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1 
 
f. 
 
 / 
 
 THE 
 
 :eeper of bio light hofsk 
 
 'in 
 
 A CANADIAN STORY OF TO-DAT. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAUD OGILYY, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 "MARIE GOUBDON." 
 
 MONTEEAL : 
 
 E. M. RENOUF, PUBLISHEK, 
 
 1891 
 
 -if 
 I.., 
 
 I 
 
 pi 
 
 i' 
 
 / ^'+1 
 
 i 
 
I K 
 
 \ 
 
 £Bt«red according to Act of Parliament of Canada, by K. M. Kenouf, ir the 
 
 office of the Minister of Agriculture, in the year One Thousand £igh* 
 
 Hundred and Minety-one. 
 
 i 
 
THE 
 
 KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOrSE, 
 
 A CANADIAN STORY OF TO-DAY. 
 
 CHAPTEll I. 
 
 " In creeping curves of yellow foam, 
 Up shallow sands the waters slide, 
 And warmly blow what whispers roam. 
 From isle to isle the lulled tide" 
 
 Up creek and horn the smooth wave swells, 
 And falls asleep; or inland flowing. 
 Twinkles among the silver shells, 
 From sluice to sluice of shallow wells. 
 
 Lord Lytton. 
 
 \ 
 
 It was a sultry afteruoon towards the end of Sep- 
 tember, a haze hung o'er the blue Laurentian hills 
 and half enveloped the little village of Bic, which to day 
 seemed all asleep and deserted. Yesterday the last con- 
 tingent of summer visitors had departed to their homes 
 in Montreal, Quebec, Toronto, or the United States, as 
 the case might be, and no longer shouts of merry laugh- 
 ter resounded through the one quaint old-fashioned 
 street ; no longer gay parties drove in rambling boy- 
 
THE KEEPER OF DW LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 M 
 
 I : 
 
 1 ' 
 
 :■ 1 
 
 carts and springless buck-boards, for long days of enjoy* 
 ment to the fragrant pine-woods, or more distant salmon 
 river. For that year, ai; any rate, there would be no 
 more excursions, and no more bountiful harvests of 
 dollars would be reaped from the rich English or the 
 richer American. Their beneficent influence was with- 
 drawn for nine months at any rate, and the people of 
 the village would now settle down to their quiet lives 
 for the winter. 
 
 The afternoon was oppressive, and the old dames at 
 their door-steps nodded sleepily over their knitting, 
 scarcely raising their heads as the cur^ passed by, mur- 
 muring a hasty benediction, on his way to administer 
 the last rites of the church to a dying parishioner. The 
 silence was as of midnight, and the very waves of the 
 great river seemed to be lapping in over a velvet shore, 
 so noiseless was their motion. But suddenly, breaking 
 the silence, and making the old women start from their 
 slumbers, there came from the garden of a little cottage 
 back from the road, the sound of a fresh young voice 
 singing the old French Canadian melody 
 
 " Alouette, gentille Alouette, 
 Alouette je te plumerai, 
 Je te plumerai la tete, et la tete, 
 Alouette je te plumerai." 
 
 The voice was a clear high soprano and seemed ta 
 
TUE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT BOUSE. 
 
 ring out from the garden as if the singer was filled with 
 an ecstasy which must find expression and an outlet, 
 an ecstasy, coming from the mere fact of living, of 
 being conscious of the exquisite pleasure of breathing 
 under yonder blue canopy of heaven, of taking part ia 
 the glorious plan of the universe like one of the sons of 
 Ood, who, in tlie early days of the world's historyi 
 shouted for joy because they found the beautiful crea- 
 tion good. 
 
 To hear that fresh young voice made one long to 
 peer over the low whitewashed fence into the garden of 
 Madame Lafleur. A pretty little garden it was, with 
 tall stalks of pink and white holly-hocks, great brazen- 
 faced sunflowers, patches of bright scarlet geraniums, 
 golden marigolds and asters of every size and color. 
 
 Stooping down over a geranium bed, weeding out an 
 ubiquitous sunflower, which would persist in mingling 
 with its aristocratic neighbours, was the singer, her song 
 hushed for a moment in the performance of more im- 
 portant duties. Julie Lafleur was of that peculiar type 
 of beauty, the more attractive because of its rarity, 
 called by those initiated in such matters, a dark blonde. 
 Though it must be confessed the name sounds paradoxi- 
 joal, it well describes the personality of Julie. Her hair 
 was very fair, her eyes a deep greyish blue, that color 
 which varies with every change of atmosphere, with 
 
THE KEEPER OF lifC LIOHT HOUSE, 
 
 I ■ 
 
 evei.'y passing emotion, her sliin was tanned a healthy 
 brown tint and the girl presented a picture of the most 
 robust health. In the freedom of her gait, in the grace- 
 ful carriage of her head, one could see at once that she 
 had attained the most perfect ease of deportment, not 
 by the artificial means of drawing-room training, or 
 fashionable dancing masters, but by the unaided assist- 
 ance of that grand old teacher. Dame Nature, who deals 
 her favors with no miserly hand to those who are content 
 *to follow her wise counsels. 
 
 How Jul'\^ Lalleur came by her good looks often 
 puzzled those who only knew her niother,a French Cana* 
 dian woman of the most ordinary type, possessing a 
 strong tendency to cmbonjmnt, who certainly even in 
 her young days could never have had the bearing and 
 wt'J-bred air, which were her daughter's chief charms. 
 But several of the old gossips about the place remem- 
 bered her father, and said that the girl inherited her 
 good looks from him. He had not been seen in Bio 
 for more than nineteen years, and few, but the very old 
 residents had any recollections of him, a fair young 
 Englishman who had come to this quiet village for the 
 fishing, and who had, during one short summer, made des- 
 perate love to the Mayor's then pretty daughter and had, 
 to "he surprise of most people, married her. Desperate 
 lore, even under the most favorable circumstances, is apt 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 r even in 
 
 to grow cold and, after a few months of matrlmony.young 
 Herbert Flower discovered that he had made a tremen* 
 dous mistake, in burdening himself for life with this 
 half-educated French Canadian girl, and he would have 
 given much to have freed himself from the self-imposed 
 yoke. 
 
 By imperceptible degrees he grew weary of Bic and 
 the simple primitive life of the good unsophisticated 
 people there, and a great longing came over him to 
 return to England and to his own people. But his 
 wife, ab. ! there was the trouble ! He could not take her 
 with him, he could not introduce this girl to his 
 relations, nor did he wish to do so. All he wanted was 
 to be free, for he was tired of the Mayor's daughter and 
 utterly indifferent as to what became of her. A man 
 may hate a woman, and in time learn to love her, for 
 in hatred interest is a foregone conclusion, but indif- 
 ference is fatal and not to be overcome, withering all 
 that goes to make love. 
 
 Worst of all, Julie saw that her husband was weary 
 of the life he led, of his whole environment, and what 
 was more serious, weary of her, and she took the matter 
 bitterly to heart. Though only a poor habitant, she 
 was at least conscious of what she pleased to call her 
 own inferiority to this man, who had honored her by 
 making her his wife In her simple way she was a de^ 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 I 
 
 ¥ 
 
 votee, and sought the help of Mother Church, that con- 
 soler of heavy laden souls and weary hearts of every 
 creed and nation. Patience I patience 1 so counselled 
 her confessor, patience, forsooth ! to this poor suffeiing 
 lieart, which had staked its all on one venture, gained a 
 few months of what was to her an all sufficient paradise, 
 and a life-time of regret. 
 
 As time went on, Herbert Flower, the young English- 
 man made more and more frequent visits to Quebec, 
 where a regiment of English soldiers was stationed for 
 the winter, and each time he went, he remained longer 
 than the last. Once, after he had been gone for more 
 than six weeks, his wife grew very anxious about him 
 and eagerly awaited his return. Instead, however, a 
 letter was one evening handed to her by a pilot from an 
 out going steamer, which had stopped for a moment at 
 Father Point. The letter was cruelly short and to the 
 point, and informed Madame Lafleur in a few words that 
 her husband had suddenly been called to England by the 
 illness of his father, that he was overcome with grief at 
 the thought of leaving Julie without even a word of 
 farewell, but that his ship was sailing at once and that 
 he would return to her by the first steamer in the 
 spring. He enclosed a cheque for two hundred dollars, 
 and said that a like amount would be sent her every 
 cj^uarter, and finally, if she had any important news to 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIOTIT HOUSE. 
 
 9 
 
 coininunicate to him, she %vas to write him under 
 cover to his bankers, Messrs. Kobertson & Smith, 
 Lombard Street, London. 
 
 It is doubtful whether Madame Lafleur, as all the 
 villa«,'er3 caliiid her, ever recovered from the shock this 
 letter g^ve her. How mucli worse bad news ie in a 
 letter than conveyed by word of mouth ; it is so cruelly 
 bare, the facts are so meagre, no softening inflection of 
 the voice, no unbending of the angry will is possible, 
 the inevitable woida jnce written stand out inexorebly 
 black and de. Jed, on the clear white page. This letter 
 was the death-blow to Julie's hopes. She was his wife; 
 a more sophisticated \n oman, knowing the ways of t!ie 
 world, would have found comfort in that fact; she did 
 not. She had lost him ; the fault, she arguid, must be 
 hers and she racked her poor brain to discover how she 
 could have displeased him, in wliat one point she could 
 have failed in her duty towards him. No, she would 
 not take his money she decided in the first moments of 
 her bitter grief and disappointment, he might keep it, 
 she hal enougli for her simple wants and living was 
 very cheap at Bic. 
 
 Of course M. le cur^ was told all, he was the con- 
 fessor of Madame and fortunately, besides being a priest 
 worthy of his vocation, was a man of common sense 
 and somewhat more of a man of the world than most 
 of his parishioners. 
 
10 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 
 i; 
 
 !i 
 
 With the easy going philosophy of a man of the 
 world, M. Gagnon did not allow his equanimity to be 
 ruffled by any event, however unforeseen, and to tell the 
 truth, he was not very much astonished at what had 
 occurred, for, before the wedding he had ventured to 
 remonstrate with the girl's father at the inequality of 
 the marriage, and to predict unhappiness in the future. 
 But M. le Maire, though listening politely to his spirit- 
 ual adviser's warnings, paid no heed to them, and 
 thought from a worldly point of view, which is the point 
 of view most fathers take in such a case, tliat the con- 
 nection was a most desirable one for his daughter. 
 Unfortunately the sequel proved that M. le curci had 
 been wiser than M. le Maire, and when poor Julie came 
 to him for counsel, the advice he gave her was sage and 
 
 •nractical. ^ 
 
 *• - ji 
 
 " It was all very well talking about broken heirts and 
 blighted hopes," he said, " but in spite of being afflicted 
 with these sad things, one cannot die, one must go on 
 living, only cowards die, but to live it is necessary to eat, 
 and to buy the wherewithal to eat, one must have 
 money." 
 
 " Xo, Madame,'' continued Monsieur Gagnon, ** no, you 
 must not return the money, you must keep it. Herbert 
 Lafleur was your husband, he was very wicked to desert 
 
 you." ^ 
 
'E. 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGET HOUSB. 
 
 II 
 
 lan of the 
 mity CO be 
 
 to tell the 
 what had 
 entured to 
 jquality of 
 lie future, 
 his spirit- 
 ihem, and 
 5 the point 
 
 the con- 
 daughter, 
 curcj had 
 ulie came 
 
 sage and 
 
 eirts and 
 afflicted 
 St go on 
 ry to eat, 
 List have 
 
 " no, you 
 Herbert 
 :o desert 
 
 "' He will be back in the spring " protested Madame 
 feebly, 
 
 "Well, perhaps" replied the cure doubtfully "so 
 nuch the better, but in the meantime you must draw 
 this money. . And your marriage certificate, you have 
 (t ? Give it to me, I will keep it safe for you." 
 
 The poor woman, acquiesced in all the curd suggested, 
 
 [udeed it was her nature to acquiesce, and at this time 
 
 she was too much overcome to argue, and gladly left all 
 
 ler arrangements to the priest, who managed everything 
 
 ^ell and invested what money she did not require im« 
 
 [mediately, in order that in case of emergencies she 
 
 might have something to fall back upon. 
 
 The autumn and winter passed, spring came, but the 
 Englishman did not, summer navigation opened, the 
 great river was enlivened by in coining steamers from 
 the old world, and as each passed by Bic, Julie anxiously 
 hoped that her husband was on board, he, who was in 
 spite of his desertion, to her, still the chiefest among 
 men. 
 
 But her keenest anguish had abated, and consolation 
 had come to her in another "'ay to cheer her desolate 
 lot, and when the icy rivers of the north began to break 
 their fetters, and the tender green maple buds bui.t into 
 new-born beauty, her child was laid in her arms, and at 
 the touch of its tiny helpless fingers the dead load of 
 
12 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 ■1 i : ' 1 
 
 )': 
 
 '1:11 
 
 I L 
 
 
 despondency was lifted, and hope eternal blossomed, 
 where despair had reigned throughout the winter days. 
 
 The years passed uneventfully in that quiet part of 
 the world, little change came to the people, and less to | 
 the place, except, that it had become a popular summer 
 resort for visitors from all parts of Canada and the 
 United States, who came to this quiet spot to recruit, | 
 far from the busy duties of nineteenth century civiliza- 
 tion. Twenty years afterwards the river St. Lawrence 
 wore the self-same aspect as when Herbert Flower used 
 to paddle in his bark canoe far out into its deep waters, 
 at least, it had only two phases, one, cold, grey and 
 stormy, the other blue, smiling, steadfast. 
 
 But though little change could be perceived in the older 
 generation, much was seen in the child, who had come 
 to be a solace to Julie Lafieur's aching heart, and to till 
 it with that most unselfish love our fallen nature can 
 know. 
 
