Agapit came out of his reverie and murmured an assent. Then he looked

again into her yellowish brown, certainly charming eyes when full of

sunlight, as they were at present from their unwinking stare at the

bright sky.

"Up the Bay, Digby Neck was our barometer," she said, thoughtfully.

"When it grew purple, we were to have rain. Here one observes the gulls,

and the sign never fails,--a noisy flight is rain within twenty-four

hours. The old gull is telling the young ones to stay back by the lake

in the forest, I suppose."

Agapit tried to shake off his dreaminess and to carry on a conversation

with her, but failed dismally, until he discovered that she was choking

with suppressed laughter.

"Oh, pardon, pardon, monsieur; I was thinking--ah! how delicious is

one's surprise at some things--I am thinking how absurd. You that I

fancied would be a brother--you almost as angelic as Mr. Nimmo--you do

not care for me at all. You try so hard, but I plague you, I annoy. But

what will you? I cannot make myself over. I talk all the Acadienism that

I can, but one cannot forever linger on the old times. You yourself say

that one should not."

"So you think, mademoiselle, that I dislike you?"

"Think it, my dear sir,--I know it. All the Bay knows it."

"Then all the Bay is mistaken; I esteem you highly."

"Actions speak louder than words," and her teasing glance played about

his shining glasses. "In order to be polite you perjure yourself."

"Mademoiselle!"

"I am sorry to be so terribly plain-spoken," she said, nodding her head

shrewdly, yet childishly. "But I understand perfectly that you think I

have a feather for a brain. You really cannot stoop to converse with me.

You say, 'Oh, that deceived Mr. Nimmo! He thinks he has accomplished a

wonderful thing. He says, "Come now, see what I have done for a child of

the Bay; I will send her back to you. Fall down and worship her."'"

Agapit smiled despite himself. "Mademoiselle, you must not make fun of

yourself."

"But why not? It is my chief amusement. I am the most ridiculous mortal

that ever lived, and I know how foolish I am; but why do you not

exercise your charity? You are, I hear, kind and forbearing with the

worst specimens of humanity on the Bay. Why should you be severe with

me?"

Agapit winced as if she had pinched him. "What do you wish me to do?"

"Already it is known that you avoid me," she continued, airily; "you who

are so much respected. I should like to have your good opinion, and,

ridiculous as I am, you know that I am less so than I used to be."

She spoke with a certain dignity, and Agapit was profoundly touched.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, "I am ashamed of myself. You do

not understand me, and I assert again that I do not dislike you."

"Then why don't you come to see me?" she asked, pointedly.

"I cannot tell you," he said, and his eyes blazed excitedly. "Do not

urge the question. However, I will come--yes, I will. You shall not

complain of me in future."

Bidiane felt slightly subdued, and listened in silence to his energetic

remarks suddenly addressed to the horse, who had taken advantage of his

master's wandering attention by endeavoring to draw the buggy into a

ditch where grew some luscious bunches of grass.

"There comes Pius Poirier," she said, after a time.

The young Acadien was on horseback. His stolid, fine-featured face was

as immovable as marble, as he jogged by, but there was some play between

his violet eyes and Bidiane's tawny ones that Agapit did not catch, but

strongly suspected.

"Do you wish to speak to him?" he inquired, coldly, when Bidiane

stretched her neck outside the buggy to gaze after him.

"No," she said, composedly, "I only want to see how he sits his horse.

He is my first admirer," she added, demurely, but with irrepressible

glee.

"Indeed,--I should fancy that mademoiselle might have had several."

"What,--and I am only seventeen? You are crazy, my dear sir,--I am only

beginning that sort of thing. It is very amusing to have young men come

to see you; although, of course," she interpolated, modestly, "I shall

not make a choice for some years yet."

"I should hope not," said her companion, stiffly.

"I say I have never had an admirer; yet sometimes gay young men would

stare at me in the street,--I suppose on account of this red hair,--and

Mr. Nimmo would be very much annoyed with them."

"A city is a wicked place; it is well that you have come home."

"With that I console myself when I am sometimes lonely for Paris," said

Bidiane, wistfully. "I long to see those entrancing streets and parks,

and to mingle with the lively crowds of people; but I say to myself what

Mr. Nimmo often told me, that one can be as happy in one place as in

another, and home is the best of all to keep the heart fresh. 'Bidiane,'

he said, one day, when I was extolling the beauties of Paris, 'I would

give it all for one glimpse of the wind-swept shores of your native

Bay.'"

"Ah, he still thinks that!"

"Yes, yes; though I never after heard him say anything like it. I only

know his feelings through his mother."

Agapit turned the conversation to other subjects. He never cared to

discuss Vesper Nimmo for any length of time.

When they reached the Sleeping Water Inn, Bidiane hospitably invited him

to stay to supper.

"No, thank you,--I must hurry on to Chéticamp."

"Good-by, then; you were kind to bring me home. Shall we not be better

friends in future?"

"Yes, yes," said Agapit, hurriedly. "I apologize, mademoiselle," and

jumping into his buggy, he drove quickly away.

Bidiane's gay face clouded. "You are not very polite to me, sir.

Sometimes you smile like a sunbeam, and sometimes you glower like a

rain-cloud, but I'll find out what is the matter with you, if it takes

me a year. It is very discomposing to be treated so."

CHAPTER VI.

A SNAKE IN THE GRASS INTERFERES WITH THE EDUCATION OF MIRABELLE MARIE.

"Fair is the earth and fair is the sky;

God of the tempest, God of the calm,

What must be heaven when here is such balm?"

--_Aminta._

Bidiane, being of a practical turn of mind, and having a tremendous fund

of energy to bestow upon the world in some way or other, was doing her

best to follow the hint given her by Vesper Nimmo, that she should, as a

means of furthering her education, spend some time at the Sleeping Water

Inn, with the object of imparting to Mirabelle Marie a few ideas

hitherto outside her narrow range of thought.

Sometimes the girl became provoked with her aunt, sometimes she had to

check herself severely, and rapidly mutter Vesper's incantation, "Do not

despise any one; if you do, it will be at a great loss to yourself."

At other times Bidiane had no need to think of the incantation. Her aunt

was so good-natured, so forgiving, she was so full of pride in her

young niece, that it seemed as if only the most intense provocation

could justify any impatience with her.

Mirabelle Marie loved Bidiane almost as well as she loved her own

children, and it was only some radical measure, such as the changing of

her sneaks at sundown for a pair of slippers, or the sitting in the

parlor instead of the kitchen, that excited her rebellion. However, she

readily yielded,--these skirmishes were not the occurrences that vexed

Bidiane's soul. The renewed battles were the things that discouraged

her. No victory was sustained. Each day she must contend for what had

been conceded the day before, and she was tortured by the knowledge that

so little hold had she on Mirabelle Marie's slippery soul that, if she

were to leave Sleeping Water on any certain day, by the next one matters

would at once slip back to their former condition.

"Do not be discouraged," Vesper wrote her. "The Bay was not built in a

day. Some of your ancestors lived in camps in the woods."

This was an allusion on his part to the grandmother of Mrs. Watercrow,

who had actually been a squaw, and Bidiane, as a highly civilized being,

winced slightly at it. Very little of the Indian strain had entered her

veins, except a few drops that were exhibited in a passion for rambling

in the woods. She was more like her French ancestors, but her aunt had

the lazy, careless blood, as had also her children.

One of the chief difficulties that Bidiane had to contend with, in her

aunt, was her irreligion. Mirabelle Marie had weak religious instincts.

She had as a child, and as a very young woman, been an adherent of the

Roman Catholic Church, and had obtained some grasp of its doctrines.

When, in order to become "stylish," she had forsaken this church, she

found herself in the position of a forlorn dog who, having dropped his

substantial bone, finds himself groping for a shadow. Protestantism was

an empty word to her. She could not comprehend it; and Bidiane, although

a Protestant herself, shrewdly made up her mind that there was no hope

for her aunt save in the church of her forefathers. However, in what way

to get her back to it,--that was the question. She scolded, entreated,

reasoned, but all in vain. Mirabelle Marie lounged about the house all

day Sunday, very often, strange to say, amusing herself with

declamations against the irreligion of the people of Boston.

Bidiane's opportunity to change this state of affairs at last came, and

all unthinkingly she embraced it.

The opportunity began on a hot and windy afternoon, a few days after her

drive with Agapit. She sat on the veranda reading, until struck by a

sudden thought which made her close her book, and glance up and down the

long road, to see if the flying clouds of dust were escorting any

approaching traveller to the inn. No one was coming, so she hastily left

the house and ran across the road to the narrow green field that lay

between the inn and the Bay.

The field was bounded by straggling rows of raspberry bushes, and over

the bushes hung a few apple-trees,--meek, patient trees, their backs

bent from stooping before the strong westerly winds, their short, stubby

foliage blown all over their surprised heads.

There was a sheep-pen in the corner of the field next the road, and near

it was a barred gate, opening on a winding path that led down to the

flat shore. Bidiane went through the gate, frowned slightly at a

mowing-machine left out-of-doors for many days by the careless Claude,

then laughed at the handle of its uplifted brake, that looked like a

disconsolate and protesting arm raised to the sky.

All the family were in the hay field. Two white oxen drew the hay wagon

slowly to and fro, while Claudine and the two boys circled about it,

raking together scattered wisps left from the big cocks that Claude

threw up to Mirabelle Marie.

The mistress of the house was in her element. She gloried in haying,

which was the only form of exercise that appealed in the least to her.

Her face was overspread by a grin of delight, her red dress fluttered in

the strong breeze, and she gleefully jumped up and down on top of the

load, and superimposed her fat jolly weight on the masses of hay.

Bidiane ran towards them, dilating her small nostrils as she ran to

catch the many delicious odors of the summer air. The strong perfume of

the hay overpowered them all, and, in an intoxication of delight, she

dropped on a heap of it, and raised an armful to her face.

A squeal from Claudine roused her. Her rake had uncovered a mouse's

nest, and she was busily engaged in killing every one of the tiny

velvety creatures.

"But why do you do it?" asked Bidiane, running up to her.

Claudine stared at her. She was a magnificent specimen of womanhood as

she stood in the blazing light of the sun, and Bidiane, even in the

midst of her subdued indignation, thought of some lines in the

Shakespeare that she had just laid down:

"'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship."

Claudine was carrying on a vigorous line of reasoning. She admired

Bidiane intensely, and she quietly listened with pleasure to what she

called her _rocamboles_ of the olden times, which were Bidiane's tales

of Acadien exploits and sufferings. She was a more apt pupil than the

dense and silly Mirabelle Marie.

"If I was a mouse I wouldn't like to be killed," she said, presently,

going on with her raking; and Bidiane, having made her think, was

satisfied.

