ike home comforts and care to enjoy magnificent scenery
from his window. It seemed as though I was in France, in my dear old
Brittany. It looked like St. Malo strayed up here and lost in the snow.
The illusion became complete when I saw the gray houses, heard the
people talk with the Breton intonation, and saw over the shops Langlois,
Maillard, Clouet, and all the names familiar to my childhood. But why
say "illusion"? It was a fact: I was in France. These folks have given
their faith to England, but, as the Canadian poet says, they have kept
their hearts for France. Not only their hearts, but their manners and
their language. Oh, there was such pleasure in it all! The lovely
weather, the beautiful scenery, the kind welcome given to me, the
delight of seeing these children of Old France, more than three thousand
miles from home, happy and thriving--a feast for the eyes, a feast for
the heart. And the drive to Montmorency Falls in the sleigh, gliding
smoothly along on the hard snow! And the sleighs laden with wood for the
Quebec folks, the carmen stimulating their horses with a _hue la_ or
_hue donc_! And the return to the Florence, where a good dinner served
in a private room awaited us! And that polite, quiet, attentive French
girl who waited on us, the antipodes of the young Yankee lady who makes
you sorry that breakfasting and dining are necessary, in some American
hotels, and whose waiting is like taking sand and vinegar with your
food!

The mere spanking along through the cold, brisk air, when you are well
muffled in furs is exhilarating, especially when the sun is shining in
a cloudless blue sky. The beautiful scenery at Quebec was, besides, a
feast for eyes tired with the monotonous flatness of America. The old
city is on a perfect mountain, and as we came bumping down its side in
our sleigh over the roads which were there in a perfect state of
sherbet, there was a lovely picture spread out in front of us. In the
distance the bluest mountains I ever saw (to paint them one must use
pure cobalt); away to the right the frozen St. Lawrence and the Isle of
Orleans, all snow-covered, of course, but yet distinguishable from the
farm lands of Jacques Bonhomme, whose cosy, clean cottages we soon began
to pass. The long, ribbon-like strips of farm were indicated by the tops
of the fences peeping through the snow, and told us of French thrift and
prosperity.

[Illustration: "THAT QUIET, ATTENTIVE FRENCH GIRL."]

Yes, it