 This child had grown to the stature of a fair maiden, 
 tall, slender, graceful as the lilies in her mother's garden, 
 and in the care and tenderness Madame Lafleur ex- 
 pended on her daughter, she forgot at times the faithless 
 lover of her youth, and she learned to accept, with the 
 philosophy middle age brings, the grief, that in her early 
 days she had deemed a cross greater than she could bear. 
 
 Youth calls out in wild protest, in hot, impatient 
 
 :i l: 
 
[ f 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 1» 
 
 irmuring, in cries of anguished entreaty because of its 
 
 il or fancied woes ; middle age has learned the lesson 
 [at all things come to him who waits, that there is 
 ttle or nothing worth being excited, much less agonized 
 rer, that, after all, dining is the most important of 
 ^ents ; the illusions of life are past, most things are 
 mionplace, there are no deep valleys of shadows^ 
 
 jre are no high mountains of elation, overclouded 
 ith rose-colored dreams. In those early days we 
 Iffered more, we enjoyed more, we loved more 
 fssionately, we hated more intensely, we were all 
 [tremes ; but what would not most of us give for 
 it one hour of that halcyon time when the frame was 
 (rong, the heart was brave ; when failures, more nume- 
 )us than successes, had not weakened the sinewy arm, 
 )r discouraged the doughty spirit. 
 
 On the afternoon my story opens, Madame Lafleur 
 id, after twelve o'clock dinner, fallen fast asleep, and 
 jr daughter, Julie, had sallied forth to weed the 
 irden. 
 
 This garden was Julie,s delight. Ever since she could 
 ^member anything, she remembered digging and plant- 
 ig there, and all the happiest memories of her young 
 [e were associated with it. Here it was, that after 
 jr first communion, the cur^ had given her his bless- 
 |g; here it was that Pierre 
 
tl4 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 "'Ill 
 
 " Good day, Julie," said a voice from the road ; ^h ! 
 I see you are busy, as usual." 
 
 " Good day, M. le cur^," said the girl. " Yes, I am 
 always busy, these weeds grow so fast — much faster 
 than the flowers." 
 
 " Ah ! my child, your garden is like the world — the 
 bad people get on much faster than the good. I have 
 just come from the death-bed of that mysterious old 
 man who lives down at the point." i . 
 
 " What, old Wilson ; is he dead ? " f 
 
 '* Yes ; I must go now, but tell your mother I shal " 
 come this evening to see her after vespers, and you shall 
 hear this strange man's history. It is very curious. 
 Au revoir, my child." 
 
 Jl 
 
d ; ^h ! 
 
 es, I am 
 h faster 
 
 •Id— the 
 
 I have 
 
 ious old 
 
 r I shal ' 
 ou shall 
 curious. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 *' There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore 
 Of cold aud pitiless Labrador, 
 Where, under the iuood, upon mounts of frost, 
 Full mauy a mariner's bones are tossed j 
 Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck. 
 And the dim, blue fire that lights her deck 
 Dotli play on as pale and livid a crew 
 As ever yet drank the churchyard dew. 
 To Deadman*8 isle, in the eye of the blast, 
 To Deadraan's isle she speeds her fast : 
 By skeleton shapes her sails are furled. 
 And the hand that steers is not of this world." 
 
 Moore. 
 
 IHREE hours later, a cheerful little party consisting 
 
 of four persons, was gathered together in Madame 
 
 .alleur's brightly-lighted kitchen. In this part of the 
 
 world it was considered much more sociable to sit in the 
 
 dtchen, for the parlor was seldom used except on 
 
 )Ccasions of state, such as marriages or funeralS; and 
 
 ras, as in most Fr'nch-Canadian homes of the ordinary 
 
 class, a cold and cheerless apartment. 
 
 I 
 
 .'' n 
 
 i 
 
'ill 
 
 I 
 
 16 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 \ I 
 
 't 
 
 I 
 
 tllli 
 
 The fire burned away merrily, and the evening being 
 somewhat chill, all were gathered closely round it, 
 listening to M. Gagnon, who seemed anxious to impart 
 what he knew of his curious parishioner, Wilson. 
 
 Young Pierre Grenier, who some months before had 
 been betrothed to Julie Lafleur, listened with an absorbing 
 interest to every word which fell from the lips of the 
 curd He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, 
 with a well-knit, muscular frame, and an intelligent 
 face, his forehead and the upper part of his counten- 
 ance being decidedly prepossessing from the frankness 
 and honesty they portrayed. His dark, thick hair 
 hung in masses over his brow, and gave him rather 
 a Spanish or Italian appearance. One always thought 
 of the woods when looking at Pierre Grenier, for he 
 spent most of his time out of doors, and would have 
 served as an excellent model for one of those stalwart 
 coitreurs de hois of the early period of New France. 
 
 "What a strange man Wilson was," said Pierre, to 
 the priest. " He seemed to care for no one but him- 
 self." 
 
 " Ah I wait till you hear his story, then you will not 
 wonder so much at his reserve and selfishness, '' replied 
 M. Gagnon, Yesterday I was with him all afternoon 
 and far into the night, and he talked incessantly. He 
 could not sleep, and a sort of false strength seemed to 
 
 be 
 
 Idayl 
 
 and 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIQIIT HOUSE, 
 
 IT 
 
 g being 
 und it, 
 impart 
 ti. 
 
 >re had 
 sorbing 
 of the 
 g man, 
 diligent 
 >unten- 
 nkness 
 k hair 
 rather 
 lought 
 for he 
 
 I have 
 alwart 
 
 :re, to 
 him- 
 
 II not 
 plied 
 
 rnoon 
 He 
 ed to 
 
 be vouchsafed to to him for that night, l>ecause all lo- 
 jday he was very weak and could scarcely raise his head, 
 land this afternoon passed quietly away." 
 
 Madame Lafleur crossed herself devoutly, and in- 
 wardly resolved that she would say a prayer that night 
 for the repose of the poor sinner's soul. , 
 
 " It appears," M. Gaguon went on, " that for many 
 years "Wdson had lived on the coast of Labrador. I 
 know that part of the country well, for when I was 
 f .St ordained, the Bishop sent me on a mission there. 
 Tho pco[)le live in little hamlets far removed from each 
 other, and it was my duty to drive in a sleigh with a 
 team of dogs, and visit each settlement in turn, read the 
 prayers of the church over the dead, baptize the chil- 
 dren, and perform the marriage ceremony. But to 
 return to Wilson, I know his tale must be true, for no 
 one could feign such an intimate knowledge of that 
 strange land, and it is a well-authenticated fact that for 
 years the deep and tortuous inlets and great bays on 
 the La^ rador coast, with good anchorage, afforded a safe 
 haven of refuge to rovers of the seas. 
 
 Driven from more frequented waters, they repsbired 
 to this northern shore to mend their shattered vessels. 
 Here, during the short summer, tliey recovered from, 
 their wounds ; here, too, they secreted their booty. 
 Here, perhaps, the long sought treasure of Captain. 
 
 .i 
 
 [ 
 
 \ I 
 
 i ;■ 
 
 \ % 
 
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 : 
 
 ^jl 
 
 p"'i 
 
 i 
 
 , 1 
 
 \ I 
 
 ' ' J 
 
 ; 
 
ill 
 
 II 
 
 18 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BW LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 Kidd may be hidden. Who can tell what secrets are 
 held forever in the recesses of its wave-beaten and rock- 
 bound shores? Perhaps the reason old Wilson was | 
 willing to confide in me was because I knew something 
 of the country and could enter into, and appreciate his 
 stories about its wonders, and would know that he did 
 not exaggerate. 
 
 Here M. le curd paused for a moment to take breath, 
 ■and to partake of some of Madame Lafleur's sweet cider, 
 made from the rosy cheeked apples which grew in such 
 abundance in her garden. In the meantime Pierre 
 Grenier and Julie were growing very impatient for the | 
 story ""o continue, and did not see why M. le curd found 
 it necessary to make such a long preamble before coming 1 
 to the point, but they, with thrt native politeness which 
 seems inborn in the French of these districts, were far 
 too courteous to express their sentiments. At length, 
 having disposed of the cider, M. Gaguon went on : 
 
 " Towards the month of June, 1820, this man Wilson 
 (may Heaven grant peace to his sinful soul) settled on 
 the coast of Canadian Labrador, and alone, and unaided, 
 followed the rough and precarious calling of a fisherman. 
 At the close of each season he visited Newfoundland to 
 dispose of his catch to the English traders, and to 
 replenish his stock of provisions and return to his lonely 
 home to pass the long and dreary Labrador winter. He 
 
THE KEEPER OF DIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 19 
 
 ii'cts are 
 nd rock- 
 3on was 
 mething 
 jiate his 
 b he did 
 
 5 breath, 
 
 let cider, 
 
 in such 
 
 3 Pierre 
 
 : for the 
 
 f^ found 
 
 coming 
 
 js which 
 
 wrere far 
 
 length, 
 
 n : 
 
 Wilson 
 tied on 
 naided, 
 Herman, 
 land to 
 and to 
 3 lonely | 
 er. He 
 
 told me that for five years he led this life, till at length 
 he grew weary of his loneliness. After having, by 
 economy and thrift, amassed a few hundred pounds, a 
 great longing came o'er him to see old Scotland, the 
 land of his birth, once more. 
 
 "Accordingly he crossed the Atlantic in a schooner, 
 and, during a round of visits to his Scotch friends, he 
 met a young girl whom he persuaded to leave home and 
 kindred and share with him the perils of Labrador. 
 Fitting out a small vessel, he set sail for America with 
 his young bride, and a crew of hardy settlers and their 
 families. It seems, from his subsequent history, that 
 some demon of restlessness had at this time seized on 
 the formerly steady young fisherman, and he induced 
 the more active and daring spirits of the little colony to 
 join him in a new project. One October day he placed 
 his effects on board his schooner and quietly slipped 
 out of the harbor, determining to lead a life of piracy. 
 All his old habits of thrift and industry appear to have 
 left him, his natural affections seem to have grown cold, 
 for with most heartless cruelty he basely deserted his 
 wife and young child. Poor woman, a stranger in a 
 strange land, she died broken-hearted, and when, after a 
 year of plunder, Wilson returned, all that was left to 
 remind him of those he should have cherished and 
 protected, was a lonely grave by the shores of the Gulf. 
 
 
 1 
 
 } j 
 
 ii 
 
 I; I 
 
fm 
 
 'iO 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIO LPJUT HOUSE. 
 
 On til 3 coast there is now a small scLtlemeul, wliich 
 I know, and where I have often held services ; it is 
 called Mutton Bay, or Meccatina Harbor. About a 
 mile to the east of tliis settlement is a deep inlet, called 
 "L'Anse aux Morts," or Bay of the Dead. It was 
 so named because of a small burying-ground which 
 lies on its shore. This bay is screened alike from the 
 fury of the sea and the observation of passing vessels, 
 by a small island, which is so situated that it is easily 
 mistaken for the mainland. Under the rugged aud 
 frowning cliffs which overhang the Bay of the Dead 
 Wilson and his companions landed. Securely sheltered, 
 they perfected their plans for a life of piracy and blood- 
 shed, and, in truth, it would be difficult to imagine a 
 spot better fitted for such a conclave . 
 
 The course of vessels then taken on their way from 
 Europe to Quebec was through the Straits of Belle Isle, 
 close to the northern shore of the St. Lawrence and just 
 outside the island behind which Wilson and his crew 
 decided to lie in hiding. At that time a packet was 
 sent out annually by the British Government with the 
 pay of the forces stationed in Canada on board. Wilson 
 knew this only too well, and was on the watch for this 
 vessel. Unsuspicious of danger, she approached the 
 island, when Wilson's schooner darted out from its 
 hiding place and svroopcd down upon her. She fell an 
 
 i i 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE, 
 
 2t 
 
 I, wliich 
 ss ; it is 
 ^Lbout a 
 }t, called 
 
 It was 
 1 which 
 :rom the 
 
 vessels, 
 is easily 
 ged aud 
 le Dead 
 heltered, 
 id blood- 
 
 lagine a 
 
 ay from 
 3lle Isle, 
 and just 
 lis crew 
 ket was 
 with the 
 Wilson 
 for this 
 led the 
 [•om its 
 5 fell aa 
 
 'x:tS 
 
 ;asy prey. Wilson confessed to me that they butchered 
 icr unfortunate captain and crew, removed the treasure, 
 md then scuttled the ship, leaving no trace oi the foul 
 leed. At Quebec everyone was awaiting the overdue 
 jhip, but at last hope died out and it was supposed that 
 jhe had succumbed to the fury of the Atlantic. The 
 following year another packet was sent out, which 
 shared the fate of her predecessor. . 
 
 The loss of two vessels within such a short time 
 iroused suspicion. A third was snnt and with her 
 man-of-war. All went well until she approached the 
 Jay of the Dead, when tlie man-of-war, having fallen 
 far astern, the pirate schooner darted out, quickly 
 japtured the picket, secured the treasure and murdered 
 dl the crew with one exception. This was a negro 
 [Wilson wished to keep for a servant. Hoping to pro- 
 )itiate his captor, this man told the pirate that a man- 
 i-war was close behind them, and this news so alarmed 
 the captain that he beat a precipitate retreat to the 
 island. That night another dread crime was added to 
 the long list already committed by the wretched man, 
 ^earing discovery and holding with the adage that 
 lead men tell no tales, he changed his mind about the 
 legro. But, first of all, he resolved to bury his trea- 
 mre, and under cover of a blinding storm, while the 
 thunder reverberated over those old Laurentian hills. 
 