"Now, Claudine," she said, "you must be tired. Give me your rake, and do

you go up to the house and rest."

"Yes, go, Claudine," said Mirabelle Marie, from her height, "you look

drug out."

"I am not tired," said Claudine, in French, "and I shall not give my

rake to you, Bidiane. You are not used to work."

Bidiane bubbled over into low, rippling laughter. "I delicate,--ah, that

is good! Give me your rake, Claude. You go up to the barn now, do you

not?"

Claude nodded, and extended a strong hand to assist his wife in sliding

to the ground. Then, accompanied by his boys, he jogged slowly after the

wagon to the barn, where the oxen would be unyoked, and the grasping

pitcher would lift the load in two or three mouthfuls to the mows.

Bidiane threw down her rake and ran to the fence for some raspberries,

and while her hands were busy with the red fruit, her bright eyes kept

scanning the road. She watched a foot-passenger coming slowly from the

station, pausing at the corner, drifting in a leisurely way towards the

inn, and finally, after a glance at Mirabelle Marie's conspicuous gown,

climbing the fence, and moving deliberately towards her.

"H'm--a snake in the grass," murmured Bidiane, keeping an eye on the new

arrival, and presently she, too, made her way towards her aunt and

Claudine, who had ceased work and were seated on the hay.

"This is Nannichette," said Mirabelle Marie, somewhat apprehensively,

when Bidiane reached them.

"Yes, I know," said the girl, and she nodded stiffly to the woman, who

was almost as fat and as easy-going as Mirabelle Marie herself.

Nannichette was half Acadien and half English, and she had married a

pure Indian who lived back in the woods near the Sleeping Water Lake.

She was not a very desirable acquaintance for Mirabelle Marie, but she

was not a positively bad woman, and no one would think of shutting a

door against her, although her acquaintance was not positively sought

after by the scrupulous Acadiens.

"We was gabbin' about diggin' for gold one day, Nannichette and I," said

Mirabelle Marie, insinuatingly. "She knows a heap about good places, and

the good time to dig. You tell us, Biddy,--I mean Bidiane,--some of yer

yarns about the lake. Mebbe there's some talk of gold in 'em."

Bidiane sat down on the hay. If she talked, it would at least prevent

Nannichette from pouring her nonsense into her aunt's ear, so she

began. "I have not yet seen this lake of _L'Eau Dormante_, but I have

read of it. Long, long ago, before the English came to this province,

and even before the French came, there was an Indian encampment on the

shores of this deep, smooth, dark lake. Many canoes shot gaily across

its glassy surface, many camp-fires sent up their smoke from among the

trees to the clear, blue sky. The encampment was an old, old one. The

Indians had occupied it for many winters; they planned to occupy it for

many more, but one sweet spring night, when they were dreaming of summer

roamings, a band of hostile Indians came slipping behind the

tree-trunks. A bright blaze shot up to the clear sky, and the bosom of

Sleeping Water looked as if some one had drawn a bloody finger across

it. Following this were shrieks and savage yells, and afterward a

profound silence. The Indians left, and the shuddering trees grew closer

together to hide the traces of the savage invaders--no, the marks of

devastation," she said, stopping suddenly and correcting herself, for

she had a good memory, and at times was apt to repeat verbatim the words

of some of her favorite historians or story-tellers.

"The green running vines, also," she continued, "made haste to spread

over the blackened ground, and the leaves fell quietly over the dead

bodies and warmly covered them. Years went by, the leaf-mould had

gathered thick over the graves of the Indians, and then, on a memorable

day, the feast of Sainte-Anne's, the French discovered the lovely,

silent Sleeping Water, the gem of the forest, and erected a fort on its

banks. The royal flag floated over the trees, a small space of ground

was cleared for the planting of corn, and a garden was laid out, where

seeds from old France grew and flourished, for no disturbing gales from

the Bay ever reached this sanctuary of the wildwood.

"All went merrily as a marriage bell until one winter night, when the

bosom of the lake was frosted with ice, and the snow-laden branches of

the trees hung heavily earthward. Then, in the hush before morning, a

small detachment of men on snowshoes, arrayed in a foreign uniform, and

carrying hatchets in their hands--"

"More Injuns!" gasped Mirabelle Marie, clapping her hand to her mouth in

lively distress at Bidiane's tragic manner.

"No, no! I didn't say tomahawks," said Bidiane, who started nervously at

the interruption; "the hatchets weren't for killing,--they were to cut

the branches. These soldiers crept stealthily and painfully through the

underbrush, where broken limbs and prickly shrubs stretched out

detaining arms to hold them back; but they would not be held, for the

lust of murder was in their hearts. When they reached the broad and open

lake--"

"You jist said it was frozen," interrupted the irrepressible Mirabelle

Marie.

"I beg your pardon,--the ice-sealed sheet of water,--the soldiers threw

away their hatchets and unslung their guns, and again a shout of horror

went up to the clear vault of heaven. White men slew white men, for the

invaders were not Indians, but English soldiers, and there were streaks

of crimson on the snow where the French soldiers laid themselves down to

die.

"There seemed to be a curse on the lake, and it was deserted for many

years, until a band of sorrowing Acadien exiles was forced to take

refuge in the half-ruined fort. They summered and wintered there, until

they all died of a strange sickness and were buried by one man who,

only, survived. He vowed that the lake was haunted, and would never be

an abode for human beings; so he came to the shore and built himself a

log cabin, that he occupied in fear and trembling until at last the time

came when the French were no longer persecuted."

"Agapit LeNoir also says that the lake is haunted," exclaimed Claudine,

in excited French. "He hates the little river that comes stealing from

it. He likes the Bay, the open Bay. There is no one here that loves the

river but Rose à Charlitte."

"But dere is gold dere,--heaps," said the visitor, in English, and her

eyes glistened.

"Only foolish people say that," remarked Claudine, decidedly, "and even

if there should be gold there, it would be cursed."

"You not think that," said Nannichette, shrinking back.

"Oh, how stupid all this is!" said Bidiane. "Up the Bay I used to hear

this talk of gold. You remember, my aunt?"

Mirabelle Marie's shoulders shook with amusement. "_Mon jheu_, yes, on

the stony Dead Man's Point, where there ain't enough earth to _fricasser

les cailloux_" (fricassee the pebbles); "it's all dug up like

graveyards. Come on, Nannichette, tell us ag'in of yer fantome."

Nannichette became suddenly shy, and Mirabelle Marie took it upon

herself to be spokeswoman. "She was rockin' her baby, when she heard a

divil of a noise. The ceiling gapped at her, jist like you open yer

mouth, and a fantome voice says--"

"'Dere is gole in Sleepin' Water Lake,'" interrupted Nannichette,

hastily. "'Only women shall dig,--men cannot fine.'"

"An' Nannichette was squshed,--she fell ag'in the floor with her baby."

"And then she ran about to see if she could find some women foolish

enough to believe this," said Bidiane, with fine youthful disdain.

A slow color crept into Nannichette's brown cheek. "Dere is gole dere,"

she said, obstinately. "De speerit tell me where to look."

"That was Satan who spoke to you, Nannichette," said Claudine,

seriously; "or maybe you had had a little rum. Come now, hadn't you?"

Nannichette scowled, while Mirabelle Marie murmured, with reverent

admiration, "I dessay the divil knows where there is lots of gold."

"It drives me frantic to hear you discuss this subject," said Bidiane,

suddenly springing to her feet. "Oh, if you knew how ignorant it sounds,

how way back in the olden times! What would the people in Paris say if

they could hear you? Oh, please, let us talk of something else; let us

mention art."

"What's dat?" asked Nannichette, pricking up her ears.

"It is all about music, and writing poetry, and making lovely pictures,

and all kinds of elegant things,--it elevates your mind and soul. Don't

talk about hateful things. What do you want to live back in the woods

for? Why don't you come out to the shore?"

"Dat's why I wan' de gole," said Nannichette, triumphantly. "Of'en I use

to hunt for some of Cap'en Kidd's pots."

"Good gracious!" said Bidiane, with an impatient gesture, "how much

money do you suppose that man had? They are searching for his treasure

all along the coast. I don't believe he ever had a bit. He was a wicked

old pirate,--I wouldn't spend his money if I found it--"

Mirabelle Marie and Nannichette surveyed each other's faces with

cunning, glittering eyes. There was a secret understanding between them;

no speech was necessary, and they contemplated Bidiane as two benevolent

wild beasts might survey an innocent and highly cultured lamb who

attempted to reason with them.

Bidiane dimly felt her powerlessness, and, accompanied by Claudine, went

back to her raking, and left the two sitting on the hay.

While the girl was undressing that night, Claudine tapped at her door.

"It is all arranged, Bidiane. They are going to dig."

Bidiane impatiently shook her hanging mass of hair, and stamped her foot

on the floor. "They shall not."

"Nannichette did not go away," continued Claudine. "She hung about the

stable, and Mirabelle Marie took her up some food. I was feeding the

pig, and I overheard whispering. They are to get some women together,

and Nannichette will lead them to the place the spirit told her of."

"Oh, the simpleton! She shall not come here again, and my aunt shall not

accompany her--but where do they wish to go?"

"To the Sleeping Water Lake."

"Claudine, you know there is no gold there. The Indians had none, the

French had none,--where would the poor exiles get it?"

"All this is reasonable, but there are people who are foolish,--always

foolish. I tell you, this seeking for gold is like a fever. One catches

it from another. I had an uncle who thought there was a treasure hid on

his farm; he dug it all over, then he went crazy."

Bidiane's head, that, in the light of her lamp, had turned to a dull

red-gold, sank on her breast. "I have it," she said at last, flinging it

up, and choking with irrepressible laughter. "Let them go,--we will play

them a trick. Nothing else will cure my aunt. Listen,--" and she laid a

hand on the shoulder of the young woman confronting her, and earnestly

unfolded a primitive plan.

Claudine at once fell in with it. She had never yet disapproved of a

suggestion of Bidiane, and after a time she went chuckling to bed.

CHAPTER VII.

GHOSTS BY SLEEPING WATER.

"Which apparition, it seems, was you."

--_Tatler._

The next day Claudine's left eyelid trembled in Bidiane's direction.

The girl followed her to the pantry, where she heard, murmured over a

pan of milk, "They go to-night, as soon as it is dark,--Mirabelle Marie,

Suretta, and Mosée-Délice."

"Very well," said Bidiane, curling her lip, "we will go too."

Accordingly, that evening, when Mirabelle Marie clapped her rakish hat

on her head,--for nothing would induce her to wear a handkerchief,--and

said that she was going to visit a sick neighbor, Bidiane demurely

commended her thoughtfulness, and sent an affecting message to the

invalid.

However, the mistress of the inn had no sooner disappeared than her

younger helpmeets tied black handkerchiefs on their heads, and slipped

out to the yard, each carrying a rolled-up sheet and a paper of pins.

