nd a dreamy sort of old life.

A mixed population it was, shaped by the sincerity of their religion.
There were priests in their gray and black cassocks, officers in brave
trappings, traders, Indians, farmers, stout and strong, and the
picturesque _coureurs de bois_, that came to be a great feature, and
added not a little to the romance of the place. They were not all mere
adventurers, but they loved a roving life. Settlements were made here
and there, an important one at Three Rivers, where the Recollets
established a mission. The summers were given over to work and business,
thronged with traders and trappers, but they found time in the winters
for much social life.

If the Sieur missed his old friend Hebert, there were others to take an
active interest in horticulture. Pontgrave was no more, but his grandson
kept up the name. A few years later the earnest young Rene de Robault
gave his fortune for the building of a college, and this kept the young
men from returning to old France for an education. Convent schools were
established, and Indian girls were trained in the amenities and
industries of social life. Montreal spread out her borders as well, the
Beauport road came to be a place of fine estates. All the way to the
mouth of the great river there were trading stations. The fur company's
business was good, there were new explorations to Lake Huron, Georgian
Bay, Lake Michigan, up to the Fox river.

Of the sons and daughters growing up in the Destournier household,
Helene, who should have been a devotee, was a merry madcap, who exceeded
her mother in daring feats, a dark-eyed, laughing maid the Indian girls
adored. She could manage a canoe, she could fly, they said, she took
such wonderful leaps. Rose could sing like a bird and had a fondness for
all animals. Little Barbe was a dainty, loving being, always clinging to
her mother, and three sons were devoted to their father whose snowy
white hair was like a crown of silver. They loved to hear the old tales,
and fired with resentment when the lilies of France had to give way to
the flag of England.

"But they will never do it again," Robert Destournier would exclaim,
with flashing eyes.

But they did almost a century later. Robert was not there to strike a
useless blow for his beloved land. That belongs to the story of a newer
Quebec, and now all the romances are gathered up into history.

In the autumn of 1635 the brave, beloved Champlain passed away in the
he