1 1 
 
 22 
 
 TBE KEEPER OF BIC LIQUT HOUSE. 
 
 i i 
 
 
 
 and the lighlning cleft the thick, black clouds, he 
 collected all his ill-gotten gains into five small casks. 
 With the help of the negro he placed these in as many 
 holes dug in the old buiyiiig-ground of the Bay of the 
 Dead, two casks on each side of a central grave, which 
 he left open. The ne<j;ro questioned him about this 
 empty grave in trembling tones, fearful of the treach- 
 erous designs of the pirate, but ^vas promptly told to 
 continu3 his work and hold his tongue. The captive 
 had finished his task and turned his back for a 
 moment to throw on a grave a last shovelfull of 
 sand, when Wilson suddenly sprang upon him and 
 plunged a knife into his heart. As the life blood slowly 
 ebbed away, and before the body had time to grow stiff 
 and cold, he twisted the limp form of his victim round 
 the central cask, his old Scottish superstitious nature 
 coming to the surface and impelling him to believe that 
 the wraith of the negro would keep guard over the 
 treasure. The central grave he completed alone and 
 placed a stone at the head of each of the five. 
 . At dawn Wilson's sentinels saw the man-of-war sail- 
 ing through the western passage into their retreat, and 
 they quickly escaped in their schooner through the 
 eastern outlet. Wildly, again, that night raged the 
 Storm, fiercely the winds blew and lashed the waves to- 
 fury with resistless force, making them strike the pirate 
 ship and throwing her upon a sunken reef. 
 
THE KEEPER OF DIG LIQUT HOUSE. 
 
 23 
 
 louds, he 
 lall casks, 
 as many 
 ay of the 
 ^e, which 
 bout this 
 le treach- 
 y told tc 
 } captive 
 :k for a 
 -elfull of 
 [lini and 
 3d slowly 
 jrow stiff 
 im round 
 s nature 
 ieve that 
 over the 
 one and 
 
 tvar sail- 
 'eat, and 
 ugh the 
 ged the 
 (^aves to- 
 le pirate 
 
 Shriek after shriek arose from her crew ; wild sup- 
 
 )lication8 rent the midnight air as the despairing men 
 
 [sought to be reconciled to the God, whose laws they 
 
 md violate 1. But the God of our fathers is a God of 
 
 ^vengeance as well as o God of mercy, and, though the^ 
 
 I wicked may flourish for a time, the day of retribution 
 
 'Will come, and all these wicked men, except their 
 
 i leafier, were that night launched into eternity. It is a^ 
 
 m:ii vel to me how he escaped. Througli the long nigh^ 
 
 he clung to a broken mast, and when the morning dawned 
 
 and the tide was low he managed to swim to shore, 
 
 though numb with cold. 
 
 Of course, it was impossible for him to reujain on the 
 
 coast, for everyone knew him and he was cordially hated 
 
 and feared, so he resolved to make his journey farther 
 
 up the country and pitched on our village of Bic as hi* 
 
 final dwelling place. You knov the rest. Madam© 
 
 Laileur, you remember when he came here ten years- 
 
 ago how we all thought what a strange being he was^ 
 
 and judged him iiarmless and a little crazed. We were 
 
 surprised when he could afford to buy that house at the 
 
 point from the seigneur, and little dreamed that with the 
 
 remains of his treasure he could almost buy the whole 
 of our village." 
 
 The curd stopped, and, pouring out another glass of 
 
 cider, cooled his throat, which was hot and dry frooi 
 
 speaking so long. 
 
u 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 lii 
 
 I iii- 
 
 " What a wonderful tale," saul Julie, " M. le cur^, 1 
 flm glad we did not know that such a monster lived 
 near us, till he was dead . " 
 
 " You need not have feared, my child, I hardly think 
 lie would IiavG harmed anyone of late years. His 
 strength seemed to have left him and his body was 
 racked with rheumatism, from which he suffered ever 
 since the cold autuum night he spent on the wreck off 
 the coast of Labrador." 
 
 " Well, his treasure did not do him much good," said 
 Madame Lafieur. 
 
 "No, it did not." 
 
 " What has he done with it ?" asked Pierre Grenier, 
 who had hitherto kept silence. 
 
 " After his escape from the wreCK," said M. Gagnon, 
 * he found his way back to the Bay of the Dead, dug up 
 all the graves but the central one (he could not bear to 
 !ook on the body of his victim), and took all the treasure, 
 which was chiefly in silver and sovereigns, with him." 
 
 " But where is it now ?" demanded Madame Lafieur. 
 
 " Some of it he spent to support himself, but the 
 remainder, which, I think, must amount to a consider- 
 able sum, he stored away in a great wooden chest, 
 which never left his bed-side ; this he has left to the 
 church, in his last moments becoming penitent and 
 wishing me to say masses for the repose of his soul." 
 
 
>USE. 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 n 
 
 ■ M. le cur^, I 
 lonster lived 
 
 hardly think 
 years. His 
 lis body was 
 iuffered ever 
 he wreck off 
 
 1 good," said 
 
 ■ ''• Why, M. le cure, yor will be able to build a wing 
 IP the church now," said Julie, knowing this to be a 
 lon4 cherished project of M. Gagnon. 
 
 " I'erhaDS, my child — we shall see — perhaps the gold, 
 Hhich has been the cause of so much crime, will be 
 1^ last consecrated to a good purpose." 
 I " And that old man was a pirate ? " said Madame 
 ^alleur, musingly. " Well, I always thought there was 
 foniething strange about liim. He was very unneigh- 
 ^urly, and a heretic, lor he never came to mass during 
 #1 the yea^s he has been at Bic, and I know of no one 
 %ho has entered his hous^i except Jean Pinsonneault." 
 rre Grenier, ii <« Yes, they were great friends," put in Julie. " I 
 %onder why. Jean, you may be sure had some object 
 view ; he is a great schemer." 
 
 " My child, said the curd, you must not speak ill of 
 irour neighbors ; Jean is a bright, clever youth, and has 
 jinibitioiis, that U natural, but I do not think you should 
 «all him scheming." 
 
 Julie was silent, and did not reply to the curd's 
 
 ebuke. 
 
 I "But was Wilson a heretic ? " asked Pierre Grenier. 
 
 " For many years he had no religion, feared neither 
 
 od nor man ; but, during the last few weeks, I think a 
 
 etter spirit came over him, and I trust my humble 
 
 inistratious have not been in vain. As a penitent sin- 
 
 M. Gagnon, 
 'ead, dug up 
 not bear to 
 he treasure, 
 with liim." 
 Qie Lafleur. 
 ;lf, but the 
 a consider- 
 )den chest, 
 left to the 
 litent and 
 is soul." 
 
 i 
 
 « 
 
11 
 
 26 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIOIIT HOUSE, 
 
 -II 
 
 Mil 
 
 I 
 
 %■ 
 
 
 ner, I p'^ ministered to him the last rites of the church, 
 and just as the sun was shedding its parting rays through 
 the little window of his room, Wilson's soul left its 
 earthly frame and went to be judged before a higher 
 tribunal than ours." 
 
 All the good people crossed themselves devoutly at 
 the solemn words, and M. le cur6 rose to go. 
 
 " Pierre, are you coming now ? We can walk home 
 together," he said, turning to the young man. 
 
 Pierre bade a much shorter good-bye than usual to 
 Julie, and with M. Gagnon left the house. 
 
 It was a dark, starless night, still atid cloudy ; no 
 lights could be seen anywhere, save in the far distance 
 the revolving lamp of the lighthouse of Bic, that wel- 
 come guide to mariners coming up the great gulf. 
 
 The two men walked some distance in silence, for the 
 priest was tired, and Pierre was thinking of Julie, 
 Suddenly the former clutched the pocket of his long 
 black soutane, ind said, in a distressed and perplexed 
 tone, 
 
 " Ah, Pierre, how forgetful I am. I hive left my 
 spectacles on the mantlepiece in old Wilson's cottage. 
 They are the only ones I have, and I must take them 
 with me early to-morrow to the parish of St. Anaclet^ ' 
 where I am to meet the Bishop. Would you be kind 
 euough to run back to the house on the point ; see> 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGUT HOUSE. 
 
 n 
 
 vontly at 
 
 Ik home 
 
 usual to 
 
 idy ; no 
 distance 
 ^at wel- 
 f. 
 
 for the 
 f Julie, 
 lis lonsr 
 rplexed 
 
 left my 
 jottage, 
 e them 
 .naclet^ 
 3 kind 
 t; see^ 
 
 lere is the key ; you are younger than I, and it is not 
 rery far." 
 
 Pierre hesitated just for one moment, for to tell the 
 kruth, in spite of his fearless nature, M. le curb's request 
 lad staggered him. 
 To go to that lonely point, to the desolate, uninhabit- 
 led house where lay the dead form of the notorious rob- 
 Iber, side by side with his ill-:^ott«^n gains, that was a 
 (■journey which the bravest might refuse to undertake- 
 But he delayed only for an instant, and in much less 
 .Uime than it takes to tell, his fears vanished; indeed, 
 fear and he had long been stranger.^ ; his healthy out* 
 door life had driven away any tiniidi:y which might 
 have been latent in his nature. 
 
 " Yes, M. le curii, of course I will go ; I shall only be 
 ;too ghd to be of service to you," and he started off 
 immediately at a brisk pace. 
 
 The point was half a mile further on, and jutted out 
 
 far into the river. Wilson's house, a small, whitewashed 
 
 cottage, two stories high, was situated on the extreme 
 
 %dge of the point, within three or four feet of the 
 
 /Water, and the front door faced the river, from which 
 
 ^t this time, a strong breeze was blowing. 
 
 Perhaps of all the aggravating things in a world full 
 
 fcnough of trials, the most aggravating is to endeavor to 
 
 discover a key-hole in the dark. Certainly Pierre found 
 
 I 
 
 ^ 
 
 !l 
 
 m 
 
28 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 V' 1 
 
 it so ; match after match he lighted, aad -scarcely was 
 the flame of each kindled, than the breeze from the 
 river extinguished it. At length, however, success 
 crowned his efforts, and he found the key-hole, placed 
 the key therein, and opened the door, which yielded to ^ 
 his pushing wiath a weird, creaking sound, as if in pro- 
 test at the late intruder. 
 
 On entering, he found himself in a small, dark hall, 
 and with the light of another match, he saw that there 
 was a door opening on either side. Which was the '| 
 dead man's room ? Well, he would try the one on the 
 right hand. This was wrong, however, and opening the 
 door he saw that it was empty, save for a few pieces of 
 lumber and two or three chairs, but to his great delight 
 he also saw some ends of tallow candle, which he seized 
 on with thankfulness, and was about to light one, 
 when, from the hall without he heard a sound as of | 
 stealthy footsteps. A cold perspiration broke out on 
 his forehead, his hand trembled, he could not move ; 
 tramp, tramp, went the steps slowly, muffled and soft, 
 but none the less terrifying. Ah ! they were coming 
 near the door, and imigination had quickly conjured 
 up the vision of the ghastly sight of the dead pirate's 
 ghost rising to wreak vengeance on the invader of his 
 home. 
 
 But imagination was at fault, for the footsteps passed 
 
2I1E KEEPER OF BIO LIQII2 HOUSE 
 
 2& 
 
 by the door, and the sound of their mufiled tread died 
 away in the distance at the end of the hall. 
 
 Pierre started up and listened for a momont, almost 
 doubting the evidence of his senses. Who but himself 
 could be in this lonely house at midnight ? It must be 
 fancy, but no ! the footsteps had been real enough in 
 their muffled thud, thud, on the creaking wooden floor ; 
 they could not be the product of his own brain. Could 
 i\\^ be the footsteps of the dead man, who, by the 
 
 j agency of the evil powers he had served so well during 
 his lifetime, was enabled to rise again in the gloomy 
 
 [hours of the night and gloat over his hidden gold ? No, 
 he must not give way to vain suppositions like these, 
 
 laud he braced every nerve to cross the hall and open 
 the door on the opposite side of the hall, when he 
 immediately saw that he was in the right apartment at 
 
 [last. 
 
 The tallow candle flickered in an annoying manner> 
 
 [its grease dripping down on his bare hand in great hot 
 drops, its flame burning up for a moment Ijrightly, en- 
 abling him to see distinctly his environment. It was a 
 wretcl^ed, cheerless room in which he found himself, and, 
 
 (even had the noon-day sun been streaming in at the 
 little window, it would scarce have relieved its dreari- 
 
 [uess. There was an old-fashioned fire-place, with a 
 
 [roughly hewn mantel board above, and in the grate were 
 
30 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 m 
 
 \v 
 
 iili 
 
 in 
 
 illl i 
 
 HI !{ 
 
 the charred aucl bhickened remaius of the fire M. le 
 curd had lighted for the sick man. Oii the narrow 
 trestle bed lay the form of Wilson, covered with a white 
 sheet, which outlined distinctly every curve of the 
 inanimate clay, and on the breast was placed a roughly 
 hewn wooden crucifix, which M. Gagnon had laid there 
 that afternoon. 
 
 Pierre looked anxiously aroun:!, almost forgetting the 
 errand on which he had come, and the story he had 
 heard that night came back vividly to his mind with a 
 new meaning. Ah ! yes, there in the corner was the 
 chest around which centred such tales of exciting 
 adventure. He must examine it before he left the 
 cottage, for he wf^s perfectly certain he would never 
 enter the house again. 
 