With much suppressed laughter they glided up behind the barn, and

struck across the fields to the station road. When half-way there,

Bidiane felt something damp and cold touch her hand, and, with a start

and a slight scream, discovered that her uncle's dog, Bastarache, in

that way signified his wish to join the expedition.

"Come, then, good dog," she said, in French, for he was a late

acquisition and, having been brought up in the woods, understood no

English, "thou, too, shalt be a ghost."

It was a dark, furiously windy night, for the hot gale that had been

blowing over the Bay for three days was just about dying away with a

fiercer display of energy than before.

The stars were out, but they did not give much light, and Bidiane and

Claudine had only to stand a little aside from the road, under a group

of spruces, in order to be completely hidden from the three women as

they went tugging by. They had met at the corner, and, in no fear of

discovery, for the night was most unpleasant and there were few people

stirring, they trudged boldly on, screaming neighborhood news at the top

of their voices, in order to be heard above the noise of the wind.

Bidiane and Claudine followed them at a safe distance. "_Mon Dieu_, but

Mirabelle Marie's fat legs will ache to-morrow," said Claudine, "she

that walks so little."

"If it were an honest errand that she was going on, she would have asked

for the horse. As it is, she was ashamed to do so."

The three women fairly galloped over the road to the station, for, at

first, both tongues and heels were excited, and even Mirabelle Marie,

although she was the only fat one of the party, managed to keep up with

the others.

To Claudine, Bidiane, and the dog, the few miles to the station were a

mere bagatelle. However, after crossing the railway track, they were

obliged to go more slowly, for the three in front had begun to flag.

They also had stopped gossiping, and when an occasional wagon

approached, they stepped into the bushes beside the road until it had

passed by.

The dog, in great wonderment of mind, chafed at the string that Bidiane

took from her pocket and fastened around his neck. He scented his

mistress on ahead, and did not understand why the two parties might not

be amicably united.

A mile beyond the station, the three gold-seekers left the main road and

plunged into a rough wood-track that led to the lake. Here the darkness

was intense; the trees formed a thick screen overhead, through which

only occasional glimpses of a narrow lane of stars could be obtained.

"This is terrible," gasped Bidiane, as her foot struck a root; "lift

your feet high, Claudine."

Claudine gave her a hand. She was almost hysterical from listening to

the groaning on ahead. "Since the day of my husband's death, I have not

laughed so much," she said, winking away the nervous tears in her eyes.

"I do not love fun as much as some people, but when I laugh, I laugh

hard."

"My aunt will be in bed to-morrow," sighed Bidiane; "what a pity that

she is such a goose."

"She is tough," giggled Claudine, "do not disturb yourself. It is you

that I fear for."

At last, the black, damp, dark road emerged on a clearing. There stood

the Indian's dwelling,--small and yellow, with a fertile garden before

it, and a tiny, prosperous orchard at the back.

"You must enter this house some day," whispered Claudine. "Everything

shines there, and they are well fixed. Nannichette has a sewing-machine,

and a fine cook-stove, and when she does not help her husband make

baskets, she sews and bakes."

"Will her husband approve of this expedition?"

"No, no, he must have gone to the shore, or Nannichette would not

undertake it,--listen to what Mirabelle Marie says."

The fat woman had sunk exhausted on the doorstep of the yellow house.

"Nannichette, I be _dèche_ if I go a step furder, till you gimme

_checque chouse pour mouiller la langue_" (give me something to wet my

tongue).

"All right," said Nannichette, in the soft, drawling tones that she had

caught from the Indians, and she brought her out a pitcher of milk.

Mirabelle Marie put the pitcher to her lips, and gurgled over the milk a

joyful thanksgiving that she had got away from the rough road, and the

rougher wind, that raged like a bull; then she said, "Your husband is

away?"

"No," said Nannichette, in some embarrassment, "he ain't, but come in."

Mirabelle Marie rose, and with her companions went into the house, while

Bidiane and Claudine crept to the windows.

"Dear me, this is the best Indian house that I ever saw," said Bidiane,

taking a survey, through the cheap lace curtains, of the sewing-machine,

the cupboard of dishes, and the neat tables and chairs inside. Then she

glided on in a voyage of discovery around the house, skirting the

diminutive bedrooms, where half a dozen children lay snoring in

comfortable beds, and finally arriving outside a shed, where a tall,

slight Indian was on his knees, planing staves for a tub by the light of

a lamp on a bracket above him.

His wife's work lay on the floor. When not suffering from the gold

fever, she twisted together the dried strips of maple wood and scented

grasses, and made baskets that she sold at a good price.

The Indian did not move an eyelid, but he plainly saw Bidiane and

Claudine, and wondered why they were not with the other women, who, in

some uneasiness of mind, stood in the doorway, looking at him over each

other's shoulders.

After his brief nod and taciturn "Hullo, ladies," his wife said, "We go

for walk in woods."

"What for you lie?" he said, in English, for the Micmacs of the Bay are

accomplished linguists, and make use of three languages. "You go to dig

gold," and he grunted contemptuously.

No one replied to him, and he continued, "Ladies, all religions is good.

I cannot say, you go hell 'cause you Catholic, an' I go heaven 'cause I

Protestant. All same with God, if you believe your religion. But your

priesties not say to dig gold."

He took up the stave that he had laid down, and went on with his work of

smoothing it, while the four "ladies," Mirabelle Marie, Suretta,

Mosée-Délice, and his wife, appeared to be somewhat ashamed of

themselves.

"'Pon my soul an' body, there ain't no harm in diggin' gold," said

Mirabelle Marie. "That gives us fun."

"How many you be?" he asked.

"Four," said Nannichette, who was regarding her lord and master with

some shyness; for stupid as she was, she recognized the fact that he

was the more civilized being, and that the prosperity of their family

was largely due to him.

The Indian's liquid eyes glistened for an instant towards the window,

where stood Bidiane and Claudine. "Take care, ladies, there be ghosties

in the woods."

The four women laughed loudly, but in a shaky manner; then taking each a

handful of raspberries, from a huge basketful that Nannichette offered

them, and that was destined for the preserve pot on the morrow, they

once more plunged into the dark woods.

Bidiane and Claudine restrained the leaping dog, and quietly followed

them. The former could not conceal her delight when they came suddenly

upon the lake. It lay like a huge, dusky mirror, turned up to the sky

with a myriad stars piercing its glassy bosom.

"Stop," murmured Claudine.

The four women had paused ahead of them. They were talking and

gesticulating violently, for all conversation was forbidden while

digging. One word spoken aloud, and the charm would be broken, the

spirit would rush angrily from the spot.

Therefore they were finishing up their ends of talk, and Nannichette was

assuring them that she would take them to the exact spot revealed to her

in the vision.

Presently they set off in Indian file, Nannichette in front, as the one

led by the spirit, and carrying with her a washed and polished spade,

that she had brought from her home.

Claudine and Bidiane were careful not to speak, for there was not a word

uttered now by the women in front, and the pursuers needed to follow

them with extreme caution. On they went, climbing silently over the

grassy mounds that were now the only reminders of the old French fort,

or stumbling unexpectedly and noisily into the great heap of clam

shells, whose contents had been eaten by the hungry exiles of long ago.

At last they stopped. Nannichette stared up at the sky, down at the

ground, across the lake on her right, and into the woods on her left,

and then pointed to a spot in the grass, and with a magical flourish of

the spade began to dig.

Having an Indian husband, she was accustomed to work out-of-doors, and

was therefore able to dig for a long time before she became sensible of

fatigue, and was obliged mutely to extend the spade to Suretta.

Not so enduring were the other women. Their ancestors had ploughed and

reaped, but Acadiennes of the present day rarely work on the farms,

unless it is during the haying season. Suretta soon gave out.

Mosée-Délice took her place, and Mirabelle Marie hung back until the

last.

Bidiane and Claudine withdrew among the trees, stifling their laughter

and trying to calm the dog, who had finally reached a state of frenzy at

this mysterious separation.

"My unfortunate aunt!" murmured Bidiane; "do let us put an end to this."

Claudine was snickering convulsively. She had begun to array herself in

one of the sheets, and was transported with amusement and anticipation.

Meanwhile, doubt and discord had reared their disturbing heads among the

members of the digging party. Mirabelle Marie persisted in throwing up

the spade too soon, and the other women, regarding her with glowing,

eloquent looks, quietly arranged that the honorable agricultural

implement, now perverted to so unbecoming a use, should return to her

hands with disquieting frequency.

The earth was soft here by the lake, yet it was heavy to lift out, for

the hole had now become quite deep. Suddenly, to the horror and anger of

Nannichette and the other two women, both of whom were beginning to have

mysterious warnings and impressions that they were now on the brink of

discovery of one pot of gold, and perhaps two, there was an impatient

exclamation from Mirabelle Marie.

"The divil!" she cried, and her voice broke out shrilly in the deathly

silence; "Bidiane was right. It ain't no speerit you saw. I'm goin',"

and she scrambled out of the hole.

With angry reproaches for her precipitancy and laziness, the other women

fell upon her with their tongues. She had given them this long walk to

the lake, she had spoiled everything, and, as their furious voices smote

the still air, Bidiane, Claudine, and the dog emerged slowly and

decently from the heavy gloom behind them like ghosts rising from the

lake.

"I will give you a bit of my sheet," Bidiane had said to Bastarache;

consequently he stalked beside them like a diminutive bogey in a

graceful mantle of white.

"_Ah, mon jheu! chesque j'vois?_" (what do I see), screamed Suretta, who

was the first to catch sight of them. "Ten candles to the Virgin if I

get out of this!" and she ran like a startled deer.

With various expressions of terror, the others followed her. They

carried with them the appearance of the white ethereal figures, standing

against the awful black background of the trees, and as they ran, their

shrieks and yells of horror, particularly those from Mirabelle Marie,

were so heartrending that Bidiane, in sudden compunction, screamed to

her, "Don't you know me, my aunt? It is Bidiane, your niece. Don't be

afraid!"

Mirabelle Marie was making so much noise herself that she could scarcely

have heard a trumpet sounding in her ears, and fear lent her wings of

such extraordinary vigor in flight that she was almost immediately out

of sight.

Bidiane turned to the dog, who was tripping and stumbling inside his

snowy drapery, and to Claudine, who was shrieking with delight at him.

"Go then, good dog, console your mistress," she said. "Follow those

piercing screams that float backward," and she was just about to release

him when she was obliged to go to the assistance of Claudine, who had

caught her foot, and had fallen to the ground, where she lay overcome by

hysterical laughter.

Bidiane had to get water from the lake to dash on her face, and when at

last they were ready to proceed on their way, the forest was as still as

when they had entered it.

