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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had written several times to M. Bois-le-Duc, but never had recei