er that she need have no fear of Tardif, and
again, when he urged her to accept the testimonial and the gift to be
offered by her grateful fellow-citizens.

The deputation, distinguished and important, had been received by the
people of Pontiac with the flaunting of flags, playing of bands, and
every demonstration of delight. The honour done to Madelinette was an
honour done to Pontiac, and Pontiac had never felt itself so important.
It realised that this kind of demonstration was less expensive, and less
dangerous, than sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion. The vanity of
the habitants could be better exercised in applauding Madelinette and
in show of welcome to the great men of the land, than in cultivating a
dangerous patriotism under the leadership of Louis Racine. Temptations
to conspiracy had been few since the day George Fournel, wounded and
morose, left the Manor House secretly one night, and carried back to
Quebec his resentment and his injuries. Treasonable gossip filtered no
longer from doorway to doorway; carbines were not to be had for a
song; no more nightly drills and weekly meetings gave a spice of great
expectations to their life. Their Seigneur, silent, and pale, and
stooped, lived a life apart. If he walked through the town, it was with
bitter, abstracted eyes that took little heed of their presence. If he
drove, his horses travelled like the wind. At Mass, he looked at no one,
saw no one, and, as it would seem, heard no one.

But Madelinette--she was the Madelinette of old, simple, gracious, kind,
with a smile here and a kind word there: a little child to be caressed
or an old woman to be comforted; the sick to be fed and doctored; the
poor to be helped; the idle to be rebuked with a persuasive smile; the
angry to be coaxed by a humorous word; the evil to be reproved by a
fearless friendliness; the spiteful to be hushed by a still, commanding
presence. She never seemed to remember that she was the daughter of old
Joe Lajeunesse the blacksmith, yet she never seemed to forget it. She
was the wife of the Seigneur, and she was the daughter of the smithy-man
too. She sat in the smithy-man's doorway with her hand in his; and
she sat at the Manor table with its silver glitter, and its antique
garnishings, with as real an unconsciousness.

Her influence seemed to pierce far and wide. The Cure and the Avocat
adored her; and the proudest, happiest moment of their lives was when
they sat at the Manor tabl