 The chest was placed quite close to the bed, where it 
 had always been during the lifetime of its owner, wk 
 never let it out of his sight. It was an old fashioneil 
 oaken box, about three feet square, and was riveted to- 
 gether with iron bands. There were engraved on these 
 bands on the lid some mysterious letters, and Pierre 
 fitr'"'!.;'' tasclnated, knelt down to examine theiii. 
 ' ' . , ! J startled anew by a sepulchral voice, whict 
 seeiu: . ,ome from behind him, saying in slov 
 distinct, monotonous tones, " Death, death, death t 
 him who touches the hidden treasure." He lookei 
 
 i Jaui/h 
 
 \ 
 
 <■ 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 31 
 
 iting the 
 he had 
 d with a 
 was the 
 exciting 
 left the 
 d never 
 
 behind him ; nothing was there save the black darkness 
 of the cheerless room. He glanced at the bed where the 
 dead man lay still, cold and silent. Again the voice 
 repeated, this time less distinctly, and as if dying away 
 amid the shadows, the words, " Death, death, death to 
 him." Pierre waited to hear no more ; he must get 
 away from that horrible house ; his candle fell from his 
 trembling hand, and was extinguished in its fall. 
 Through the door, out into the passage he groped his 
 way, fearful of meeting with the touch of a clammy 
 liand or again hearing the horrible words of an uncanny 
 ghostly visitant. Forgotten were the cure's spectacles, 
 and in his haste and terror he did not perceive a dark 
 form brush past him in the hall, nor hear the mocking 
 laugh which followed his retreating footsteps. 
 
rr-^ 
 
 
 ilii ' 
 
 
 til>' 
 
 (I 
 
 t!);!!M!!i'il 
 
 i 
 
 CHArXEPt III. 
 
 " now forever farewell tlie tranquil niind! 
 
 Farewell content !" 
 
 • Shakespeare 
 
 earth eo full of dreary noii*es ! 
 men with wailing in your voices I 
 V delved gold, the wallers heap 
 
 O strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God strikes a silence through you all. 
 And giveth Lis beloved sleep, 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap 
 More softly than the dew is shed 
 Or cloud is floated overhead 
 " He giveth his beloved sleep." 
 
 E.^B. Browning. 
 
 / k H, Julie, good-morning ; have you seen M. le cur^ 
 •^ to-day ? I have been to his house and he is not 
 there," said Jean Pinsonneault overtaking Julie Lafleur 
 on her way from market and offering to carry her 
 basket for her. 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC HOnT HOUSE. 
 
 3^ 
 
 "Nu, I have not seen him, because lie is not here,'* 
 replied Julie. " He tolj us last night that he was 
 coina to St. Anaclet this morning; and he will be there 
 for .souic day?. Thank you, I can carry my basket 
 myself, it is not very heavy. Good-morning M. Pinson- 
 neault.'' 
 
 "Will you not ask me to come in tio your house?' 
 Xax are not very polite to me." 
 
 " Xo, not to-day. We are very busy. It is baking 
 day and the house is all upSL^t," said the girl, abruptly. 
 
 " Good-bye, then, Julie. I shall come again when it 
 is not baking day, but then I suppose il' it is not baking 
 day it will be washing or scrubbing day. An rcvoir.'' 
 
 " Xever mind, Mdlle. Ladeur/' he muttea^ed as he 
 walked off, " some day you will repent in dust and ashes 
 your treatment of me." 
 
 Julie Lafleur had had, before the advent of Pierre 
 
 Grenier, many admirers ; as it was but natural that 
 
 such a pretty and attractive girl should, and amongst 
 
 the most devoted was Jean Pinsonneault, on whom 
 
 her mother looked with favorable eyes. Jean was rich, 
 
 as riches are counted in that part of the world, he was 
 
 steady going, hardworking and neither smoked nor 
 
 drank, and his father was by far tJie most prosperous 
 
 man in the village. 
 
 Julifi said he was sly and untruthful, but these were 
 
 3 
 
 
34 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 m 
 
 minor vices in the eyes of her mother, and perhaps if 
 the handsome young blacksmith from Quebec, had "ot 
 appeared on the scene at this juncture, she might 
 have been persuaded to take Jean for better or worse. 
 But fate had another destiny in store for her. 
 
 Pierre Grenier had come from Quebec four months 
 before, highly recommended by his former employer, to 
 take charge of the blacksmith's shop at Bic. Here his 
 frank good nature and pleasing personality, made him 
 very popular and, ever since he had been in the village, 
 he had conducted himself in a quiet and eminently 
 praiseworthy manner. 
 
 True, he had fallen head over ears in love with the 
 acknowledged belle of the village, but there was nothing 
 very extraordin iry or damaging in that fact, except 
 that his success in winning Julie Lafleur had made hiiii 
 several enemies amongst his defeated rivals, the most 
 bitter of whom was Jean Pinsonneault. But this did 
 not trouble his peace of mind much, for the course of 
 his love, notwithstanding proverbial utterances, had run 
 very smoothly, and the wedding day was fixed for the 
 end of October. 
 
 The afternoon following Pierre's ignominious retreat 
 from the dwelling of old Wilson, he was at his usual 
 place at the forge hammering away lustily, and at the 
 same time talking to two or three of his friends, who 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 8S 
 
 had strolled up to discuss the news. Perhaps in the 
 whole world there is no such hot bed of gossip to be 
 found, as in a small French Canadian village ; everyone 
 takes the liveliest interest in his or her neighbours 
 doings, and visiting at tbe various houses generally 
 goes on with great energy all afternoon during those 
 seasons of the year when work is slack. 
 
 " So old Wilson is dead," remarked one man. They 
 say he left some money, I wonder who will get it. Do 
 you know Pierre ?" 
 
 " I know nothing about old Wilson,'' said the black- 
 .sniith, so shortly that the others turned and looked at 
 him in surprise." 
 
 " Oh ! you know nothing about old Wilson. I'll an- 
 swer for it that you know more about him than anyone 
 else," said the sneering voice of Jean Pinsonneault at 
 his elbow. 
 
 " What do you mean ? said Pierre turning from the 
 forge and facing him angrily." 
 
 " Only this, that you were seen last night, or rather 
 early this morning, coming from the house on the point." 
 " Well, what if I were ? What of that ? " 
 " You see, my friends" said Jean, addressing the little 
 knot of idlers gathered round the forge. " You see he 
 admits to having been at the point last night, I wonder 
 if he will admit the rest." 
 
 i i 
 
8C 
 
 THE KEEPER OF JilC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 I'll 
 
 < i ! 
 
 Pierre stared at the man in anmzeniunt. "What did 
 he mean ? The rest, what more was there to admit ? 
 
 "Ah ! see," Jean went on in his smooth sneering tono» 
 he is pretending to be innocent, he doesn't know. Well 
 my fine friend, where is the cliest my father's boat-man 
 saw you carry off from Wilson's house ? I am an ex- 
 ecutor of the dead man's estate and I want to know." 
 
 " I know of no chest, at least 
 
 " Well what do you know ? " 
 
 'I 
 
 " The chest was never touched by me. It is there 
 still." 
 
 " It is not there. See here, Jacques, "calling to an old 
 fisherman, who stood near," the chest is gone from its 
 place, is it not ? " 
 
 " Yes M., it is gone," he replied. 
 
 " And now tell these gentlemen who you saw come 
 out of Wilson's cottage this morning." 
 
 The old man looked at Pierre, hesitated a moment, 
 and then replied. 
 
 "As I was coming back from the beach early this 
 morning, it was scarcely daylight, but I was examining 
 my nets before the tide came in, I saw that man com- 
 ing out of Wilson's house walking very slowly, because 
 he was weighted down with a great box." 
 
 •' It is not true," exclaimed Pierre angrily. " It is not 
 true, I will admit that I was at the dead man's house 
 
THE KEEPEk OF BIG LIGHT IIOU^E. 
 
 3r 
 
 come 
 
 I 
 
 ■* 
 
 last night, but it was not to stfiil. It was to yet M le 
 aire's spectacles, which he had left on the mantel piece 
 the day before, and I did not leave the house in the 
 morning, it wcs at midnight." 
 
 "A likely story indeed," sneered Jean Pinsonneault. 
 I don't believe it." 
 
 " You don't believe it ? Who minds whether you 
 believe it or not, and who made you my accuser ?" said 
 Pierre, facing him, an ominous and angry light in his 
 eyes which it would have been well if Jean had taken 
 ]iote of in time. 
 
 *' 1 am your accuser because I am the heir to the 
 dead man's property ; he left it to me in his will and I 
 am not going to be defrauded of my rights by you, 
 Pierre Grenier, an interloper who has already been too 
 kindly treated in Bic. Now, my friends," turning to 
 the crowd, "there is no doubt of his guilt ; will you help 
 me to arrest him? He will escape if we let him go 
 now," and Jean started forward to clutch Pierre's arm. 
 
 " Take care," shouted one of the men in the crowd, 
 who saw the passion in the blacksmith's face, till this 
 moment restrained. " Take care, Jean Pinsonneault." 
 
 But the warning came too late, for with a sudden and 
 swift gesture, Pierre caught up a huge hammer, which 
 lay beside the forge, and with one mighty blow struck 
 his accuser and felled him to the earth. He had not 
 
38 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 \]V-V- 
 
 I 
 
 % 
 
 Ijijlii'ihiiiii 
 
 reckoned on the strength of that blow, and anger had 
 lent to his strong arm a greater power than it had here* 
 tofore possessed. His intention had been, at the most, 
 to stun the man, but the hammer had but too surely 
 done its work and his enemy lay dead at his feet. 
 
 The gaping crowd stood awe- stricken, gazing stupidlf 
 at the man lying before them, his sightless eyes staring 
 up to the calm, blue sky, the awful majesty of death 
 fastening for all time the mocking smile on his lips. 
 
 Without attempting to detain him, they let Pierre 
 pass, and he, still blind with passion, scarce realizing 
 that he had killed a fellow-being, walked hurriedl7 to 
 the river shore and from a little sheltered bay drew out 
 his bark canoe and launched it into the deep, blue, 
 glistening waters of the St. Lawrence. 
 
 To be alone, that was his only wish. His thoughts 
 •were all confused, his brain in a whirl. 
 
 It was the most perfect time in the day, just when 
 the fierce heat of the afternoon sun had abated and 
 before it sough'; the other side of the world for twelve 
 long hours. A soft grey haze wrapped land and water, 
 the waves were rippling gently, a faint breeze ruffled the 
 broad bosom of the river, four or five white- winged yachts 
 were idly floating by, their sails outlined against the sky. 
 The scent of new mown hay came wafted across the 
 waters, and all nature was harmonious and at peace. 
 
lUE KEEPER 01 BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 8» 
 
 The mai^ so at variance with his surroundings, directed 
 his canoe to an island which lies at the entrance to the 
 harbor. For the last two hundred years this has been 
 called Massacre Island, because of the dreadful scene 
 which took place there when the Red men of the north 
 made fierce war on each other. On this island there is- 
 a huge cavern, which obscures from view those who are 
 within, owing to the large boulders of rock and earth 
 which lie at its entrance. On one of their hunting 
 expeditions, two hundred Mic-Mac Indians encamped 
 in the ohl days here, and on the good beach of the island 
 securely fastened their canoes. 
 
 In the cave were placed the squaws nud papooses,. 
 while without tlie re:l si in warriors slept in apparent 
 safety. But their deadly enemies, the Iroquois, that. 
 fierce and remorseless tribe, were ever on the alert, and 
 during the still night, when the Mic-Mac encampment 
 slept peacefully, the enemy crept through the under- 
 wood of the island, and lurking behind some tall pine 
 trees, the Iroquois braves, awaited the time to destroy the- 
 foe. With fiendish ingenuity, they silently surrounded 
 the cavern, piled fagots at its entrance and set fire to 
 them. Then, with wild, despairing cries, the Mic Macs en- 
 deavored to escape, but those who got free from the fire foil 
 a prey to the scalping knife, and out of two hundred only 
 five remained to tell the tale of the massacre on the island. 
 
 
4) 
 
 HIE KEEPER Of BIG LI'Jin JIOrSE. 
 
 But to return to Pierre Grenier. On reaching the 
 island he threw himself under the shadow of the pine 
 trees, and feeling completely worn out by the events of 
 the last twenty-four hours, lay down on the grass and 
 was soon fast asleep. For hours ho slept and dreamed 
 of his life in Quebec, a life of honesc toil in that quaint, 
 old world city, with its fortresses, its citadel, its con- 
 vents and churches, its many remnants of departed 
 military glory. He dreamed of the home of his child- 
 hood, where all who knew him loved and respected him, 
 and the sweetest dreams he was to have for many a 
 weary year came to him that afternoon. 
 
 When he awoke it was dark, the sun had set, the air 
 was chill. A sound of bells floated towards the island. 
 It was the Angelus from the village church. From force 
 of long habit Pierre rose, removed his hat, made the 
 sign of the cross and muttered the Hail Mary. A deep 
 silence followed the ringing of the Angelus, and with it, 
 in a wave of returning consciousness, the memory of 
 the day's events came to him. 
 
 He was a murderer, ah ! Yes, he shuddered at the 
 thought — a murderer and an outcast. Where should he 
 go? What could lie do? He, Pierre Grenier, was a 
 •criminal ; he, once so respected by his fellow-men. And 
 he would be taken, worst of all, he would be put in 
 prison ; they would shut him up. Ah ! he could not 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 41 
 
 the 
 
 bear that, he would go mad ; he could not live if he 
 were shut up even for a day. He, child of nature, 
 loved the river and the woods ; prized above all things 
 his liberty to come and go as he wished. No, he would 
 •^0 far across the sea, far from all who knew him. But 
 Julie — he must see her once again, must tell her that 
 he did not mean to kill that man who had lied about 
 his visit to the point. 
 
 It was dusk, now. He could safely venture to cross 
 to Cic, so he again launched his bark and paddled 
 through the dark waters. Fastening the canoe securely 
 on the beach, he walked up the narrow path, and soon 
 found himself outside Madame Lafleur's little garden. 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 To one another I for the world, which seems 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams. 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 MADAME Lafleur's cottage was well hidden from 
 the road by the luxuriantly foliaged apple trees 
 which surrounded it, so that Pierre felt certain he could 
 approach without being perceived by any one passing 
 on the main road. The night was clear, the moon had 
 not yet risen, but there were many bright stars twink- 
 ling over head, and shining brilliantly in the clear 
 Canadian atmosphere. The difficulty was to make Julie 
 aware of his proximity without alarming her suddenly, 
 or allowing his presence to be discovered by any one 
 else. There ! he could see shining like a beacon through 
 the shade of the orchard, the light in the kitchen win- 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOVSE. 
 