"Bah, I am tired of this joke," said Bidiane. "We have accomplished our

object. Let us throw these things in the lake. I am ashamed of them;"

and she put a stone inside their white trappings, and hurled them into

Sleeping Water, which mutely received and swallowed them.

"Now," she said, impatiently, "let us overtake them. I am afraid lest

Mirabelle Marie stumble, she is so heavy."

Claudine, leaning against a tree and mopping her eyes, vowed that it was

the best joke that she had ever heard of; then she joined Bidiane, and

they hurriedly made their way to the yellow cottage.

It was deserted now, except for the presence of the six children of

mixed blood, who were still sleeping like six little dark logs, laid

three on a bed.

"We shall overtake them," said Bidiane; "let us hurry."

However, they did not catch up to them on the forest path, nor even on

the main road, for when the terrified women had rushed into the presence

of the Indian and had besought him to escort them away from the

spirit-haunted lake, that amused man, with a cheerful grunt, had taken

them back to the shore by a short cut known only to himself.

Therefore, when Bidiane and Claudine arrived breathlessly home, they

found Mirabelle Marie there before them. She sat in a rocking-chair in

the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by a group of sympathizers, who

listened breathlessly to her tale of woe, that she related with

chattering teeth.

Bidiane ran to her and threw her arms about her neck.

"_Mon jheu_, Biddy, I've got such a fright. I'm mos' dead. Three

ghosties came out of Sleepin' Water, and chased us,--we were back for

gold. Suretta an' Mosée-Délice have run home. They're mos' scairt to

pieces. Oh, I'll never sin again. I wisht I'd made my Easter duties.

I'll go to confession to-morrer."

"It was I, my aunt," cried Bidiane, in distress.

"It was awful," moaned Mirabelle Marie. "I see the speerit of me mother,

I see the speerit of me sister, I see the speerit of me leetle lame

child."

"It was the dog," exclaimed Bidiane, and, gazing around the kitchen for

him, she discovered Agapit sitting quietly in a corner.

"Oh, how do you do?" she said, in some embarrassment; then she again

gave her attention to her distressed aunt.

"The dogue,--Biddy, you ain't crazy?"

"Yes, yes, the dog and Claudine and I. See how she is laughing. We heard

your plans, we followed you, we dressed in sheets."

"The dogue," reiterated Mirabelle Marie, in blank astonishment, and

pointing to Bastarache, who lay under the sofa solemnly winking at her.

"Ain't he ben plumped down there ever since supper, Claude?"

"Yes, he's ben there."

"But Claude sleeps in the evenings," urged Bidiane. "I assure you that

Bastarache was with us."

"Oh, the dear leetle liar," said Mirabelle Marie, affectionately

embracing her. "But I'm glad to git back again to yeh."

"I'm telling the truth," said Bidiane, desperately. "Can't you speak,

Claudine?"

"We did go," said Claudine, who was still possessed by a demon of

laughter. "We followed you."

"Followed us to Sleepin' Water! You're lyin', too. _Sakerjé_, it was

awful to see me mother and me sister and the leetle dead child," and she

trotted both feet wildly on the floor, while her rolling eye sought

comfort from Bidiane.

"What shall I do?" said Bidiane. "Mr. LeNoir, you will believe me. I

wanted to cure my aunt of her foolishness. We took sheets--"

"Sheets?" repeated Mirabelle. "Whose sheets?"

"Yours, my aunt,--oh, it was very bad in us, but they were old ones;

they had holes."

"What did you do with 'em?"

"We threw them in the lake."

"Come, now, look at that, ha, ha," and Mirabelle Marie laughed in a

quavering voice. "I can see Claudine throwing sheets in the lake. She

would make pickin's of 'em. Don't lie, Bidiane, me girl, or you'll see

ghosties. You want to help your poor aunt,--you've made up a nice leetle

lie, but don't tell it. See, Jude and Edouard are heatin' some soup.

Give some to Agapit LeNoir and take a cup yourself."

Bidiane, with a gesture of utter helplessness, gave up the discussion

and sat down beside Agapit.

"You believe me, do you not?" she asked, under cover of the joyful

bustle that arose when the two boys began to pass around the soup.

"Yes," he replied, making a wry face over his steaming cup.

"And what do you think of me?" she asked, anxiously.

Agapit, although an ardent Acadien, and one bent on advancing the

interests of his countrymen in every way, had yet little patience with

the class to which Mirabelle Marie belonged. Apparently kind and

forbearing with them, he yet left them severely alone. His was the party

of progress, and he had been half amused, half scornful of the efforts

that Bidiane had put forth to educate her deficient relative.

"On general principles," he said, coolly, "it is better not to chase a

fat aunt through dark woods; yet, in this case, I would say it has done

good."

"I did not wish to be heartless," said Bidiane, with tears in her eyes.

"I wished to teach her a lesson."

"Well, you have done so. Hear her swear that she will go to mass,--she

will, too. The only way to work upon such a nature is through fear."

"I am glad to have her go to mass, but I did not wish her to go in this

way."

"Be thankful that you have attained your object," he said, dryly. "Now I

must go. I hoped to spend the evening with you, and hear you sing."

"You will come again, soon?" said Bidiane, following him to the door.

"It is a good many miles to come, and a good many to go back,

mademoiselle. I have not always the time--and, besides that, I have soon

to go to Halifax on business."

"Well, I thank you for keeping your promise to come," said Bidiane,

humbly, and with gratitude. She was completely unnerved by the events of

the evening, and was in no humor to find fault.

Agapit clapped his hat firmly on his head as a gust of wind whirled

across the yard and tried to take it from him.

"We are always glad to see you here," said Bidiane, wistfully, as she

watched him step across to the picket fence, where his white horse shone

through the darkness; "though I suppose you have pleasant company in

Weymouth. I have been introduced to some nice English girls from there."

"Yes, there are nice ones," he said. "I should like to see more of them,

but I am usually busy in the afternoons and evenings."

"Do not work too hard,--that is a mistake. One must enjoy life a

little."

He gathered up the reins in his hands and paused a minute before he

stepped into the buggy. "I suppose I seem very old to you."

She hesitated for an instant, and the wind dying down a little seemed

to take the words from her lips and softly breathe them against his

dark, quiet face. "Not so very old,--not as old as you did at first. If

I were as old as you, I should not do such silly things."

He stared solemnly at her wind-blown figure swaying lightly to and fro

on the gravel, and at the little hands put up to keep her dishevelled

hair from her eyes and cheeks, which were both glowing from her hurried

scamper home. "Are you really worried because you played this trick on

your aunt?"

"Yes, terribly, she has been like a mother to me. I would be ashamed for

Mr. Nimmo to know."

"And will you lie awake to-night and vex yourself about it?"

"Oh, yes, yes,--how can you tell? Perhaps you also have troubles."

Agapit laughed in sudden and genuine amusement. "Mademoiselle, my

cousin, let me say something to you that you may perhaps remember when

you are older. It is this: you have at present about as much

comprehension and appreciation of real heart trouble, and of mental

struggles that tear one first this way, then that way,--you have about

as much understanding of them as has that kitten sheltering itself

behind you."

Bidiane quietly stowed away this remark among the somewhat heterogeneous

furniture of her mind; then she said, "I feel quite old when I talk to

my aunt and to Claudine."

"You are certainly ahead of them in some mental experiences, but you are

not yet up to some other people."

"I am not up to Madame de Forêt," she said, gently, "nor to you. I feel

sure now that you have some troubles."

"And what do you imagine they are?"

"I imagine that they are things that you will get over," she said, with

spirit. "You are not a coward."

He smiled, and softly bade her good night.

"Good night, _mon cousin_," she said, gravely, and taking the crying

kitten in her arms, she put her head on one side and listened until the

sound of the carriage wheels grew faint in the distance.

CHAPTER VIII.

FAIRE BOMBANCE.

"Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate,

And see their offspring thus degenerate,

How we contend for birth and names unknown;

And build on their past acts, and not our own;

They'd cancel records and their tombs deface,

And then disown the vile, degenerate race;

For families is all a cheat,

'Tis personal virtue only, makes us great."

THE TRUE BORN ENGLISHMAN. DEFOE.

Bidiane was late for supper, and Claudine was regretfully remarking that

the croquettes and the hot potatoes in the oven would all be burnt to

cinders, when the young person herself walked into the kitchen, her face

a fiery crimson, a row of tiny beads of perspiration at the conjunction

of her smooth forehead with her red hair.

"I have had a glorious ride," she said, opening the door of the big oven

and taking out the hot dishes.

Claudine laid aside the towel with which she was wiping the cups and

saucers that Mirabelle Marie washed. "Go sit down at the table,

Bidiane; you must be weary."

The girl, nothing loath, went to the dining-room, while Claudine brought

her in hot coffee, buttered toast, and preserved peaches and cream, and

then returning to the kitchen watched her through the open door, as she

satisfied the demands of a certainly prosperous appetite.

"And yet, it is not food I want, as much as drink," said Bidiane, gaily,

as she poured herself out a second glass of milk. "Ah, the bicycle,

Claudine. If you rode, you would know how one's mouth feels like a dry

bone."

"I think I would like a wheel," said Claudine, modestly. "I have enough

money saved."

"Have you? Then you must get one, and I will teach you to ride."

"How would one go about it?"

"We will do it in this way," said Bidiane, in a business-like manner,

for she loved to arrange the affairs of other people. "How much money

have you?"

"I have one hundred dollars."

"'Pon me soul an' body, I'd have borrered some if I'd known that,"

interrupted Mirabelle Marie, with a chuckle.

"Good gracious," observed Bidiane, "you don't want more than half that.

We will give fifty to one of the men on the schooners. Isn't _La

Sauterelle_ going to Boston, to-morrow?"

"Yes; the cook was just in for yeast."

"Has he a head for business?"

"Pretty fair."

"Does he know anything about machines?"

"He once sold sewing-machines, and he also would show how to work them."

"The very man,--we will give him the fifty dollars and tell him to pick

you out a good wheel and bring it back in the schooner."

"Then there will be no duty to pay," said Claudine, joyfully.

"H'm,--well, perhaps we had better pay the duty," said Bidiane; "it

won't be so very much. It is a great temptation to smuggle things from

the States, but I know we shouldn't. By the way, I must tell Mirabelle

Marie a good joke I just heard up the Bay. My aunt,--where are you?"

Mirabelle Marie came into the room and seated herself near Claudine.

"Marc à Jaddus à Dominique's little girl gave him away," said Bidiane,

laughingly. "She ran over to the custom-house in Belliveau's Cove and

told the man what lovely things her papa had brought from Boston, in his

schooner, and the customs man hurried over, and Marc had to pay--I must

tell you, too, that I bought some white ribbon for Alzélie Gauterot,

while I was in the Cove," and Bidiane pulled a little parcel from her

pocket.

