a part in the national drama, but more villainous face I never saw.
Mr. Crampton, with whom I sailed on the Canada, had a much more amiable
expression; indeed I think we should all be obliged to him for ridding us
of at least a portion of his fellow-countrymen.

But now we ride by the Shubenacadie lakes, a chain--a bracelet--binding
the province from the Basin of Minas to the seaboard. The eye never tires
of this lovely feature of Acadia. Lake above lake--the division, the
isthmus between, not wider than the breadth of your India shawl, my lady!
I must declare that, all in all, the scenery of the province is
surpassingly beautiful. As you ride by these sparkling waters, through the
flowery, bowery, woods, you feel as if you like to pitch tent here--at
least for the summer.

And now we approach a rustic inn by the roadside, rich in shrubbery before
it, and green moss from ridge-pole to low drooping eaves, where we change
horses. And as we rest here upon the wooden inn-porch, dismounted from our
high perch on the stage-coach, we see right above us against the clear
evening sky, Her Majesty's _ci-devant_ partisan, now prisoner--by merit
raised to that bad eminence. The officer hands him a glass of brandy, to
keep up his spirits. The prisoner takes it, and, lifting the glass high in
air, shouts out with the exultation of a fiend:

"Here's to the hinges of liberty--may they never want oil,
Nor an Orangeman's bones in a pot for to boil."

Once more upon the stage to Dartmouth, where we deposit our precious
fellow-travellers, and then to the ferry, and look you! across the harbor,
the twinkling lights of dear old mouldy Halifax. And now we are crossing
Chebucto, and the cab carries us again to our former quarters in the Hotel
Waverley.

CHAPTER XIV.

Halifax again--Hotel Waverley--"Gone the Old Familiar Faces"--The Story of
Marie de la Tour.

Again in old quarters! It is strange how we become attached to a place, be
it what it may, if we only have known it before. The same old room we
occupied years ago, however comfortless then, has a familiar air of
welcome now. There is surely some little trace of self, some unseen
spider-thread of attachment clinging to the walls, the old chair, the
forlorn wash-stand, and the knobby four-poster, that holds the hardest of
beds, the most consumptive of pillows, and a bolster as round, as white,
and as hard, as a cathedral mass-candle. Heigho, Hotel Waverley! Here am I