech. See, you can catch a glimpse of her if you look round that tree."

Yes, there was Mademoiselle Laurentia, and a very insignificant little person she appeared at first sight. Her hands were clasped, and she was apparently deep in thought. She was clad in a gown of some soft shimmery white material, which fell in graceful folds about her, and in the clear beams of the moon looked like a robe of woven silver. Round her throat was a row of pearls, and in her dark brown hair were two or three diamond pins.

As Elsie Severn returned and came towards her, she lifted her head, and her face could be distinctly seen. A very sweet face it was, too, albeit not that of a woman in the first freshness of her youth.

The eyes were dark and bright, the forehead broad and low, with lines of strong determination marked on it. The mouth, that most characteristic feature, was somewhat large and expressive. But the successful prima donna's face wore a not altogether happy expression, though when she spoke the sad look went out of it; only when in repose it was always there.

"Well, Mademoiselle Laurentia, how is your head now? Better, I hope?"

"Yes, dear, the pain is quite gone now. And how did your dinner-party go off?"

"Oh! very well. I sat next The McAllister, and he was a little more lively than usual. He is most anxious to meet you. You know he comes from Canada."

"Yes, I know," said Mademoiselle Laurentia abruptly.

"Did you ever meet him there?" went on Elsie.

"I used to know a family called McAllister a long time ago, when I was quite young."

"Indeed? But, mademoiselle, don't talk as if you were a hundred. I'm sure you don't look much older than I."

"In years, perhaps, I am not so very much older; but in thought, Elsie, a century."

"Poor Mademoiselle Laurentia, your life has been a hard one, in spite of all its success. I don't want to intrude, but I often think you must have had some great sorrow. Have you?"

"Yes, my dear, I have. I cannot talk of it to-night, though. No, no, not to-night at any rate."

Elsie rather wondered why she laid such particular stress on the present time, but did not like to pursue the subject.

"Elsie, would you like me to sing for you now?" asked Mademoiselle Laurentia suddenly. "This garden is an inspiration."

"Yes, I should, above all things, if you feel well enough."

"Then what shall it be? Choose."

"Oh! if you please, Gounod's Slumber-song. This is just the time and place for it."

Accordingly, with only the rippling of the fountain as an accompaniment, the sweet clear notes rose, and the highly-trained voice of the prima donna performed the difficult runs and trills of this most beautiful of slumber-songs with that precision and delicacy attained by years of practice and hard training.

The song came to an end, and for a few moments no one spoke, till at length Elsie Severn, drawing a deep sigh of relief, said in her impulsive way:

"Why, Mademoiselle Laurentia, I have never heard you sing like that before. I thought I had heard you at your best in London, but I neverfeltyour singing so much as to-night."

"I am glad you were pleased, my dear. Would you like another?"

"Yes, above all things. Just wait a moment though; I want to speak to mamma."

Elsie crossed over to where Lady Severn sat, and whispered to her saying:

"If the gentlemen come out while mademoiselle is singing, don't let any of them come over to us. She can't bear a crowd round her, and I don't want her to be disturbed."

"Very well, child; it shall be as you wish. I hope, though, you did not ask mademoiselle to sing; you must not do that."

"No, no, indeed I did not, mamma. She offered to sing for me."

A curious friendship had sprung up last winter in London between Elsie Severn and the famous prima donna. They had met one afternoon at a reception, and been mutually pleased with each other. There was something about the frank outspoken manner of the young girl which appealed to Mademoiselle Laurentia, wearied as she was with the conventional adulation, in reality amounting to so little, of the world in which she moved.

"Now, mademoiselle," said Elsie, "I am ready. It is so good of you to sing for me."

"My child, you know I love to give you pleasure," she replied, stroking the girl's fair hair caressingly. "Listen! I will sing for you a song I have not sung for years—ah! so many, many years."

She began softly, slowly, a Canadian boat-song, heard often on the raftsman's barge or habitant's canoe, on the Ottawa or great St. Lawrence—a national song, with its quaint monotonous melody and simple pathetic words.

And the voice which rendered so effectively the technical difficulties of Wagner and Gounod sang this simple air with a pathos and feeling all its own:

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