Mirabelle Marie was intensely interested. Ever since the affair of the

ghosts, which Bidiane had given up trying to persuade her was not

ghostly, but very material, she had become deeply religious, and took

her whole family to mass and vespers every Sunday.

Just now the children of the parish were in training for their first

communion. She watched the little creatures daily trotting up the road

towards the church to receive instruction, and she hoped that her boys

would soon be among them. In the small daughter of her next-door

neighbor, who was to make her first communion with the others, she took

a special interest, and in her zeal had offered to make the dress, which

kind office had devolved upon Bidiane and Claudine.

"Also, I have been thinking of a scheme to save money," said Bidiane.

"For a veil we can just take off this fly screen," and she pointed to

white netting on the table. "No one but you and Claudine will know. It

is fine and soft, and can be freshly done up."

"_Mon jheu!_ but you are smart, and a real Acadien brat," said her aunt.

"Claudine, will you go to the door? Some divil rings,--that is, some

lady or gentleman," she added, as she caught a menacing glance from

Bidiane.

"If you keep a hotel you must always be glad to see strangers," said

Bidiane, severely. "It is money in your pocket."

"But such a trouble, and I am sleepy."

"If you are not careful you will have to give up this inn,--however, I

must not scold, for you do far better than when I first came."

"It is the political gentleman," said Claudine, entering, and

noiselessly closing the door behind her. "He who has been going up and

down the Bay for a day or two. He wishes supper and a bed."

"_Sakerjé!_" muttered Mirabelle Marie, rising with an effort. "If I was

a man I guess I'd let pollyticks alone, and stay to hum. I s'ppose he's

got a nest with some feathers in it. I guess you'd better ask him out,

though. There's enough to start him, ain't there?" and she waddled out

to the kitchen.

"Ah, the political gentleman," said Bidiane. "It was he for whom I

helped Maggie Guilbaut pick blackberries, yesterday. They expected him

to call, and were going to offer him berries and cream."

Mirabelle Marie, on going to the kitchen, had left her niece sitting

composedly at the table, only lifting an eyelid to glance at the door by

which the stranger would enter; but when she returned, as she almost

immediately did, to ask the gentleman whether he would prefer tea to

coffee, a curious spectacle met her gaze.

Bidiane, with a face that was absolutely furious, had sprung to her feet

and was grasping the sides of her bicycle skirt with clenched hands,

while the stranger, who was a lean, dark man, with a pale, rather

pleasing face, when not disfigured by a sarcastic smile, stood staring

at her as if he remembered seeing her before, but had some difficulty in

locating her among his acquaintances.

Upon her aunt's appearance, Bidiane found her voice. "Either I or that

man must leave this house," she said, pointing a scornful finger at him.

[Illustration: "'EITHER THAT MAN OR I MUST LEAVE THIS HOUSE.'"]

Mirabelle Marie, who was not easily shocked, was plainly so on the

present occasion. "Whist, Bidiane," she said, trying to pull her down on

her chair; "this is the pollytickle genl'man,--county member they call

'im."

"I do not care if he is member for fifty counties," said Bidiane, in

concentrated scorn. "He is a libeller, a slanderer, and I will not stay

under the same roof with him,--and to think it was for him I picked the

blackberries,--we cannot entertain you here, sir."

The expression of disagreeable surprise with which the man with the

unpleasant smile had regarded her gave way to one of cool disdain. "This

is your house, I think?" he said, appealing to Mirabelle Marie.

"Yessir," she said, putting down her tea-caddy, and arranging both her

hands on her hips, in which position she would hold them until the

dispute was finished.

"And you do not refuse me entertainment?" he went on, with the same

unpleasant smile. "You cannot, I think, as this is a public house, and

you have no just reason for excluding me from it."

"My aunt," said Bidiane, flashing around to her in a towering passion,

"if you do not immediately turn this man out-of-doors, I shall never

speak to you again."

"I be _dèche_," sputtered the confused landlady, "if I see into this

hash. Look at 'em, Claudine. This genl'man'll be mad if I do one thing,

an' Biddy'll take my head off if I do another. _Sakerjé!_ You've got to

fit it out yourselves."

"Listen, my aunt," said Bidiane, excitedly, and yet with an effort to

control herself. "I will tell you what happened. On my way here I was in

a hotel in Halifax. I had gone there with some people from the steamer

who were taking charge of me. We were on our way to our rooms. We were

all speaking English. No one would think that there was a French person

in the party. We passed a gentleman, this gentleman, who stood outside

his door; he was speaking to a servant. 'Bring me quickly,' he said,

'some water,--some hot water. I have been down among the evil-smelling

French of Clare. I must go again, and I want a good wash first.'"

Mirabelle Marie was by no means overcome with horror at the recitation

of this trespass on the part of her would-be guest; but Claudine's eyes

blazed and flashed on the stranger's back until he moved slightly, and

shrugged his shoulders as if he felt their power.

"Imagine," cried Bidiane, "he called us 'evil-smelling,'--we, the best

housekeepers in the world, whose stoves shine, whose kitchen floors are

as white as the beach! I choked with wrath. I ran up to him and said,

'_Moi, je suis Acadienne_'" (I am an Acadienne). "Did I not, sir?"

The stranger lifted his eyebrows indulgently and satirically, but did

not speak.

"And he was astonished," continued Bidiane. "_Ma foi_, but he was

astonished! He started, and stared at me, and I said, 'I will tell you

what you are, sir, unless you apologize.'"

"I guess yeh apologized, didn't yeh?" said Mirabelle Marie, mildly.

"The young lady is dreaming," said the stranger, coolly, and he seated

himself at the table. "Can you let me have something to eat at once,

madame? I have a brother who resembles me; perhaps she saw him."

Bidiane grew so pale with wrath, and trembled so violently that Claudine

ran to support her, and cried, "Tell us, Bidiane, what did you say to

this bad man?"

Bidiane slightly recovered herself. "I said to him, 'Sir, I regret to

tell you that you are lying.'"

The man at the table surveyed her in intense irritation. "I do not know

where you come from, young woman," he said, hastily, "but you look

Irish."

"And if I were not Acadien I would be Irish," she said, in a low voice,

"for they also suffer for their country. Good-by, my aunt, I am going to

Rose à Charlitte. I see you wish to keep this story-teller."

"Hole on, hole on," ejaculated Mirabelle Marie in distress. "Look here,

sir, you've gut me in a fix, and you've gut to git me out of it."

"I shall not leave your house unless you tell me to do so," he said, in

cool, quiet anger.

Bidiane stretched out her hands to him, and with tears in her eyes

exclaimed, pleadingly, "Say only that you regret having slandered the

Acadiens. I will forget that you put my people to shame before the

English, for they all knew that I was coming to Clare. We will overlook

it. Acadiens are not ungenerous, sir."

"As I said before, you are dreaming," responded the stranger, in a

restrained fury. "I never was so put upon in my life. I never saw you

before."

Bidiane drew herself up like an inspired prophetess. "Beware, sir, of

the wrath of God. You lied before,--you are lying now."

The man fell into such a repressed rage that Mirabelle Marie, who was

the only unembarrassed spectator, inasmuch as she was weak in racial

loves and hatreds, felt called upon to decide the case. The gentleman,

she saw, was the story-teller. Bidiane, who had not been particularly

truthful as a child, had yet never told her a falsehood since her return

from France.

"I'm awful sorry, sir, but you've gut to go. I brought up this leetle

girl, an' her mother's dead."

The gentleman rose,--a gentleman no longer, but a plain, common, very

ugly-tempered man. These Acadiens were actually turning him, an

Englishman, out of the inn. And he had thought the whole people so meek,

so spiritless. He was doing them such an honor to personally canvass

them for votes for the approaching election. His astonishment almost

overmastered his rage, and in a choking voice he said to Mirabelle

Marie, "Your house will suffer for this,--you will regret it to the end

of your life."

"I know some business," exclaimed Claudine, in sudden and irrepressible

zeal. "I know that you wish to make laws, but will our men send you when

they know what you say?"

He snatched his hat from the seat behind him. His election was

threatened. Unless he chained these women's tongues, what he had said

would run up and down the Bay like wildfire,--and yet a word now would

stop it. Should he apologize? A devil rose in his heart. He would not.

"Do your worst," he said, in a low, sneering voice. "You are a pack of

liars yourselves," and while Bidiane and Claudine stiffened themselves

with rage, and Mirabelle Marie contemptuously muttered, "Get out, ole

beast," he cast a final malevolent glance on them, and left the house.

For a time the three remained speechless; then Bidiane sank into her

chair, pushed back her half-eaten supper, propped her red head on her

hand, and burst into passionate weeping.

Claudine stood gloomily watching her, while Mirabelle Marie sat down,

and shifting her hands from her hips, laid them on her trembling knees.

"I guess he'll drive us out of this, Biddy,--an' I like Sleepin' Water."

Bidiane lifted her face to the ceiling, just as if she were "taking a

vowel," her aunt reflected, in her far from perfect English. "He shall

not ruin us, my aunt,--we will ruin him."

"What'll you do, sissy?"

"I will tell you something about politics," said Bidiane, immediately

becoming calm. "Mr. Nimmo has explained to me something about them, and

if you listen, you will understand. In the first place, do you know

what politics are?" and hastily wiping her eyes, she intently surveyed

the two women who were hanging on her words.

"Yes, I know," said her aunt, joyfully. "It's when men quit work, an'

gab, an' git red in the face, an' pass the bottle, an' pick rows, to

fine out which shall go up to the city of Boston to make laws an' sit in

a big room with lots of other men."

Bidiane, with an impatient gesture, turned to Claudine. "You know better

than that?"

"Well, yes,--a little," said the black-eyed beauty, contemptuously.

"My aunt," said Bidiane, solemnly, "you have been out in the world, and

yet you have many things to learn. Politics is a science, and deep, very

deep."

"Is it?" said her aunt, humbly. "An' what's a science?"

"A science is--well, a science is something wonderfully clever--when one

knows a great deal. Now this Dominion of Canada in which we live is

large, very large, and there are two parties of politicians in it. You

know them, Claudine?"

"Yes, I do," said the young woman, promptly; "they are Liberals and

Conservatives."

"That is right; and just now the Premier of the Dominion is a Frenchman,

my aunt,--I don't believe you knew that,--and we are proud of him."

"An' what's the Premier?"

"He is the chief one,--the one who stands over the others, when they

make the laws."

"Oh, the boss!--you will tell him about this bad man."

"No, it would grieve him too much, for the Premier is always a good man,

who never does anything wrong. This bad man will impose on him, and try

to get him to promise to let him go to Ottawa--oh, by the way, Claudine,

we must explain about that. My aunt, you know that there are two cities

to which politicians go to make the laws. One is the capital."

