eir wits' end, but they were
well treated.

Eustache Boulle was to go with the Sieur, but he never returned. He took
a rather fond farewell of Rose. "If you would go, we might find
something of your family," he said. "I once had a slight clew."

"Is it not worth looking after?" asked Destournier, as he and Rose were
walking the plateau, since known as the Plains of Abraham. "If you were
proved of some notable family--there have been so many over-turns."

"Would you feel prouder of me?"

"No. Do you not know that you are dearer to me as the foundling of
Quebec, and the little girl I knew and loved?"

She raised luminous eyes and smiled.

"Then I do not care. No place will seem like home but this."

He would not go to France, but busied himself with his fields and his
tenants. He came back to the old house, altered a little, the room where
miladi had spent her fretful invalid years was quite remodelled. Vines
grew up about it. The narrow steps were widened.

Autumn came, and winter. The cold and somewhat careless living carried
off many of the English. But Madame Hebert had married again, and
Therese had found a husband. There was Nicolas Revert, with some growing
children. Duchesne, a surgeon, they had been glad to welcome. Thomas
Godefroy, Pierre Raye, and the Couillards formed quite a French colony.
They met now and then, and kept the old spirit alive with their songs
and stories.

June had come again, and the town had begun to bloom. There were still
parties searching for the north sea, for the route to India, for the
great river that was said to lie beyond the lakes. The priests, too,
were stretching out their lines, especially the Jesuits, about whom
still lingers the flavor of heroic martyrdom. Father Breibouf coming
back for a short stay, to get some new word from France, told the fate
of one unfortunate party. Among them he said "was that fine Indian
interpreter, Savignon, who you must remember went to the rescue of a
party the last time he was in Quebec. He was a brave man, and a great
loss to us. He had come to an excellent state of mind, and was one of
the few Indians that give me faith in the salvation of the race."

Rose's eyes were lustrous with tears as she listened to this eulogy. He
had proved nobler than his first passion of love. She had some Masses
said for his soul, but it pleased her better to give thanks to God for
his redemption.

"Now you belong to no one but me," Destournier said to