 4r 
 
 dow ; the blind was not drawn down, and, ah ! now he 
 could see Julie herself moving about busily amongst 
 the dishes which she had finished washing and was 
 putting away in the old-fashioned cupboard fastened to 
 the wall on one side of the room. And there was 
 Madame Lafleur fast asleep in her great red and black 
 striped rocking chair. He knew of old that nothing 
 short of an earthquake could awaken her from her after 
 supper nap. Julie had nearly finished her task —now 
 was his opportunity, for come what might, he must 
 speak to her to-night ; he must endeavor to clear him* 
 self in her eyes, at least of guilt of the hasty and ter- 
 rible act he had committed, for at the sight of her sweet, 
 pure face, a great rush of love and tenderness came 
 over hira, and a wild longing seized him to go to her, 
 confess his sins, and be assured of her forgiveness. 
 
 He tapped on the window-pane, and at the unex- 
 pected sound, the girl started and grew pale, nearly 
 dropping the tea-cup she held. But she recovered 
 quickly, for country nerves are not easily shaken, and 
 came to the window, opened it, and saw Grenier. 
 
 " You, Pierre?" she cried. "Are you mad to come 
 here ? Don't you know they are after you ? The whole 
 village has turned out in pursuit." 
 
 *'I don't care, Julie, they will not know I am here ; I 
 have come to say good-bye ; I shall not be taken ; I 
 
44 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 iimiiil '^ 
 
 iit! 
 
 
 Ki'li'l" 
 
 [|i!il!i!ij 
 
 11 
 
 I 
 
 mw 
 
 have my canoe, and can go to the other side of the 
 river, where no one knows me. I can stay among the 
 Indians for a time. But Julie, I could not go without 
 seeing you first." 
 
 "But, my poor Pierre, you cannot talk here, my 
 mother will hear you and some one may come into the 
 house at any moment. Go back to th e orchard, the 
 trees are thick there, {»ud no cue can see you from the 
 road. Now, quick, go ; I will ujilow you." 
 
 He had but regained his hidinj^ place a moment 
 •when she came to him, and now he could see that her 
 face was very white, and her eyes red and swollen 
 with tears." 
 
 " Oh, Pierre," she said, " I have so longed to see you. 
 I did not believe them when they told me. I have been 
 hoping to see you, and to hear from your own lips that 
 you did not kill Jean Pinsonneault. I told them it 
 was not true, and that I did not believe their wicked 
 tales, and I sent them from the house. I would not 
 listen." 
 
 " Julie," he said slowly, as if pronouncing his own 
 death-warrant, "Julie, it is but too true, they were 
 right. Friends, ah ! I suppose were the first to tell you, 
 they always are ; bah ! it is their way — they love to 
 gloat over their friends' misfortunes. Yes, shudder, turn 
 away. I knew you would hate me, Julie." 
 
 11' 
 
 iiiiiiiliiyi 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT nOUSE. 
 
 4(^ 
 
 " I do not hate you, Pierre," she whispered. 
 
 "You will, though. Yes, I did kill Pinsonneault,. 
 though heaven knows that T did not intend it. He 
 attacked me before a dozen people, and said that I stole 
 Wilson's treasure, and he bribed old Jacques to tell lies 
 of me. I was wild, I could not bear his sneering 
 words, and his taunts raised up all the devil within me. 
 I was reckless, Julie, I hated the man, I hate him yet, 
 but I swear to you, that mad with anger as I was, I had 
 no intention of even striking him until he grasped my 
 arm. Julie, I was wild with rage : I could not measure 
 the force of my blow, and then he dropped down dead* 
 It was terrible to see him lying there, cold and still, his 
 white face looking up at me, and seeming to say, ' now 
 you have done yoiir worst ' ; it haunts me now, Julie, 
 and it will to the end of my life." 
 
 He shuddered, and broke down completely, for the 
 strain of the day was telling on him at last, and as he 
 sobbed bitterly, his whole frame was convulsed and 
 trembling. 
 
 '' My dear one," said the girl, placing her cool hand 
 on his forehead, " my dear one, do not give way like 
 this. Pierre, I do not hate you ; what a poor thing my 
 love would be, if it could change like that. You must 
 believe once and for always, Pierre, that I love yon with 
 my whole heart and soul, and even had you intention- 
 
■jl ii 
 
 46 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE, 
 
 HllJiiiiilliil 
 
 i:illi:"ilii 
 
 ,,nJl!!ii 
 
 •I 
 
 lliilli 
 
 
 ally done this dreadful thing, I could not change to 
 you." 
 
 He looked up gratefully at her ; for the first time for 
 many an hour a ray of hope dawned on his horizon. 
 She went on, — 
 
 " But you must not be taken though, you must 
 escape. Listen, I have suddenly thought of a plan. 
 Pierre, to-night, T know, for Guillaume the pilot told me, 
 there is a steamer expected from Quebec. It will 
 stop at Father Point to let oif the Quebec pilot, at about 
 four o'clock this morning. Now, you have your 
 canoe ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " "Well, you must start almost at once, paddle down 
 the stream and watch for the steamer. Wait, though, 
 till the pilot boat gets off, then you will be able to slip 
 on board in the darkness, for she will not put on full 
 steam for a moment after the pilot goes, and then you 
 can ask the Captain to take you across. It is a small 
 ship, and there will be no difficulty." 
 
 " But, Julie, he will surely refuse ; I have no money 
 here, and I cannot go back to my house." 
 
 " Stop, I have thought of all that. Wait a moment, 
 
 I have a little money in my room, I saved it last 
 
 year. You must take this, and it will pay your way 
 
 cross the Atlantic. Once on the other side, you will 
 
 thing 
 
: 
 
 ge to 
 
 ne for 
 )rizon. 
 
 must 
 I plan, 
 old me, 
 Lt will 
 t about 
 3 your 
 
 down 
 hough, 
 to slip 
 on full 
 en you 
 a small 
 
 money 
 
 loment, 
 
 1 
 
 it last 
 
 I 
 
 ur way ^| 
 
 ou wil 
 
 ■ 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIQIIT HOUSE. 
 
 easily get work. You remember Jacques and Jean 
 Lamontagne, who got carried over last year, when it 
 was too stormy to let the pilots off. Well, they told me 
 that they got good wages in Liverpool all winter. You 
 are a better workman than they, and you will have no 
 difficulty in getting work. Pierre, my dear one, it 
 breaks my heart to have you go, but it is better than 
 having you taken and shut up in prison. Now, wait 
 here till I come back ; I shall not be a moment." 
 
 " Julie, I cannot take your savings. It is generous of 
 you, but I can not rob you in this way." 
 
 " Pierre, what is the use of my money if I cannot 
 help you. Wait, I shall not be long." 
 
 She was gone before he could reply, but the unhappy 
 man felt cheered by her words and faith in him. 
 Wliile Julie loved and trusted him, there was still hope 
 left in the wide world ; the touch of her cool hand on 
 liis heated brow had seemed to take away the raging 
 fever of his brain, and the memory of her words fell 
 like soothing balm on his anguished spirit. 
 
 " But, how long the girl was coming back, had any- 
 thing happened to her ; how had she been detained ? 
 Ah ! the moon was up now, he could see distinctly all 
 over the garden, but through the thickly wooded orchard 
 no flutter of Julie's white gown was visible. Why did 
 f?he not return ? Surely there was so little time that 
 
48 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 ii!illi!i|ilii!!;i 
 
 they could spend together, that every moment was pi(3- 
 cious. He must venture out, he would risk it, there 
 was no danger now, the village was all asleep, and not a 
 soul had passed by on the road. Yes, he wouhl venture 
 once more to the kitchen window, and see what was 
 detaining Julie. For one instant of time the moou 
 shone out brightly, then it was overcast by a thick, dark 
 cloud. Now was his chance, he stepped forward quickly, 
 reached the window, and raised his arm to tap on the 
 pane, when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and 
 a gruff voice said, 
 
 " Pierre Grenier, I arrest you in the name of the 
 Queen, for the murder of Jean Pinsonneault. You must 
 come with me." 
 
 ' I 
 
 itfiiii 
 
 Mm 
 
 ,vm 
 
 m 
 
 :ii 
 
 ! " Yo 
 
 ~ nothing 
 
 i " Do 
 
 I "We 
 
 ^ sisters, 
 
 visions 
 
 knittjnf 
 
 hut eacjj 
 
,' 1 
 
 there 
 
 not a 
 
 nture 
 
 : was 
 
 moon 
 
 , dark 
 
 lickly, 
 
 > 
 
 on the 
 ir, and '* 
 
 i s 
 
 CIIArTEU V. *. :. 
 
 " Friendship is peldom truly tried but in extremes. To find 
 friends when we have no need of tlieiii, and to want ihein when 
 we have, are both alike easy and comuion," — Feltham. 
 
 Y dear Captain Sniythe, I am goiuL? to have my 
 own way this time. I am tired of everything, 
 and I'm determined to have a change ; everything 
 wearies me completely, and I'm satiated with dinner- 
 parties, teas and gossip, and all the pomps and vanities. 
 I'm going to devote myself to good works, for a 
 chaime." 
 
 "You will tire of them pretty soon, too. I know of 
 notliing so fatiguing as philanthropy." 
 
 " Do you speak from experience ? '' 
 
 " Well, ah ! no, not exactly, but each of my eight 
 sisters, in turn, tried that sort of thing, carrying pro- 
 visions to old women, in baskets, over muddy roads, 
 knitting stockings, and reading to them, and all that, 
 
 but each of them got tired of it except the one who 
 
 4 
 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
so 
 
 THE KEEPER OF DIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 married the curate of the paiish, and she will have to 
 ply the philanthropic role all the rest of her life," replied 
 Obptain Smythe, in his slow, drawling tones. 
 
 " Oh, well," said Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, " my philan- 
 thropy is more interesting than that, besides, I think 1 
 Tiave a righteous cause, and in spite of what you all 
 say, I am going to interest myself in this girl, and 
 exert all the little influence I possess in helping her." 
 
 " I'm sure I wish you every success, thousjh I'm ex- 
 tremely doubtful about it. You see, I , I don't 
 
 believe in women, especially women like you, mixing 
 themselves up in such matters, and people are saying 
 that you do it just for the sake of notoriety. No, I 
 don't like it." 
 
 "That is because you are a little behi-^d the age,, you 
 know ; though of course there is some excuse for you. 
 You are an Englishman, and don't understand that our 
 opinions go for much more on this side of the Atlantic 
 than on yours.'' 
 
 " That may be so, but I don't want you to be involved 
 in a losing game, for losing it is sure to be, and I am 
 perfectly sure that Mr. Fitz-Robinson will not approve 
 of it." 
 
 " There you are mistaken again, for he does, and he 
 will," replied pretty little Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, triumph- 
 antly," he approves of everything I do, and what is 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 51 
 
 more, he says he will help me in every way he can, so 
 there vou see you are wrong again." 
 
 "C , ^ suppose it is all right in that case, and I have 
 nothing more to say about your new freak, but I am 
 very tired of hearing about these people, and prisons 
 ami disagreeable matters in general. Let us talk about 
 something else. Are you going to the opening of Par- 
 liament on Thursday week? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the lady, " I always put in an ap- 
 pearance at that funrtion, thougli I must say it is rather 
 a bore " array one's self in evening dress in the middle 
 of til _;' ; still, you know it is the correct thing for 
 all the ministers' wives to go." 
 
 " I suppose there will be any amount of gaiety here 
 this winter," went on the Englishman. 
 
 "Oh, a fair amount, I suppose, but you, at any rate, 
 as cikJc dc camp to His Excellency, will have your hands 
 full, and 1 hope you will bear your heavy responsibilities 
 better than your predecessor did. The mistakes he 
 made were something appalling. Whenever I think of 
 them, even in church, I find myself going into fits of 
 laughter — internal, of course." 
 
 *' Why, what did he do ? " 
 
 "What did he not do? That question would be 
 be more to the point. His sins were chiefly those of 
 omission. When he first arrived on the scene, he abused 
 
 ft 
 
 i 
 
 
 i 
 
62 
 
 IIIE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 iisiiii 
 
 Canada and everything Canadian. Then, you know, he 
 had the sending out of the invitations, and he used to 
 get them wofully mixed up. Once tliere was a grand 
 dinner-party given by the Governor-General, and this 
 youth sent out the cards — amongst them one to poor 
 Mr. Beverley, and his wife, who has been dead for five 
 years. Mr. B. wrote and exphiined, but next time the 
 invitations came for his wife all tlie same, and tlie 
 afflicted widower's harrowed feelings could bear the 
 strain no longer, and he went himself to the aide de 
 cam}) and protested. Apologies were of course made, 
 and when the official next sent in his official corrected 
 list of guests, he wrote to enlighten his secretary : * Mrs. 
 Beverley still dead.' That was what he considered a 
 good joke, but we did not see it in the same light." 
 
 Captain Smythe laughed. 
 
 " Yes," continued Mrs. Fitz-Eobinson, " I could go on 
 for hours telling you of his silly mistakes, and I assure 
 you when he returned to his native country, we were 
 all delighted to speed the parting lest. We Cana- 
 dians, you will find, are very inde xident, and resent 
 any slights such as this young sprig of nobility seemed 
 to enjoy putting upon us. I warn you in time, so that 
 your career may be a more brilliant and successful one." 
 