"Yes, I know,--in Boston city."

"Nonsense,--Boston is in the United States. We are in Canada. Halifax is

the capital of Nova Scotia."

"But all our folks go to Boston when they travels," said Mirabelle

Marie, in a slightly injured tone.

"Yes, yes, I know,--the foolish people; they should go to Halifax. Well,

that is where the big house is in which they make the laws. I saw it

when I was there, and it has pictures of kings and queens in it. Now,

when a man becomes too clever for this house, they send him to Ottawa,

where the Premier is."

"Yes, I remember,--the good Frenchman."

"Well, this bad man now wishes to go to Halifax; then if he is

ambitious,--and he is bad enough to be anything,--he may wish to go to

Ottawa. But we must stop him right away before he does more mischief,

for all men think he is good. Mr. Guilbaut was praising him yesterday."

"He didn't say he is bad?"

"No, no, he thinks him very good, and says he will be elected; but we

know him to be a liar, and should a liar make laws for his country?"

"A liar should stay to hum, where he is known," was the decisive

response.

"Very good,--now should we not try to drive this man out of Clare?"

"But what can we do?" asked Mirabelle Marie. "He is already out an'

lying like the divil about us--that is, like a man out of the woods."

"We can talk," said her niece, seriously. "There are women's rights, you

know."

"Women's rights," repeated her aunt, thoughtfully. "It is not in the

prayer-book."

"No, of course not."

"Come now, Biddy, tell us what it is."

"It is a long subject, my aunt. It would take too many words to explain,

though Mr. Nimmo has often told me about it. Women who believe that--can

do as men. Why should we not vote,--you, and I, and Claudine?"

"I dunno. I guess the men won't let us."

"I should like to vote," said Bidiane, stoutly, "but even though we

cannot, we can tell the men on the Bay of this monster, and they will

send him home."

"All right," said her aunt; while Claudine, who had been sitting with

knitted brows during the last few minutes, exclaimed, "I have it,

Bidiane; let us make _bombance_" (feasting). "Do you know what it

means?"

No, Bidiane did not, but Mirabelle Marie did, and immediately began to

make a gurgling noise in her throat. "Once I helped to make it in the

house of an aunt. Glory! that was fun. But the tin, Claudine, where'll

you git that?"

"My one hundred dollars," cried the black-eyed assistant. "I will give

them to my country, for I hate that man. I will do without the wheel."

"But what is this?" asked Bidiane, reproachfully. "What are you agreeing

to? I do not understand."

"Tell her, Claudine," said Mirabelle Marie, with a proud wave of her

hand. "She's English, yeh know."

Claudine explained the phrase, and for the next hour the three, with

chairs drawn close together, nodded, talked, and gesticulated, while

laying out a feminine electioneering campaign.

CHAPTER IX.

LOVE AND POLITICS.

"Calm with the truth of life, deep with the love of loving,

New, yet never unknown, my heart takes up the tune.

Singing that needs no words, joy that needs no proving,

Sinking in one long dream as summer bides with June."

One morning, three weeks later, Rose, on getting up and going out to the

sunny yard where she kept her fancy breed of fowls, found them all

overcome by some strange disorder. The morning was bright and inspiring,

yet they were all sleeping heavily and stupidly under, instead of upon,

their usual roosting-place.

She waked up one or two, ran her fingers through their showy plumage,

and, after receiving remonstrating glances from reproachful and

recognizing eyes, softly laid them down again, and turned her attention

to a resplendent red and gold cock, who alone had not succumbed to the

mysterious malady, and was staggering to and fro, eyeing her with a

doubtful, yet knowing look.

"Come, Fiddéding," she said, gently, "tell me what has happened to these

poor hens?"

Fiddéding, instead of enlightening her, swaggered towards the fence,

and, after many failures, succeeded in climbing to it and in propping

his tail against a post.

Then he flapped his gorgeous wings, and opened his beak to crow, but in

the endeavor lost his balance, and with a dismal squawk fell to the

ground. Sheepishly resigning himself to his fate, he tried to gain the

ranks of the somniferous hens, but, not succeeding, fell down where he

was, and hid his head under his wing.

A slight noise caught Rose's attention, and looking up, she found Jovite

leaning against the fence, and grinning from ear to ear.

"Do you know what is the matter with the hens?" she asked.

"Yes, madame; if you come to the stable, I will show you what they have

been taking."

Rose, with a grave face, visited the stable, and then instructed him to

harness her pony to the cart and bring him around to the front of the

house.

Half an hour later she was driving towards Weymouth. As it happened to

be Saturday, it was market-day, and the general shopping-time for the

farmers and the fishermen all along the Bay, and even from back in the

woods. Many of them, with wives and daughters in their big wagons, were

on their way to sell butter, eggs, and farm produce, and obtain, in

exchange, groceries and dry goods, that they would find in larger

quantities and in greater varieties in Weymouth than in the smaller

villages along the shore.

Upon reaching Weymouth, she stopped on the principal street, that runs

across a bridge over the lovely Sissiboo River, and leaving the staid

and sober pony to brush the flies from himself without the assistance of

her whip, she knocked at the door of her cousin's office.

"Come in," said a voice, and she was speedily confronted by Agapit, who

sat at a table facing the door.

He dropped his book and sprang up, when he saw her. "Oh! _ma chère_, I

am glad to see you. I was just feeling dull."

She gently received and retained both his hands in hers. "One often does

feel dull after a journey. Ah! but I have missed you."

"It has only been two weeks--"

"And you have come back with that same weary look on your face," she

said, anxiously. "Agapit, I try to put that look in the back of my mind,

but it will not stay."

He lightly kissed her fingers, and drew a chair beside his own for her.

"It amuses you to worry."

"My cousin!"

"I apologize,--you are the soul of angelic concern for the minds and

bodies of your fellow mortals. And how goes everything in Sleeping

Water? I have been quite homesick for the good old place."

Rose, in spite of the distressed expression that still lingered about

her face, began to smile, and said, impulsively, "Once or twice I have

almost recalled you, but I did not like to interrupt. Yours was a case

at the supreme court, was it not, if that is the way to word it?"

"Yes, Rose; but has anything gone wrong? You mentioned nothing in your

letters," and, as he spoke, he took off his glasses and began to polish

them with his handkerchief.

"Not wrong, exactly, yet--" and she laughed. "It is Bidiane."

The hand with which Agapit was manipulating his glasses trembled

slightly, and hurriedly putting them on, he pushed back the papers on

the table before him, and gave her an acute and undivided attention.

"Some one wants to marry her, I suppose," he said, hastily. "She is

quite a flirt."

"No, no, not yet,--Pius Poirier may, by and by, but do not be too severe

with her, Agapit. She has no time to think of lovers now. She is--but

have you not heard? Surely you must have--every one is laughing about

it."

"I have heard nothing. I returned late last night. I came directly here

this morning. I intended to go to see you to-morrow."

"I thought you would, but I could not wait. Little Bidiane should be

stopped at once, or she will become notorious and get into the

papers,--I was afraid it might already be known in Halifax."

"My dear Rose, there are people in Halifax who never heard of Clare, and

who do not know that there are even a score of Acadiens left in the

country; but what is she doing?" and he masked his impatience under an

admirable coolness.

"She says she is making _bombance_," said Rose, and she struggled to

repress a second laugh; "but I will begin from the first, as you know

nothing. The very day you left, that Mr. Greening, who has been

canvassing the county for votes, went to our inn, and Bidiane recognized

him as a man who had spoken ill of the Acadiens in her presence in

Halifax."

"What had he said?"

"He said that they were 'evil-smelling,'" said Rose, with reluctance.

"Oh, indeed,--he did," and Agapit's lip curled. "I would not have

believed it of Greening. He is rather a decent fellow. Sarcastic, you

know, but not a fool, by any means. Bidiane, I suppose, cut him."

"No, she did not cut him; he had not been introduced. She asked him to

apologize, and he would not. Then she told Mirabelle Marie to request

him to leave the house. He did so."

"Was he angry?"

"Yes, and insulting; and you can figure to yourself into what kind of a

state our quick-tempered Bidiane became. She talked to Claudine and her

aunt, and they agreed to pass Mr. Greening's remark up and down the

Bay."

Agapit began to laugh. Something in his cousin's strangely excited

manner, in the expression of her face, usually so delicately colored,

now so deeply flushed and bewildered over Bidiane's irrepressibility,

amused him intensely, but most of all he laughed from sheer gladness of

heart, that the question to be dealt with was not one of a lover for

their distant and youthful cousin.

Rose was delighted to see him in such good spirits. "But there is more

to come, Agapit. The thing grew. At first, Bidiane contented herself

with flying about on her wheel and telling all the Acadien girls what a

bad man Mr. Greening was to say such a thing, and they must not let

their fathers vote for him. Following this, Claudine, who is very

excited in her calm way, began to drive Mirabelle Marie about. They

stayed at home only long enough to prepare meals, then they went. It is

all up and down the Bay,--that wretched epithet of the unfortunate Mr.

Greening,--and while the men laugh, the women are furious. They cannot

recover from it."

"Well, 'evil-smelling' is not a pretty adjective," said Agapit, with his

lips still stretched back from his white teeth. "At Bidiane's age, what

a rage I should have been in!"

"But you are in the affair now," said Rose, helplessly, "and you must

not be angry."

"I!" he ejaculated, suddenly letting fall a ruler that he had been

balancing on his finger.

"Yes,--at first there was no talk of another candidate. It was only,

'Let the slanderous Mr. Greening be driven away;' but, as I said, the

affair grew. You know our people are mostly Liberals. Mr. Greening is

the new one; you, too, are one. Of course there is old Mr. Gray, who has

been elected for some years. One afternoon the blacksmith in Sleeping

Water said, jokingly, to Bidiane, 'You are taking away one of our

candidates; you must give us another.' He was mending her wheel at the

time, and I was present to ask him to send a hoe to Jovite. Bidiane

hesitated a little time. She looked down the Bay, she looked up here

towards Weymouth, then she shot a quick glance at me from her curious

yellow eyes, and said, 'There is my far-removed cousin, Agapit LeNoir.

He is a good Acadien; he is also clever. What do you want of an

Englishman?' 'By Jove!' said the blacksmith, and he slapped his leather

apron,--you know he has been much in the States, Agapit, and he is very

wide in his opinions,--'By Jove!' he said, 'we couldn't have a better. I

never thought of him. He is so quiet nowadays, though he used to be a

firebrand, that one forgets him. I guess he'd go in by acclamation.'

Agapit, what is acclamation? I searched in my dictionary, and it said,

'a clapping of hands.'"

Agapit was thunderstruck. He stared at her confusedly for a few seconds,

then he exclaimed, "The dear little diablette!"

