s, like troopers at the sound of a
bugle, as Jean La Marche began the famous old ballad of the king's son
who, with his silver gun, aimed at the beautiful black duck, and shot
the white one, out of whose eyes came gold and diamonds, and out of
whose mouth rained silver, while its pretty feathers, scattered to the
four winds, were picked up by three fair dames, who with them made a bed
both large and deep--

"For poor wayfaring men to sleep."

Master Jean's voice was clear and resonant as a church bell newly
christened; and he sang the old boat-song with an energy that drew
the crews of half-a-dozen other canoes into the wake of his music, all
uniting in the stirring chorus:

"Fringue! Fringue sur la riviere!
Fringue! Fringue sur l'aviron!"

The performance of Jean La Marche was highly relished by the critical
boatmen, and drew from them that flattering mark of approval, so welcome
to a vocalist,--an encore of the whole long ballad, from beginning to
end.

As the line of canoes swept up the stream, a welcome cheer occasionally
greeted them from the shore, or a voice on land joined in the gay
refrain. They draw nearer to Tilly, and their voices became more and
more musical, their gaiety more irrepressible, for they were going home;
and home to the habitans, as well as to their lady, was the world of all
delights.

The contagion of high spirits caught even Le Gardeur, and drew him
out of himself, making him for the time forget the disappointments,
resentments, and allurements of the city.

Sitting there in the golden sunshine, the blue sky above him, the blue
waters below,--friends whom he loved around him, mirth in every eye,
gaiety on every tongue,--how could Le Gardeur but smile as the music of
the boatmen brought back a hundred sweet associations? Nay, he laughed,
and to the inexpressible delight of Amelie and Pierre, who watched every
change in his demeanor, united in the chorus of the glorious boat-song.

A few hours of this pleasant voyaging brought the little fleet of canoes
under the high bank, which from its summit slopes away in a wide domain
of forests, park, and cultivated fields, in the midst of which stood the
high-pointed and many-gabled Manor House of Tilly.

Upon a promontory--as if placed there for both a land and sea mark,
to save souls as well as bodies--rose the belfry of the Chapel of St.
Michael, overlooking a cluster of white, old-fashioned cottages, which
formed