imson and gold of sunset were stained richly across the west.
Chrysler was walking leisurely out in the country. A mile from
Dormilliere, a white stone farm-house stood forward near the road. In
front, across the highway, the low cliff swelled out into the stump of a
headland, which bore spreading on its grassy top three mighty and
venerable oaks.

Chrysler, pondering as was his wont upon this and everything, noting the
surges of color in the sky, the clear view, the procession of
odd-looking homesteads down the road; their narrow fields running back
indefinitely; the resting flocks and herds; here a group of
thatched-roof barns, and there a wayside cross; passed along and mused
on the peace of life in this prairie country, and the goodness of the
Almighty to His children of every tongue.

The strains of a violin in the farm-house struck his ear. Someone was
fiddling the well-known sprightly air, "Vive la Canadienne:"

"Long live the fair Canadian girl,
With her sweet, tender eyes."

The house was a large cottage, having around its door a slender gallery,
at whose side went down a stair. Its chimnies were stout, and walls
thick, its roof pitched very steep and clipped off short at the eaves;
a garden of lilac-bushes and shrubs, some of which pressed their dark
green against its spotless white-wash, surrounding it in front and on
one side, while on the other lay the barn-yard, with a large wooden
cross in its centre, protected by a railing. Two hundred years ago such
houses were built in Brittany.

Chrysler's glances took in with curiosity the tiny window up in the
gable, the quaint-cut iron bars of the cellar openings, the small-paned
sashes of the four front windows.

Above the door, was the rude-cut inscription:

A DIEU LA GLOIRE
J.B.
1768.

The fiddler drew his attention particularly, however, to the people on
the gallery. There was one at least whom he had seen before. A
_cavalier_ of much shirt-front and large mouth, and on whose make-up,
Nature had printed "BAR-TENDER" in capitals--in short the "Spoon" of
Zotique's reception--was sitting on the balustrade of the little
gallery, making courtship over the shoulder of a dark-eyed maid, whose
mother--a square-waisted archetype of her--stood in the door.
Paterfamilias sat on the top step with his back to Chrysler, barring the
stair rather awkwardly with his legs. A second young man slender, and
dressed in a frock coat of black broad-cloth, an