"Perhaps I should have told you before," said Rose, eagerly, "but I

hated to write anything against Bidiane, she is so charming, though so

self-willed. But yesterday I began to think that people may suppose you

have allowed her to make use of your name. She chatters of you all the

time, and I believe that you will be asked to become one of the members

for this county. Though the talk has been mostly among the women, they

are influencing the men, and last evening Mr. Greening had a quarrel

with the Comeaus, and went away."

"I must go see her,--this must be stopped," said Agapit, rising hastily.

Rose got up, too. "But stay a minute,--hear all. The naughty thing that

Bidiane has done is about money, but I will not tell you that. You must

question her. This only I can say: my hens are all quite drunk this

morning."

"Quite drunk!" said Agapit, and he paused with his arms half in a dust

coat that he had taken from a hook on the wall. "What do you mean?"

Rose suffocated a laugh in her throat, and said, seriously, "When Jovite

got up this morning, he found them quite weak in their legs. They took

no breakfast, they wished only to drink. He had to watch to keep them

from falling in the river. Afterwards they went to sleep, and he

searched the stable, and found some burnt out matches, where some one

had been smoking and sleeping in the barn, also two bottles of whiskey

hidden in a barrel where one had broken on some oats that the hens had

eaten. So you see the affair becomes serious when men prowl about at

night, and open hen-house doors, and are in danger of setting fire to

stables."

Agapit made a grimace. He had a lively imagination, and had readily

supplied all these details. "I suppose you do not wish to take me back

to Sleeping Water?"

Rose hesitated, then said, meekly, "Perhaps it would be better for me

not to do it, nor for you to say that I have talked to you. Bidiane

speaks plainly, and, though I know she likes me, she is most extremely

animated just now. Claudine, you know, spoils her. Also, she avoids me

lately,--you will not be too severe with her. It is so loving that she

should work for you. I think she hopes to break down some of your

prejudice that she says still exists against her."

Rose could not see her cousin's face, for he had abruptly turned his

back on her, and was staring out the window.

"You will remember, Agapit," she went on, with gentle persistence; "do

not be irritable with her; she cannot endure it just at present."

"And why should I be irritable?" he demanded, suddenly wheeling around.

"Is she not doing me a great honor?"

Rose fell back a few steps, and clasped her amazed hands. This

transfigured face was a revelation to her. "You, too, Agapit!" she

managed to utter.

"Yes, I, too," he said, bravely, while a dull, heavy crimson mantled his

cheeks. "I, too, as well as the Poirier boy, and half a dozen others;

and why not?"

"You love her, Agapit?"

"Does it seem like hatred?"

"Yes--that is, no--but certainly you have treated her strangely, but I

am glad, glad. I don't know when anything has so rejoiced me,--it takes

me back through long years," and, sitting down, she covered her face

with her nervous hands.

"I did not intend to tell you," said her cousin, hurriedly, and he laid

a consoling finger on the back of her drooping head. "I wish now I had

kept it from you."

"Ah, but I am selfish," she cried, immediately lifting her tearful face

to him. "Forgive me,--I wish to know everything that concerns you. Is it

this that has made you unhappy lately?"

With some reluctance he acknowledged that it was.

"But now you will be happy, my dear cousin. You must tell her at once.

Although she is young, she will understand. It will make her more

steady. It is the best thing that could happen to her."

Agapit surveyed her in quiet, intense affection. "Softly, my dear girl.

You and I are too absorbed in each other. There is the omnipotent Mr.

Nimmo to consult."

"He will not oppose. Oh, he will be pleased, enraptured,--I know that he

will. I have never thought of it before, because of late years you have

seemed not to give your thoughts to marriage, but now it comes to me

that, in sending her here, one object might have been that she would

please you; that you would please her. I am sure of it now. He is sorry

for the past, he wishes to atone, yet he is still proud, and cannot say,

'Forgive me.' This young girl is the peace-offering."

Agapit smiled uneasily. "Pardon me for the thought, but you dispose

somewhat summarily of the young girl."

Rose threw out her hands to him. "Your happiness is perhaps too much to

me, yet I would also make her happy in giving her to you. She is so

restless, so wayward,--she does not know her own mind yet."

"She seems to be leading a pretty consistent course at present."

Rose's face was like an exquisitely tinted sky at sunrise. "Ah! this is

wonderful, it overcomes me; and to think that I should not have

suspected it! You adore this little Bidiane. She is everything to you,

more than I am,--more than I am."

"I love you for that spice of jealousy," said Agapit, with animation.

"Go home now, dear girl, and I will follow; or do you stay here, and I

will start first."

"Yes, yes, go; I will remain a time. I will be glad to think this over."

"You will not cry," he said, anxiously, pausing with his hand on the

door-knob.

"I will try not to do so."

"Probably I will have to give her up," he said, doggedly. "She is a

creature of whims, and I must not speak to her yet; but I do not wish

you to suffer."

Rose was deeply moved. This was no boyish passion, but the unspeakably

bitter, weary longing of a man. "If I could not suffer with others I

would be dead," she said, simply. "My dear cousin, I will pray for

success in this, your touching love-affair."

"Some day I will tell you all about it," he said, abruptly. "I will

describe the strange influence that she has always had over me,--an

influence that made me tremble before her even when she was a tiny girl,

and that overpowered me when she lately returned to us. However, this is

not the occasion to talk; my acknowledgment of all this has been quite

unpremeditated. Another day it will be more easy--"

"Ah, Agapit, how thou art changed," she said, gliding easily into

French; "how I admire thee for thy reserve. That gives thee more power

than thou hadst when young. Thou wilt win Bidiane,--do not despair."

"In the meantime there are other, younger men," he responded, in the

same language. "I seem old, I know that I do to her."

"Old, and thou art not yet thirty! I assure thee, Agapit, she respects

thee for thy age. She laughs at thee, perhaps, to thy face, but she

praises thee behind thy back."

"She is not beautiful," said Agapit, irrelevantly, "yet every one likes

her."

"And dost thou not find her beautiful? It seems to me that, when I

love, the dear one cannot be ugly."

"Understand me, Rose," said her cousin, earnestly; "once when I loved a

woman she instantly became an angel, but one gets over that. Bidiane is

even plain-looking to me. It is her soul, her spirit, that charms

me,--that little restless, loving heart. If I could only put my hand on

it, and say, 'Thou art mine,' I should be the happiest man in the world.

She charms me because she changes. She is never the same; a man would

never weary of her."

Rose's face became as pale as death. "Agapit, would a man weary of me?"

He did not reply to her. Choked by some emotion, he had again turned to

the door.

"I thank the blessed Virgin that I have been spared that sorrow," she

murmured, closing her eyes, and allowing her flaxen lashes to softly

brush her cheeks. "Once I could only grieve,--now I say perhaps it was

well for me not to marry. If I had lost the love of a husband,--a true

husband,--it would have killed me very quickly, and it would also have

made him say that all women are stupid."

"Rose, thou art incomparable," said Agapit, half laughing, half

frowning, and flinging himself back to the table. "No man would tire of

thee. Cease thy foolishness, and promise me not to cry when I am gone."

She opened her eyes, looked as startled as if she had been asleep, but

submissively gave the required promise.

"Think of something cheerful," he went on.

She saw that he was really distressed, and, disengaging her thoughts

from herself by a quiet, intense effort, she roguishly murmured, "I will

let my mind run to the conversation that you will have with this fair

one--no, this plain one--when you announce your love."

Agapit blushed furiously, and hurried from the room, while Rose, as an

earnest of her obedience to him, showed him, at the window, until he was

out of sight, a countenance alight with gentle mischief and entire

contentment of mind.

CHAPTER X.

A CAMPAIGN BEGUN IN BRIBERY.

"After madness acted, question asked."

TENNYSON.

Before the day was many hours older, Agapit was driving his white horse

into the inn yard.

There seemed to be more people about the house then there usually were,

and Bidiane, who stood at the side door, was handing a long paper parcel

to a man. "Take it away," Agapit heard her say, in peremptory tones;

"don't you open it here."

The Acadien to whom she was talking happened to be, Agapit knew, a

ne'er-do-weel. He shuffled away, when he caught sight of the young

lawyer, but Bidiane ran delightedly towards him. "Oh, Mr. LeNoir, you

are as welcome as Mayflowers in April!"

Her face was flushed, there were faint dark circles around the light

brown eyes that harmonized so much better with her red hair than blue

ones would have done. The sun shone down into these eyes, emphasizing

this harmony between them and the hair, and Agapit, looking deeply into

them, forgot immediately the mentor's part that he was to act, and

clasped her warmly and approvingly by the hand.

"Come in," she said; but Agapit, who would never sit in the house if it

were possible to stay out-of-doors, conducted her to one of the rustic

seats by the croquet lawn. He sat down, and she perched in the hammock,

sitting on one foot, swinging the other, and overwhelming him with

questions about his visit to Halifax.

"And what have you been doing with yourself since I have been away?" he

asked, with a hypocritical assumption of ignorance.

"You know very well what I have been doing," she said, rapidly. "Did not

I see Rose driving in to call on you this morning? And you have come

down to scold me. I understand you perfectly; you cannot deceive me."

Agapit was silent, quite overcome by this mark of feminine insight.

"I will never do it again," she went on, "but I am going to see this

through. It is such fun--'Claude,' said my aunt to her husband, when we

first decided to make _bombance_, 'what politics do you belong to?' 'I

am a Conservative,' he said; because, you know, my aunt has always told

him to vote as the English people about him did. She has known nothing

of politics. 'No, you are not,' she replied, 'you are a Liberal;' and

Claudine and I nearly exploded with laughter to hear her trying to

convince him that he must be a Liberal like our good French Premier, and

that he must endeavor to drive the Conservative candidate out. Claude

said, 'But we have always been Conservatives, and our house is to be

their meeting-place on the day of election.' 'It is the meeting-place

for the Liberals,' said my aunt. But Claude would not give in, so he and

his party will have the laundry, while we will have the parlor; but I

can tell you a secret," and she leaned forward and whispered, "Claude

will vote for the Liberal man. Mirabelle Marie will see to that."

"You say Liberal man,--there are two--"

"But one is going to retire."

"And who will take his place?"

"Never mind," she said, smiling provokingly. "The Liberals are going to

have a convention to-morrow evening in the Comeauville schoolhouse, and

women are going. Then you will see--why there is Father Duvair. What

does he wish?"

She sprang lightly from the hammock, and while she watched the priest,

Agapit watched her, and saw that she grew first as pale as a lily, then

red as a rose.