 The above conversation took place in Mrs. Fitz- 
 Eobiuson's pretty house in Ottawa. This lady was the 
 
 J 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 6r 
 
 go on 
 assure 
 were 
 Cana- 
 reseiil 
 eemed 
 that 
 ■I one." 
 Fitz- 
 as the 
 
 wife of the Hon. Peter Fitz-Ilobinson, one of the 
 Canadian statesmen. A good many people generally 
 dropped in on Wednesday afternoons, on which day 
 Mrs. Fitz-Eobinson was always at home, for this was 
 one of the show houses in the capital, and its mistress 
 was a charming, if somewhat unconventional, hostess. 
 It was early yet in the afternoon, and Captain Smythe, 
 tlu; new aide cle camp to the Governor-General, was the 
 only visitor. To tell the truth, this young man had 
 found time liang very heavily on his hands since his 
 arri\iil from England a few weeks before, and spent a 
 great part of every day in the Honorable Peter's house, 
 and when she had time to attend to him, he found the 
 honorable Peter's wife a very puzzling, albeit interesting, 
 character. 
 
 She was so refreshingly original, she did not bow 
 down and worship at his shrine, as did most of the 
 women he knew in England, for he was a professional 
 beauty in his way and very conscious of the fact, and 
 he had an extremely captivating manner of singing 
 doleful songs with a tenor voice and a woe-begone air, 
 which had proved disastrous to the peace of mind of 
 many a fair and foolish British maiden. 
 
 Though Mrs. Fitz- Robinson considered that the 
 latest importation needed much snubbing, she still al- 
 lowed him to wile away his spare time in her house, 
 
 
 'HS'SBtra ' 
 
54 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 '■A 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 which was from cellar to garret a thing of beauty, for 
 both the minister and his wife spent much time and 
 money on its embellishment. 
 
 The drawing room in which the hostess sat this after- 
 noon was a very dainty apartment, its windows looking 
 out on the high cliffs of the Ottawa River, now frozen 
 hard and white. Even on this mid-winter day, however, 
 the windows were garlanded with Spanish jessamine, 
 growing in great Dresden boxes, and the walls and 
 ceilings were covered with soft silken material of palest 
 pink, like the first flush of early dawn, interwoven with 
 threads of silver. A chandelier of pink Venetian glass 
 formed to represent clusters of convolvuli, hung from 
 the ceiling, and all the sofas, arm chairs and rocking 
 chairs, for which Mrs. Fitz-Robinson had a great 
 fancy, were upholstered in pale pink velvet, embroid- 
 ered with silver in quaint fantastic patterns. The floor 
 was covered with great white bear rugs, the gifts of 
 one of her husband's sporting friends. Nowhere in 
 the room was any wood work visible, even the framts 
 of the long narrow mirrors were swathed in pink velvet, 
 and in each corner and niche of the windows were 
 placed pink marble statues by Coustcn. Under the 
 chandelier stood a round console table draped with 
 cloth of silver of the Fifteenth Century, and on it 
 stood a great pot of pink camellias in full bloom. 
 
THE KEEPER OF DlC LIGHT HOUfSE. 
 
 5S- 
 
 That all might be in keeping with the roseate hues- 
 of her surroundings, Mrs. Fitz-llobinsou had arrayed 
 herself in a picturesque tea-gown of softly falling pink 
 silken stuff, lavishly ornamented with lace, yellow from 
 ai,'e, and, in truth, she looked a very charming picture 
 'ssiding at her tea-table, covered with its dainty egg- 
 bhell China cups and saucers and spirkling service of 
 silver and crystal. Looking at her, one could hardly 
 blame the Hon. Peter for thinking everything she did 
 was perfect, although she occasionally did very un- 
 conventional things, and had an enthusiastic warm- 
 hearted way of taking up people in misfortune, which 
 caused her to be hardly judged by the good Pharisees, 
 whose pulses never C|uickened at the sight of distress,, 
 and wliose holy eyes were cast heavenwards in saintly 
 expostulation at many of the little lady's oid freaks. 
 lUit she did not care and went on her way smilingly, 
 idways makins; new resolutions and as often breaking 
 tliem. Everything and everybody all her life-long had 
 combined to spoil lier ; to begin with she was an only 
 (laughter, and then when she was but nineteen 
 Mr. Fitz-Eobinson, a man many years her senior,, 
 had married her, and had allowed her to do just aa 
 she pleased ever afterwards, so that tlie many good 
 points in her character had never been brought out nor 
 sternly chiselled by adversity. In spite of all her 
 
«6 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 spoiling she was a very lovable little woman, very 
 fond of enjoying the good things this life offered her 
 in such abundance, but never callous to snfforing, nor 
 hardened by her prosperity, and with the younger 
 members of the community in the Dominion Capital 
 she was extremely popular. 
 
 Towards five o'clock her drawing room became 
 crowded with people coming in on their way from tlie 
 rink, to gossip and partake of tea and thin bread and 
 butter. Bright-eyed maidens, with their cheeks glowing 
 and rosy, after skating in the bracing wintry air, 
 chatted gaily and discussed the probabilities of a gay 
 season. In fact everything was fully talked over, from 
 tlie latest English visitors at Government House to the 
 frills on Lady K's new gown. The young people were 
 trying hard to prevail upon Mrs. Fitz-Robinson to give 
 her usual ball this winter, for she had declared that she 
 was going to give up such frivolty. 
 
 " You know," said a tall, rosy cheeked girl, a true 
 Canadian type, " you know it is my first winter out 
 and I had counted on your ball to make my debut, but 
 now you devote all your time to tliis French friend of 
 yours. I am sure I am us worthy an object for your 
 ■charity as she." 
 
 " I suppose after all I shall have to give in," said 
 Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, sighing, " especially as we have 
 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 57 
 
 just received letters of introduction from friends in 
 England, sent to us to-day by a Lord Camperdown. 
 lie must be in Ottawa. Do you know anything of 
 him, Captain Sinythe ?" " ' . > ■ . 
 
 " I ? Yes, of course I do. He is a visitor at Gov- 
 ernment House." 
 
 " What, that pompous looking man I saw with the 
 Gnveniment House people in town yesterday ?" asked 
 the L;irl, who was anxious to have the ball given. He 
 lo)ks as if lie had swallowed a poker." 
 
 " Yes, that's the very man. He is going to be out 
 here all winter ; he has some land in the Northwest 
 and has to look after it, but he will make Ottawa 
 his heathpiarters," replied Captain Smythe, laughing." 
 
 " I'm sure by his appearance he will be a great ac- 
 quisition to us," said the girl sarcastically. 
 
 " My dear," remarked an elderly lady, Mrs. Green 
 by name, who had hitherto kept silence. " My dear, 
 yen must remember that he is a member of the British 
 aristocracy. He's fifth Viscount Camperdown, you 
 know." 
 
 " Well, what of that ? I maintain that he is a very 
 ridiculous individual, and I don't care whether he is a 
 dozen Lords rolled into one ; that would not alter my 
 opinion in the least." ' 
 
 Mrs. Green looked shocked and said reprovingly in a 
 
mi^mmm 
 
 M 
 
 TBI! KEEPER OF £IC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 Itl 
 
 ill 
 
 solemn tone as if she were delivering a funeral oration : 
 ** My dear, you are very young. You have, I'm afraid, 
 since you were in New York, imbibed some of those 
 horrid Eepublican ideas, but as you grow wiser you 
 will learn to reverence our beautiful aristocracy. VVhy, 
 Lord Camperdown's ancestors came over with William 
 the Conqueror. 
 
 " How do you know that ?" asked Miss King. 
 
 " How do I know it ?" said Mrs. Green, looking- 
 round deprecatingly. *• How do I know it ? Why, 
 have I not lor years studied the peerage an 1 foUowei 
 the movements of these people wherever they went. 
 When my grandfather was knighted by George the 
 Fourth our family were intimately connected with 
 all the aristocracy and we have kept up our connec- 
 tions ever since — why Lady Tweedledee writes to me 
 every Christmas in her own beautiful hand writing, 
 and the Marquis of Noacres always sends over a bunch 
 of dried shamrocks on St. Patrick's Day, and" — • 
 
 " For goodness sake stop that woman's reminiscenses," 
 whispered Mrs. Fi'.z Robinson to Miss King. " Give 
 her this tea, tell her to try my plum cake, anything, or 
 we shall have anecdotes both of the whole upper ten 
 thousand at home and abroad related to us." 
 
 Miss King obeyed, inquiring if the lady took sugar 
 and cream in her tea. 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 W 
 
 K 'M 
 
 " Cream, please, my dear, no sugar ; nobody who is 
 anybody takes sugar now-a-days. I like it, you know, 
 but last time I took tea with thedenr Countess of Lang- 
 lois, she said in surprise, when I asked for sugar : 'My 
 dear, it is very vulgar to take sugar, you must break 
 yourself of this bad habit, now do for my sake.' " 
 
 " Very rude of the Countess, I am sure," said the 
 girl. " Most probably she wanted to economize ond 
 told you that, but you needn't mind that here. Mrs. 
 Fitz-Eobinson will let you have as much as you want."^ 
 
 " No, never," said Mrs. Green, heroically : " Never 
 will I break the sacred promise I gave my noble friend* 
 To my dying day I will drink my tea unsweetened." 
 Fearing more endless repetitions of the sayings of the 
 nobility, Mrs. Fitz-Eobinson hastily interrupted the 
 loquacious lady, saying : 
 
 " I suppose, after all, the best way of entertaining 
 this Lord Camperdown, will be to give a ball, for we 
 must show him some civility. He is a great friend of. 
 Mr. Fitz-Eobinson's cousins, in London, and they asked 
 us to be kind to him." 
 
 "What, are you going already, Captain Smythe, and 
 you, too, Mary ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Miss King, " we dine early, you know, 
 and my father is very punctual Good-bye, Mr. Fitz- 
 Eobinson ; good-bye, Mrs. Green — now do take sugar 
 
 WS' 
 
 Mm 
 
e)" 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 w 
 
 in your tea in future. I am suro. Lady Tweedledee or 
 the Countess would grant you absolution if you told lier 
 how VL'ry fond of it you are." 
 
 ' Very soon, all were gone, and the uiistraies of the 
 house was left alone. She was one of those people wlio 
 hated being alone, and now she glanced at the clock on 
 the mantelpiece to see if there was time before dinner 
 to call on her latest friend. It was only six o'clock, 
 there was fully an hour and a half, for the much worked 
 minister was usually detained till after seven. She 
 rang the bell, and ordered her sleigh to be got ready at once, 
 and hastily dressed herself in a long, fur cloak and cap. 
 
 " Drive to 107 Vittoria street," she said to the 
 coachman. Twenty minutes later he pulled up at a 
 poor-looking house, in one of the back streets of the 
 city, and Mrs. Fitz-Robinson alighted, and inquired for 
 Mdle. Lafleur. 
 
 " Yes," she is in, said the slipshod house-keeper who 
 •came to the door. " Will you go up to her room ? It 
 is at the top of the house." 
 
 Mrs. Fitz-liobinson ascended the shaky staircase and 
 entered Julie's room, which had the appearance of being 
 better than the rest of the cheerless house, for the girl 
 had brightened it by covering the furniture with pretty, 
 bright chintz and lace, and hung clean, white curtains at 
 the window. • . . . • 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 61 
 
 *' Ah, inadame," she said, rising from the table at 
 ^vhich she had been writing : " Ah, madame, it is good 
 of you to come to me. Take this chair it is the most 
 comfortable in the room." 
 
 The girl had changed a great deal since we last saw 
 her in Bic ; she had lost her bright, careless expression, 
 which had been her chief attraction there, but her face 
 had gained a more matured, if chastened, beauty, and 
 there was a pathetic appeal in her great, dark eyes. 
 She was thinner, too, and tlie color in her cheeks was 
 har.lly so bright as when she weeded her garden in the 
 bracing atmosphere of her native St. Lawrence, for city 
 Hfe and its conventional ways had oppressed her, but at 
 the sight of her friend, her pale face lightened up, and 
 her old animation, for the time, returned. 
 
 " Yes, madame," she said, " I think I have improved 
 tlie room. It was very bare and cold, and it did not 
 take long to cover these chair« — it reminds me of 
 
 hon 
 
 le. 
 
 " It is very pretty, Julie, but I can only stay with 
 you a few moments. I have been wondering what had 
 become of vou. I have not seen you for more than a 
 week. How have you been getting on ?" 
 
 " Oh, just the same as ever, madame." 
 
 ''And what news of Pierre V' • - 
 
 " Hc! has been very ill lately, Madame. The prison 
 
 mmv. 
 
€2 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 doctors fear that he will go into consumption. The 
 confined life has been telling on him. I am very 
 anxious." 
 
 " You must cheer up, Julie," people always exagger- 
 ate in letters, and things may not be as serious as they 
 appear. You know, Julie, my husband takes quite an 
 interest in you and Pierre, and he is almost sure that 
 we shall get him released on the plea of extenuating 
 circumstances. Now all depends on you, and you must 
 be brave and cheer up. You look very white, and you 
 need a change. Now, I am going to give a ball next 
 week, and I want you to help me with the decorations. 
 Will you come ? Did you ever see a ball, Julie ?" 
 
 " No, madame, never. I have seen them dance on 
 Saturday evenings, at Bic, in the school- room, but they 
 did not call that a ball." ' 
 
 "No, I should think not, said her friend, smiling. 
 Well; you will see mine, and that will amuse you. Bv 
 the way, have you heard from that nice priest, who is 
 so kind to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, madame — see, here is a letter. It came by 
 this morning's post." 
 
 " Eead it, please." 
 
 The girl obeyed, and read M. Gagnon's letter, which 
 ran as follows : — 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 63 
 
 "My dear Julie: 
 " I liave just heard of the arrival in Ottawa of a man whom 
 they call Lord Camperdown. I knew him long ago, and have 
 maay claimfl on his consideration. He is influential, and may be 
 able to help you, as he is a guest of the Governor-General. If 
 you cannot obtain an introduction to him in any other way, send 
 him the enclosed note, and then he will not refuse to see you. We 
 are still searching for the treasure, and I believe at last we have 
 eonie clue to its discovery." 
 
