towards them. I found them engaged with
spade and fork digging up reddish-looking roots, which they piled
in little heaps.

"I bring letters to Mme. de Sarennes," I said, addressing the
younger woman, who seemed confused, but whose face I could barely
see for the great bonnet which covered her head like a cowl, "but
I find no one in the house. Can you tell me what to do?"

"If madame will return and find a seat in the house, I shall bring
some one," she answered, prettily enough, and, dropping her fork,
she ran towards the house.

"What are those things you are digging up?" I asked the elder woman.

"Potatoes, madame."

"But do the people eat them?" I inquired, for I knew they were not
used in France.

"'Only the Bostonnais and cattle,' we used to say, madame, but now
the Intendant has ordered them to be planted and eaten by all."

"And they will obey?"

"'Le miel n'est pas pour les anes,' madame; those who do not, will
go hungry," she answered, laughing.

I was interested in the news, as well as in the calm philosophy
with which the innovation was accepted, and after a few more
questions I returned to the front of the house.

The room into which the entrance gave--for it was more of a room
than a hall--was large and low, with a ceiling painted white,
supported by heavy beams; it was carpeted and furnished with much
comfort--much more than one would find in a similar house either
in Scotland or France.

In a short time a young lady entered, her dark olive face well set
off by her brown hair, becomingly though simply dressed, with a
light girlish figure showing to advantage in her flowered gown.

"I am Mlle. de Sarennes, madame, and I regret that you should have
been kept waiting." She began gravely enough, but catching some
wonderment in my face, she continued, laughing merrily: "Oh, 'tis
of no use; I can never masquerade! I am Queen of the Fields, madame,
and you surprised me a moment ago, sceptre in hand," whereupon she
made me a grand courtesy, nearly sinking to the floor.

"And I am Mme. de St. Just," I answered, joining in her girlish
fun, "a poor rescued prisoner seeking for shelter; and this is my
waiting-woman and very good friend, Lucy Routh. I come to you with
letters from M. de Montcalm, trusting our presence may not prove
a burthen to you."

"But here is my mother," said the young girl, quickly. "Not a word
to her of how you discovered me; she will never acknowledge that
such a thing as