ness that commands the secret spring of
joy--virtue that opens all the sweet fountains of happiness within us.

It was late in the afternoon when the level and uniform shores of the
river, studded with an unbroken line of white-washed houses, or only
broken where they clustered around a catholic church, as children gather
under the wing of a parent, began to assume more picturesque forms. Bold
promontories stretched into the river, and beautiful hills presented
their verdant and graceful slopes to the clear mirror. There was a band
of musicians on board the boat, who at the command of the captain, (who
understood the laws of international courtesy,) had been playing yankee
doodle. Edward was far enough from home to feel grateful for this
tribute from the English captain, and when the music suddenly changed,
at a signal from him, to a mournful requiem, Edward inquired with a look
of disappointment, the cause of the transition.

"Look there," he replied, "my young friend, at that pretty grassy point.
It is called Cape Laboniere; just above the point you see a thicket of
tall trees, which extend their shadows now beyond the church. Under
those trees were buried three beautiful girls, the daughters of the
honourable Mrs. Laboniere. The young ladies were called by the villagers,
'Les s[oe]urs de la charite;' and are now, I am told, reckoned as their
guardian saints by these poor catholic peasants. I happened to be there
when the last was buried. You know the catholics have great pomp and
expense at their funerals; but I believe the childless parents had no
heart for this, for though the father is seignior of the place, and
a man of great wealth, he granted the request of the poor villagers
who went in a body to him, to beg permission to bury their beloved
benefactress. I saw the procession--every one in it was a mourner. The
girls strewed the grave with white roses, and all, even the old men and
the little children, shed tears on the turf that covered it; and I could
not but think how much better than their consecrated water were these
tears of gratitude. We call the place the 'Three sisters,' now,"
concluded the captain, "and I never pass it without some tribute of
respect."

* * * * *

Before nine o'clock the steamboat was gliding along under the heights
of Quebec. Having, as Mr. Morris (who kept strict note of time) remarked,
achieved a sail of 180 miles in 18 hours. Edward sto