 With, every good wish, 
 
 Believe me, 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 A. Gagnon, 
 
 Pretre, 
 
 " That is a curious letter, remarked Mrs. Fitz-Robin- 
 son. What can M. Gagnon know about this Lord 
 Camperdown ? You will have no difficulty in getting 
 an introduction to him, for I can manage that. But of 
 couise if the treasure ia found, that will practically 
 smooth matters for us, and make it more easy to obtain 
 pardon for Pierre. A murder committed in a moment 
 of anger, and a murder committed in order to silence 
 the victim and conceal a theft, are two very different 
 things. But you must keep up your courage, Julie, for 
 I am certain all will yet be well. Now I must go. 
 Don't forget to come on Thursday." 
 
 It was now three years since Pierre had been taken 
 from Bic, and during these three years there had not 
 been a day that Julie Lafleur had not thought of him. 
 
 !>ii 
 
 !1i 
 
 II 
 1^' 
 
 ■1' 
 
 a 
 
 iiii 
 
1 
 
 1 
 
 64 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIQIIT HOUSE. 
 
 ;IRI 
 
 If ; 
 
 ■ ;'' 
 It 
 
 It' 
 
 and prayed forliim before the altir of the little village 
 churcli, for in these remote districts the rush of 
 modern life and thou<^ht had not as yet induced that 
 feverish restlessness, wliich is the baiie of oui nim-- 
 teenth century life. There tlie good people in their 
 primitive way were simple and niitund, and lived their 
 lives out in unrullled calm. They went to mass regul- 
 arly, they believed firmly in all the saints, no problems 
 of modern unbelief vexed theii' lieiu.; or wrinkled their 
 brows with vain imaginings and doubts. Tliey were 
 good, they were happy, they were kind hearted and un- 
 sophisticated, as are the French-Canadians on the 
 shores of the great river, and tlii^y were, oh ! blessiil 
 characteristic, content. And, as in their religion, so 
 were they in their affections — constant. It never oc- 
 curred to Julie, as it mi<^ht have done to a town-bred 
 maiden, that now her lover was unfortunate, there was 
 no reason that she should be faithful to him. It is to 
 be feared that Julie was far fiom being nineteenth 
 century in her ideas, and she clung to his memory 
 with a devotion touching as it was rare. But she 
 could not idly fold her hands while he suffered, and she 
 felt that she must act in some way, though at first her 
 thoughts about the course she ought to take were very 
 vague. M. Gagnon tried hard to change the current 
 of her ideas, for he saw that she was becomins][ morbid 
 and feared for her health. 
 
 I i»g, < 
 
THE KEEPER OF DIG LIGHT HOnSE. 
 
 e^ 
 
 "Julie," he said to her one day, " yo i must take 
 heart. Suppose we all succumbed, as you do, to 
 our individual sorrows, what a world this would be." 
 
 " M. le curd," she answered him, abruptly, " can you 
 not let me go in peace ? Do I trouble anyone ? I do 
 not cry aloud. I do not talk to you of Pierre Grenier, 
 tlioui^h Heaven alone knows that I think of him evkiy 
 houi of my life. Yes, M. Gagnon, I picture him toil- 
 ing, toiling, day after day, week after week, year after 
 ye.'ir, in that prison. Pierre Grenier shut up witliin 
 four walls lor ever, thinic of it ! He who loved the 
 woods, who hated to be indoors ! Oh, it makes me 
 wild." 
 
 " ]My child you must be patient." 
 
 "lUh!" she said, disdainfully, "patient. You do 
 not understand. You are good, of course. You are a 
 priest, but I am human, and T tell you M. le cure that 
 I would rather share that prison, terrible as it is, with 
 Pierre Grenier, than live in a palace without him ; yes, 
 a '1 ^ >re than that, I would not go to Heaven without 
 
 .., but wi him I should consider the place of 
 i^nnishuient a happy spot." 
 
 M. le curd was deeply shocked at the girl's sudden 
 outbreak, and replied reproachfully : 
 
 " My poor cliild. Is this all my teaching has done 
 for you ? My child, _ jrhaps the good God saw that 
 
 >f\ .[11 
 
 W 
 
€6 
 
 TUE KEEPER OF BIG UGRT HOUSE. 
 
 you were setting up an idol in his place, and removed it 
 from you ?" 
 
 Julie took no notice of M. le curb's remark, and the 
 good man decided that unless something could be done 
 to divert her thoughts from one channel she would uo 
 out of her mind. But he was mistaken. This was 
 the first and only time she had given v/ay to her grief, 
 and, after this one outburst, she never spoke again iti 
 this manner. Few knew of the long hours, when all 
 the village was asleep, she spent before the high altar 
 m the church, praying for the release of Pierre Grenier. 
 An idea had been firmly taking root in her mind that 
 she might become the instrument of his return to 
 liberty, and this grew to be a sort of craze with her. 
 She sold her poultry, eggs, and flowers (though her 
 mother sometimes remonstrated at her denying herself 
 little luxuries) and thus earned many a dollar, which she 
 hoarded with a miser's care. 
 
 From Pierre directly she heard but little. He was 
 sometimes permitted to write to her, but his letters 
 were very short and had little news of himself in them. 
 There was a despondent ring about them, like the song 
 of a wild bird caged, and drooping and pining for the 
 woods and rivers and clear bracing air of the Canadian 
 forests. After he had been at tlie prison for three 
 years, an outbreak occurred one day amongst the con- 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 67 
 
 victs and Pierre had been instrumental in quelling it, 
 and was highly commended by the authorities for his 
 courage. The newspapers gained possession of the story, 
 as they do now-a-days, and it was exaggerated of course, 
 but in Pierre's favor, and his whole past career was 
 told afresh, thus rousing much sympathy in his behalf. 
 
 It was during the same summer that Julie made the 
 acquaintance of a young American lady, who had come 
 to Bic for July and August, and this lady had taken a 
 great fancy to her, not only because of her history but 
 because of a certain attractiveness about the girl her- 
 self. It was she who suggested that Julie might suc- 
 ceed better if she could be enabled to appeal herself, to 
 the highest authorities in the land, and with that facility 
 for undertaking new enterprises which belongs to her 
 nation, the bright American said she was quite ready 
 to accompany Julie to Ottawa if she would go. At 
 that time it so happened that the wife of the Governor- 
 General was a certain Eoyal Princess, equally famed 
 for her benevolence and kindliness of heart. 
 
 " And why shouldn't we appeal to her ?" the Ameri- 
 can said. 
 
 " Well, you know," replied the cure, who happened to 
 be present, " our high personages are rather diflicult to 
 approach, and I don't know whether the Princess would 
 )iave any influence, supposing, even you did succeed in 
 
68 
 
 IRE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOU^E. 
 
 I'll 
 
 1 
 
 obtaining an audience. You know we don't think so 
 much of influence as you Republicans do," with mikl 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " Well, I don't care, we can only fail," the fair Repub- 
 lican retorted. "And if I were Julie, I would leave no 
 stone unturned. Julie, when can you be ready to start ? 
 you see it will be better to go while Pierre's late 
 achievement and courage are still fresh in the public 
 mind." 
 
 " Oh I I can go any day you like," said Julie, for the 
 first time in many a month, showing some sign of 
 animation. 
 
 So it came to pass that one September day, Julie and 
 her newly found friend set out for Ottawa, armed with 
 a few letters of introduction from M. le cure. 
 
 Many had been the obstacles in their way, First of 
 all, old Madame Lafleur strongly objected to her daugh- 
 ter undertaking the long journey, then the expense 
 was more than Julie could afford, and M. le cur^ was 
 inclined to throw cold water on the scheme. 
 
 But the American overcame these objections, and 
 opened her own well-filled purse to Julie, and after a 
 journey up the river by boat, and a short stay in 
 Quebec, they arrived safely in the Dominion Capital. 
 
 But here new dilficulties beset their path. Most of 
 the influential people were out of town, it would bo 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 69 
 
 some months before Parliament would open, and till 
 then Julie could hardly hope to eftect much. 
 
 At first the novelty of her surroundings amused and 
 interested her, but as this wore off she found time hang 
 very heavily on her hands and grew despondent. Her 
 friend was called away suddenly by the illness of her 
 mother in New York, and she was left alone in a little 
 lodging in Ottawa. But before the American girl left, 
 she discovered that she had an old school- fellow living 
 in the town, who had married one of the ministers. 
 They met by accident in che street, and the minister's 
 wife, Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, had become much interested 
 in the French-Canadian girl's history, and in her 
 enthusiastic manner was very kind to her after her 
 American friend had gone home, and often had her 
 at her house, and endeavored to make the weary 
 months of waiting pass more quickly. 
 
 ix^ 
 
l! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Tne flowers all are fadirg, 
 
 Their sweets are rifled now ; 
 
 And night sends forth her shading 
 
 Along the mountain brow ; 
 
 The bee hath ceased its winging 
 
 To flowers at early morn : 
 
 The birds have ceased their singing, 
 
 Sheaf'd is the golden corn ; 
 
 The harvest now is gathered, 
 
 Protected from the clime ; 
 
 The leaves are sere and wither'd 
 
 That late shone in their prime." 
 
 Ousely. 
 
 AS soon as his trial was over, Pierre Grenier had been 
 taken to Montreal, and thence to the penitentiary 
 of St. Vincent de Paul. A more dreary day than that 
 on which he arrived at the prison, could scarcely be im- 
 agined. The rain, on this N"ovember afternoon, was 
 pouring down in torrents, and the journey from Mont- 
 real to the French village where the penitentiary is 
 situated, was prolonged for three hours, owing. to an 
 accident on the line. All this weary time the unhappy 
 
 J 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 71 
 
 man and his guards waited between Montreal and their 
 destination, and a journey which is generally accom* 
 plished in an hour, occupied the whole afternoon. 
 
 At length they arrived at the station of St. Vincent 
 de Paul, and here a carriage from the prison was await- 
 ing them. The rain still poured down, and it was^ 
 intensely cold at this unsheltered place. The ram- 
 shackle conveyance, hardly to be dignified by the name 
 of carriage, was dragged along by a horse that seemed 
 to have lost all his vitality, and the wheels continually 
 stuck in the muddy ruts of the rough, uneven road» 
 the driver and guards being obliged to descend from the 
 carriage, and by main force push the great clumsy 
 vehicle out of the slough of mud and water, which 
 detained it. 
 
 During these frequent stoppages, Pierre had plenty 
 of time to look around him., as he was not allowed to 
 descend, and the prospect on which he gazed did not 
 tend to enliven him. Isle Jesus, on which the prison is 
 situated, is not an inviting spot at any time, and this 
 afternoon it looked particularly dreary. In the distance 
 lay tlie dark and narrow streran of the Piviere des 
 Prairies, wliich runs past the island, and the prisoner 
 could not help contrasting it with his last glimpse of 
 his beloved St. Lawrence, as it lay blue, clear and 
 shining in the bright October sunlight. 
 
72 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 The village throufjh which Pierre and his guards 
 now passed, was like hundreds of other French Cana- 
 dian villages in the Province of Quebec, and there was 
 nothing to characterize it as being the situation of a 
 great penal colony, till they had driven by most of the 
 dwelling houses in the principal stragi^liug street. Then 
 they came to a row of small houses, shaped like enlarged 
 sentry boxes, and arranged in uniform regularity of 
 uncompromising ugliness. These were the houses in 
 Avhich the out-door guards of the penitentiary lived. 
 
 At length the walls of the prison itself were reached. 
 It was a large, grey limestone building, its desolate 
 app(!arance enhanced by the iron bars across each win- 
 dow. On their arrival, Pierre Grenier was immediately 
 conducted to the warden's room and ordered to change 
 his clothes, and put on the penitentiary uniform, which 
 consisted of thick, white cotton trousers, a coat, one half 
 of which was rediiish brown, the other yellow, and a 
 cap of brown and yellow cloth, with the figures 278 
 marked on it. 
 
 " Pierre Grenier," said the warden, glancing sharply 
 at him, " henceforth you have no name, you will be 
 known as number 278." 
 
 The prisoner winced at this last humiliation added to 
 the many he had already borne, and in truth there was 
 something terrible in this eflaceinent of his individu- 
 
THE KEEPER. OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 73 
 
 ality, this loss of the very name by which his fellow 
 men had known him. Henceforward he was not a man, 
 he was only a machine known as number 278. 
 
 Ijuring these wretched hours, the only comfort he 
 had was the remembrance of M. Gagnon's last words to 
 hiu), and the assurance of Julie's constancy and faith in 
 him. At their last meeting, before he had been taken 
 to Alontreal, she had resolutely declared that she would 
 devote lier whole life and energy to obtain his release. 
 He bad smiled incredulously then, but to-night, in his 
 dreary cell, he took comfort in the thought that at least 
 two faithful souls would cherish his memory now that 
 lie was for ever cut off from the busy haunts of man- 
 kind. 
 
 He looked about his cell in a dazed manner; it 
 seemed to him that this could not be himself, this was 
 not Pierre Grenier, who all his free, happy life had come 
 and gone as he would, controlled by no man. This, 
 ri(3rre Grenier, in this narrow room, this miserable cell, 
 twelve feet long and five broad — it could not be. At 
 nine o'clock he heard the warder come to the door and 
 lock it on the outside, and no light or sound came to 
 him from without till five next morning. He might as 
 well have been on a desert island for all that he could 
 hear of those about him, and the first night he was shut 
 in, he felt that he would go mad, all was so still, so 
 
 imi' iii 
 
u 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 I ' 
 
 horribly silent. Well for him that his sentence was not 
 one of solitary confinement, and that for part of the day 
 at least he worked amidst his fellow- beings, for how 
 true is that Italian proverb, which says that the 
 solitary man is either an angel or a devil ; how few 
 natures there are which can fall back on their own 
 resources, and dwell apart in contented loneliness. 
 
