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."