So Pierre's pack was made up. In the autumn they could send again. He
took tea the last time with Marie. The boats were all ready to start up
the Huron.

He went boldly to the little cottage and said courageously to Pani,
though his heart seemed to quake almost down to his feet, "I am going
away at noon. I have come to say good-by to Jeanne--and to you," put in
as an afterthought.

"What a great fellow you are, Pierre! I wish you good luck. Jeanne--"

Jeanne had almost forgotten her childish anger, and the love making was
silly, even in remembrance.

"Surely I wish thee good luck, Pierre," she said formally, with a smile
not too warm about her rosy lips. "And a fortunate hunting and trading."

"A safe return, Mam'selle, put that in," he pleaded.

"A safe return."

Then they shook hands and he went his way, thinking with great comfort
that she had not flouted him.

It was quite a great thing to see the boats go out. Sweethearts and
wives congregated on the wharves. Some few brave women went with their
husbands. Other ships were setting out for Montreal well loaded, and one
or two were carrying a gay lot of passengers.

After a few weeks, quiet returned, the streets were no longer crowded
and the noisy reveling was over for a while. The farmers were busy out
of doors, cattle were lowing, chanticleer rang out his call to work in
the early morn, and busy hens were caroling in cheerful if unmusical
voices. Trees budded into a beautiful haze and then sprang into leaf,
into bloom. The rough social hilarity was over for a while.

A few of the emigrant farmers laughed at the clumsy, wasteful French
methods and tried their own, which were laughed at in turn, but there
was little disputing.

Easter had fallen early and it had been cold, but Whitsuntide made
amends, and was, if anything, a greater festival. For a procession
formed at St. Anne's, young girls in gala attire, smart, middle-aged
women with new caps and kerchiefs, husbands and sons, and not a few
children, and marched out of the Pontiac gate, as it was called in
remembrance of the long siege. Forty years before Jacques Campeau had
built the first little outside chapel on his farm, which had a great
stretch of ground. The air was full of the fragrance of fruit blossoms
and hardly needed incense. Ah, how beautiful it was in a sort of
pastoral simplicity! And after saying mass, Father Frechette blessed and
prayed for fertile fields and good crops and generous