The parish priest was walking slowly towards the inn. He was a young man

of tall, commanding presence, and being a priest "out of France," he had

on a _soutane_ (cassock) and a three-cornered hat. On the Bay are Irish

priests, Nova Scotian priests, Acadien priests, and French-Canadian

priests, but only the priests "out of France" hold to the strictly

French customs of dress. The others dress as do the Halifax

ecclesiastics, in tall silk or shovel hats and black broadcloth garments

like those worn by clergymen of Protestant denominations.

"_Bon jour, mademoiselle_," he said to Bidiane.

"_Bon jour, monsieur le curé_," she replied, with deep respect.

"Is Madame Corbineau within?" he went on, after warmly greeting Agapit,

who was an old favorite of his.

"Yes, _monsieur le curé_,--I will take you to her," and she led the way

to the house.

In a few minutes she came dejectedly back. "You are in trouble," said

Agapit, tenderly; "what is it?"

She glanced miserably at him from under her curling eyelashes. "When

Mirabelle Marie went into the parlor, Father Duvair said politely, so

politely, 'I wish to buy a little rum, madame; can you sell me some?' My

aunt looked at me, and I said, 'Yes, _monsieur le curé_,' for I knew if

we set the priest against us we should have trouble,--and then we have

not been quite right, I know that."

"Where did you get the rum?" asked Agapit, kindly.

"From a schooner,--two weeks ago,--there were four casks. It is

necessary, you know, to make _bombance_. Some men will not vote

without."

"And you have been bribing."

"Not bribing," she said, and she dropped her head; "just coaxing."

"Where did you get the money to buy it?"

For some reason or other she evaded a direct answer to this question,

and after much deliberation murmured, in the lowest of voices, that

Claudine had had some money.

"Bidiane, she is a poor woman."

"She loves her country," said the girl, flashing out suddenly at him,

"and she is not ashamed of it. However, Claude bought the rum and found

the bottles, and we always say, 'Take it home,--do not drink it here.'

We know that the priests are against drinking, so we had to make haste,

for Claudine said they would get after us. Therefore, just now, I at

once gave in. Father Duvair said, 'I would like to buy all you have; how

much is it worth?' I said fifty dollars, and he pulled the money out of

his pocket and Mirabelle Marie took it, and then he borrowed a nail and

a hammer and went down in the cellar, and Claudine whispered loudly as

he went through the kitchen, 'I wonder whether he will find the cask

under the coal?' and he heard her, for she said it on purpose, and he

turned and gave her a quick look as he passed."

"I don't understand perfectly," said Agapit, with patient gravity. "This

seems to be a house divided against itself. Claudine spends her money

for something she hates, and then informs on herself."

Bidiane would not answer him, and he continued, "Is Father Duvair at

present engaged in the work of destruction in the cellar?"

"I just told you that he is."

"How much rum will he find there?"

"Two casks," she said, mournfully. "It is what we were keeping for the

election."

"And you think it wise to give men that poison to drink?" asked Agapit,

in an impartial and judicial manner.

"A little does not hurt; why, some of the women say that it makes their

husbands good-natured."

"If you were married, would you like your husband to be a drunkard?"

"No," she said, defiantly; "but I would not mind his getting drunk

occasionally, if he would be gentlemanly about it."

Her tone was sharp and irritated, and Agapit, seeing that her nerves

were all unstrung, smiled indulgently instead of chiding her.

She smiled, too, rather uncertainly; then she said, "Hush, here is

Father Duvair coming back."

That muscular young priest was sauntering towards them, his stout

walking-stick under his arm, while he slowly rubbed his damp hands with

his white handkerchief.

Agapit stood up when he saw him, and went to meet him, but Bidiane sat

still in her old seat in the hammock.

Agapit drew a cheque-book from his pocket, and, resting it on the picket

fence, wrote something quickly on it, tore out the leaf, and extended it

towards the priest.

"This is for you, father; will you be good enough to hand it to some

priest who is unexpectedly called upon to make certain outlays for the

good of his parishioners?"

Father Duvair bowed slightly, and, without offering to take it, went on

wiping his hands.

"How are you getting on with your business, Agapit?"

"I am fully occupied. My income supports me, and I am even able to lay

up a little."

"Are you able to marry?"

"Yes, father, whenever I wish."

A gleam of humor appeared in Father Duvair's eyes, and he glanced

towards the apparently careless girl seated in the hammock.

"You will take the cheque, father," said Agapit, "otherwise it will

cause me great pain."

The priest reluctantly took the slip of paper from him, then, lifting

his hat, he said to Bidiane, "I have the honor to wish you good

morning, mademoiselle."

"_Monsieur le curé_," she said, disconsolately, rising and coming

towards him, "you must not think me too wicked."

"Mademoiselle, you do not do yourself justice," he said, gravely.

Bidiane's eyes wandered to the spots of moisture on his cassock. "I wish

that rum had been in the Bay," she said; "yet, _monsieur le curé_, Mr.

Greening is a very bad man."

"Charity, charity, mademoiselle. We all speak hastily at times. Shall I

tell you what I think of you?"

"Yes, yes, _monsieur le curé_, if you please."

"I think that you have a good heart, but a hasty judgment. You will,

like many others, grow wise as you grow older, yet, mademoiselle, we do

not wish you to lose that good heart. Do you not think that Mr. Greening

has had his lesson?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then, mademoiselle, you will cease wearying yourself with--with--"

"With unwomanly exertions against him," said Bidiane, with a quivering

lip and a laughing eye.

"Hardly that,--but you are vexing yourself unnecessarily."

"Don't you think that my good cousin here ought to go to Parliament?"

she asked, wistfully.

Father Duvair laughed outright, refused to commit himself, and went

slowly away.

"I like him," said Bidiane, as she watched him out of sight, "he is so

even-tempered, and he never scolds his flock as some clergymen do. Just

to think of his going down into that cellar and letting all that liquor

run out. His boots were quite wet, and did you notice the splashes on

his nice black cassock?"

"Yes; who will get the fifty dollars?"

"Dear me, I forgot all about it. I have known a good deal of money to go

into my aunt's big pocket, but very little comes out. Just excuse me for

a minute,--I may get it if I pounce upon her at once."

Bidiane ran to the house, from whence issued immediately after a lively

sound of squealing. In a few minutes she appeared in the doorway,

cramming something in her pocket and looking over her shoulder at her

aunt, who stood slapping her sides and vowing that she had been robbed.

"I have it all but five dollars," said the girl, breathlessly. "The dear

old thing was stuffing it into her stocking for Mr. Nimmo. 'You sha'n't

rob Peter to pay Paul,' I said, and I snatched it away from her. Then

she squealed like a pig, and ran after me."

"You will give this to Claudine?"

"I don't know. I think I'll have to divide it. We had to give that

maledicted Jean Drague three dollars for his vote. That was my money."

"Where did you see Jean Drague?"

"I went to his house. Some one told me that the Conservative candidate

had called, and had laid seven dollars on the mantelpiece. I also

called, and there were the seven dollars, so I took them up, and laid

down ten instead."

Agapit did not speak, but contented himself with twisting the ends of

his mustache in a vigorous manner.

"And the worst of it is that we are not sure of him now," she said,

drearily. "I wonder what Mr. Nimmo would say if he knew how I have been

acting?"

"I have been wondering, myself."

"Some of you will be kind enough to tell him, I suppose," she said. "Oh,

dear, I'm tired," and leaning her head against the hammock supports, she

began to cry wearily and dejectedly.

Agapit was nearly frantic. He got up, walked to and fro about her, half

stretched out his hand to touch her burnished head, drew it back upon

reflecting that the eyes of the street, the neighbors, and the inn might

be upon him, and at last said, desperately, "You ought to have a

husband, Bidiane. You are a very torrent of energy; you will always be

getting into scrapes."

"Why don't you get married yourself?" and she turned an irritated eye

upon him.

"I cannot," said Agapit, in sudden calm, and with an inspiration; "the

woman that I love does not love me."

"Are you in love?" asked Bidiane, immediately drying her eyes. "Who is

she?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Oh, some English girl, I imagine," she said, disdainfully.

"Suppose Mr. Greening could hear you?"

"I am not talking against the English," she retorted, snappishly, "but I

should think that you, of all men, would want to marry a woman of your

own nation,--the dear little Acadien nation,--the only thing that I

love," and she wound up with a despairing sob.

"The girl that I love is an Acadien," said Agapit, in a lower voice, for

two men had just driven into the yard.

"Is it Claudine?"

"Claudine has a good education," he said, coldly, "yet she is hardly

fitted to be my wife."

"I daresay it is Rose."

"It is not Rose," said Agapit; and rendered desperate by the knowledge

that he must not raise his voice, must not seem excited, must not stand

too close to her, lest he attract the attention of some of the people

at a little distance from them, and yet that he must snatch this, the

golden moment, to press his suit upon her, he crammed both hands in his

coat pockets, and roamed distractedly around the square of grass.

"Do I know her?" asked Bidiane when, after a time, he came back to the

hammock.

"A little,--not thoroughly. You do not appreciate her at her full

value."

"Well," said Bidiane, resignedly, "I give it up. I daresay I will find

out in time. I can't go over the names of all the girls on the Bay--I

wish I knew what it is that keeps our darling Rose and Mr. Nimmo apart."

"I wish I could tell you."

"Is it something that can be got over?"

"Yes."

She swung herself more vigorously in her delight. "If they could only

marry, I would be willing to die an old maid."

"But I thought you had already made up your mind to do that," said

Agapit, striking an attitude of pretended unconcern.

"Oh, yes, I forgot,--I have made up my mind that I am not suited to

matrimony. Just fancy having to ask a man every time you wanted a little

money,--and having to be meek and patient all the time. No, indeed, I

wish to have my own way rather more than most women do," and, in a gay

and heartless derision of the other sex, she hummed a little tune.

"Just wait till you fall in love," said Agapit, threateningly.

"A silly boy asked me to marry him, the other evening. Just as if I

would! Why, he is only a baby."

"That was Pius Poirier," said Agapit, delightedly and ungenerously.

"I shall not tell you. I did wrong to mention him," said Bidiane,

calmly.

"He is a diligent student; he will get on in the world," said Agapit,

more thoughtfully.

"But without me,--I shall never marry."

"I know a man who loves you," said Agapit, cautiously.

"Do you?--well, don't tell me. Tell him, if you have his confidence,

that he is a goose for his pains," and Bidiane reclined against her

hammock cushions in supreme indifference.

"But he is very fond of you," said Agapit, with exquisite gentleness,

"and very unhappy to think that you do not care for him."

Bidiane held her breath and favored him with a sharp glance. Then she

sat up very straight. "What makes you so pale?"

"I am sympathizing with that poor man."

"But you are trembling, too."

"Am I?" and with the pretence of a laugh he turned away.

"_Mon cousin_," she said, sweetly, "tell that poor man that I am hoping

soon to leave Sleeping Water, and to go out in the world again."