 At length Pierre fell asleep, and did not waken till 
 .the guard came at five o'clock, and bade him fall into- 
 line with the other convicts, to get his breakfast. 
 
 The kitchen of the penitentiary was a large, square 
 room, fitted up with ranges and huge brass pots for 
 cooking, everything being exquisitely neat and clean. 
 The prisoners did not take their breakfast together, but 
 were ail ranged in a line, with their hands on each 
 others' shoulders, and passed down the corridor outside 
 the kitchen. Their food was givtfti them through a 
 wjiidow in the kitchen wall, and each carried it to liis 
 cell and ate it there. Tiiroughout the institution the 
 greatest order reigned, and everything was done with 
 clockwork regularity. Of all the surprising things 
 Pierre saw in the place, the marvellous contrivance for 
 opening or locking the cells was the most astonishing. 
 This was a large iron structure looking like a wheel 
 without any outer rim, and by turning the spokes of 
 it, the warden could open or shut every cell in a corridor 
 
1 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 75- 
 
 simultaneously, or each separately, at a moment's notice. 
 
 After breakfast, number 278 was taken into the chief 
 officer's room. This official addressed him, saying : 
 
 " There is a vacancy now in the blacksmith's shop. 
 Would you like to enter it ? We require every prisoner 
 to work, but we allow a choice. As you have been a 
 blacksmith, you might prefer to tal^e up ,your old 
 trade." 
 
 Number 278 replied hurriedly that he would rather 
 work anywhere than in the blacksmith's shop, and was 
 then told that if he wished he could learn carpenterinfr, 
 for there were several vacancies in that shop. He 
 answered that he would be glad to learn this trade, and 
 the guard conducted him through the court-yard and 
 into another building which was approached by mount- 
 ing a high flight of stone steps. 
 
 At the guard's knock the massive iron door was 
 opened by a stern-faced warder, who saluted in mili- 
 tary fashion, and whose appearance reminded one of 
 that class of Gothic Frenchmen brought to light by the 
 great revolution. This man opened an inner door and 
 number 278 and his guard passed into the carpenter's 
 shop. In this large room there were thirty oonvicts at 
 work and the new arrival was consigned to the care of 
 the foreman in order to learn his trade. And here day 
 after day, month after month, he labored on ; the same 
 
76 
 
 THE KEEPER OF DIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 ,1 ■■/ 
 
 routine was always followed, and each new day was 
 exactly like its predecessor. 
 
 As time wore on, Pierre became resigned to this 
 monotonous existence, and he even enjoyed his work, 
 so adaptive is human nature, but after the first year of 
 this close coiitinement his health began to suffer and 
 his friends would have scarcely recognized in the pale 
 convict, the careless, happy blacksmith who had been 
 wont to sing so cheerily over his forge at Jiic. 
 
 Grenier was a favorite with the warders, who liked 
 this prisoner, because he never complained, and did his 
 allotted task diligently and well. He gave them no 
 trouble and he never attempted to break away, as did 
 many of the other convicts. 
 
 ' Only once, since his arrival at St. Vincent de Paul, 
 had anything happened to break the dull monotony of 
 his daily life. This was soon after the incarceration of 
 a notorious burglar named McKenzie, who had already 
 escaped from two other Canadian prisons. This man 
 was very powerfully built and of great physical 
 strength, and was continually giving the warders 
 trouble, and it always took two or more to overmaster 
 him when he broke out. Six weeks after McKenzie 
 arrived he positively refused to do any more work or 
 to obey any orders, and was consequently locked in the 
 dungeon in the basement of the establishment. The 
 
THE KEEPER OF DW LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 77 
 
 first evening he was imprisoned there he cut the mortar 
 which surrounded one of the largest stones in the wall 
 and by means of his great muscular power pushed it 
 out into the passage and crept through the hole thus 
 made. All was silent within the jsenitentiary, and 
 wiih amazing coolness McKenzie arrayed himself in a 
 giuiid's uniform, which he found hanging in the hall, 
 and escaped out into the village. 
 
 His absence was not discovered till next morning, 
 when three guards were immediately despatched to 
 search the whole of Isle Jdsus for him. There had not 
 been time for him to wander very far, and they soon 
 came upon and captured him near a swampy wood, on 
 the liiviere des Prairies side of the island. It was a 
 matter of some difficulty to take him, for he resisted to 
 the utmost, knocking down one of the officers with a 
 desperate blow, which completely stunned him. The 
 other two men, after a protracted struggle, succeeded 
 in getting the convict back to the prison, where, just as 
 they entered the court yard, the other prisoners from 
 the carpenter's shop were coming across to go to 
 dinner. 
 
 Two of the guards were very pale, and worn out with 
 their exertions, the third was completely incapacitated 
 from the blow he had received, but McKienzie seemed 
 to be little the worse from his exertions. 
 
78 
 
 THE KEEPER OF TilC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 Pierre Grenier, as chance would have it, happened to 
 be standing near the group which was passing in, and 
 saw the burglar wrench himself away from the two 
 guards, who lield him on cither side. Quick as light- 
 ning, McKenzie snatched a truncheon from the right 
 baud guard and raised it to aim a tremendous l)lo\v at 
 his head. Grenier saw the unexpected movement, and 
 dashed forward, regardless of his own peril, and caught 
 the uplifted arm. McKenzie turned on him fiercely. 
 Grenier's strength was not by any means what it had 
 been in the days of his freedom, and it would have 
 fared badly with him had not a new relay of guards 
 come up at that moment and soon overpowered Mc- 
 Kenzie. The incident, insignificant as it appeared at 
 the time, brought Pierre into favor with the author- 
 ities, and because of his brave and prompt action a few 
 little privileges weri granted him, which served to 
 brighten his long days of captivity. The newspapers 
 published a detailed account of the affair, and of 
 course magnified its importance, and public opinion 
 was largely influenced in his favor. Wisely indeed liad 
 Julie's shrewd American friend judged when she said 
 that the time was opportune to pray for his release. 
 
edto 
 I, and 
 J two 
 light- 
 right 
 low at 
 it, and 
 jauglit 
 ercely. 
 it had 
 \ have 
 guards 
 pd Mc 
 red at 
 author- 
 n a few 
 :vcd to 
 spapers 
 and of 
 opinion 
 eed liad 
 die said 
 ease. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "All assemblies of gaiety are brought togetlier by motives of the 
 eaiue kind. The theatre is not filled with those that know or 
 regard the skill of the actor, nor the ball-room by those who 
 ilance or attend the dancers. . . . Whatever diversion is costly, 
 will be Irequented by those who desire to be thought rich, and 
 whatever has, by any accident, become fashionable, easily con- 
 tinues its reputation, because every one is ashamed of not par- 
 taking it." — Johnson. 
 
 MPiS. Fitz-Eobinson's annual ball was a feature of 
 the season, and many a fair young damsel looked 
 anxiously forward to making her first appearance at it 
 witli pleasing expectation, so that although the minis- 
 ter's wife had announced her intention of abandoning 
 the pomps and vanities of the world, she could hardly 
 allow herself to doom so many to disappointment. The 
 evL'ntful night had arrived at last, and every one who 
 was any one, and a good many nobodies as well, were 
 invited, consequently the rooms were crowded, and still 
 ^leij^h after sleigh drove up to the door of the minister's 
 
 I 
 
8J 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 mansion, and deposited its load of etigcr maidens and 
 stately dowagers. 
 
 Julie Lalleur had been in the house all alternoon, 
 helping to decorate the rooms and assisting the busy 
 hostess to add the finishing touches to the wreaths of 
 roses and evergreens which were hung in garlands on 
 the walls. When all was ready, the French girl retired 
 into Mrs. Fitz-liobinson's boudoir, whicii hiid a little 
 wdndow, whence an excellent vievv of the ball-room was 
 obtained. This boudoir, of course, was in keeping with 
 the rest of the house, and was so daintily arranged th;tt 
 Julie paused, on entering it, for a moment in silent 
 admiration. It was hung with pure white plush, em- 
 broidered with wreaths and bunches of violets, nnd all 
 the chairs and tables were of white lacquered wood, 
 with Mrs. Fitz-ltobinson's favorite flower, the violet, 
 artistically painted thereon. 
 
 Through a half open doorway she caught a glimpse 
 of the lady's sleeping apartment, with its couch of 
 lemon wood, shaped like a gondola, hung with sails of 
 lemon-colored silk, instead of curtains. As in the case 
 of the other rooms in th^'s ideal house, the boudoir iloor 
 was covered with white bear rugs, and gems from the old 
 masters hung on the walls. 
 
 By the time the French girl had fully investigated 
 the art treasures of her benefactress's sanctum, the 
 
 of 
 eluei 
 
 siun 
 ill [II 
 
 CUlib 
 
 aiiiin 
 a dec 
 
■^ 
 
 THE KEEPER OF UlC LI GUT IIOU^E. 
 
 81 
 
 ball was at its li(*iglit, and sttaius of delicioiisly dreamy 
 dance music fell upon her ear uiili s(jft, harmonious 
 iA -• ; the whole scene was new to her, and conse- 
 (jiiently delightful. From the little window overlook- 
 iii" the bail-room, she could see bright faced "iris lloatini; 
 by, enj'iying to the full the enchantment of the ha^ir> 
 aiid ihi-re was Mrs. Fitz-Iiobinson herscdf, looking her 
 best in her new Parisian gown, and not afar off the 
 lion. Teter, watching her movements with unaffected 
 admiration. 
 
 To tell the truth, Mis. Fitz-liobinson was more thaa 
 a liitle bored, for although everything was going on 
 well, and the ball was a decideil success, she liad to be 
 Very civil to the guest of the evening, Lord Cauiper- 
 (luwn, and she found it very difficult to entertain him. 
 
 Il was indeed a thankless task, for his lordship was 
 seldom known to make more than three consecutive 
 reiuaiks, and these were the short, ejaculatory sentences 
 of "Ah ! " " Yes ! " and " Heally ! " Of course a clever 
 eloLutionist might put a world of meaning and expres- 
 sion into these words, but his Iwdship was not clever 
 ill any way, and Mrs. Fitz-Robinson did not lind the 
 constant reiteration amusing ; in fact, it wearied and 
 annoyed her beyond measure. Lord Camperdown was 
 a decidedly handsome man, of the stolid f^nglish typCj 
 stiii in the prime of life ; indeed, he did not look 
 
 G 
 
«2 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BJC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 over forty, but tl;e peerage set him down as nearer 
 half a century. His fair hair was scarcely touched 
 with grey, and his complexion was pink and white as 
 that of a girl in her teens. This man, his friends were 
 wont to say, had a conscience clear as the noon-day 
 sun — nothing ever ruflled him, and he was popular with 
 most people, for he found life run mucli more smootldy 
 without troubling to contradict or quarrel with any one, 
 at any time. He had no strong opinions — religious, 
 social or political — consequently lie lived a very un- 
 troubled and calm existence in the busy world of 
 London. He could not understand the ambitions of 
 many of his contemporaries, who, though possessed of 
 ample incomes, could yet take pleasure in working much 
 harder than their own servants. He never felt a wish 
 to be at one and part of the great organizations affecting 
 national life to its very depths, nor to feel himself an 
 integral part of the great forces which cause humanity 
 to progress in its onward march. No, he was content 
 to be a spectator of the great game, and his pulses never 
 quickened, nor did his brain exhaust itself in working 
 out problems which it could not hope to understand. 
 Small wonder, then, was it, that at fifty, Lord Camper- 
 down looked young and fresh, and that no wrinkles had 
 marred the serenity of his calmly aristocratic brow. 
 The lively Mrs. Fitz-Robiuson in vain pointed out 
 
 the beau 
 exhauste 
 in the va 
 conversal 
 sincerely 
 
 oce, 
 tall laily i 
 women, ai 
 good joke 
 "Ah! ^ 
 evening. 
 
 "Yes, r 
 there is 1 
 little man, 
 every one 
 Tnere was 
 last year, ai 
 find coat 
 Ih'own at 
 cliaracter 
 
 i ' iO wa 
 
 it?" 
 
 Lord Ca 
 I'nved his 
 boisterous 
 for the vul 
 
TRE KEEPER OF BIC LKi'^P HOUSE. 
 
 83 
 
 the beauties of the Dominion capital to his lordship, 
 exhausted her small stock of jokes and most of her wit, 
 in the vain endeavor to amuse this stolid guest. The 
 conversation continued to be one-sided, and she wished 
 sincerely that his lordship had remained at home. 
 
 '• Sue," .lie said, making a despairing effort, " see that 
 tall lady in crimson, she is one of our strong-minded 
 women, and tl • b^st general who was here made a very 
 good joke about her." 
 
 ''Ah! yes, really?" remarke<l the guest of the 
 
 oveninc'. 
 
 " Yes, really," continued Mrs. Fitz-liobinson, " see, 
 there is her husband — Mr. Brown — that meek, pale 
 litlle man, you must see him to understand the point ; 
 every one knows that she rules him with a rod of iron. 
 Tiiere was a big fancy ball given at Government House, 
 lust year, and Mrs. Brown looked magnificent in a helmet 
 and coat of mail, as ' Britannia.' I did not see Mr. 
 Brown at all in the crowd, and asked the general what 
 character he represented." 
 
 " T!iO waves, I suppose," he answered. Clever, was n't 
 it ? " 
 
 Lord Camperdown smiled serenely. He never al- 
 lowed his calm dignity to be rallied by anything so 
 boisterous as a lauifh, no, laughing and v/eeping were 
 for the vulgar herd ; aristocracy did not permit the 
 
84 
 
 'IIJE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 indulgence of sucIj emotional extremes. Surely there 
 must be an invisible golden coronet on this man's heu'l 
 reminding him alwnys of his dignity, and even in the 
 democratic new world he was hedged about with a 
 stand-off, "I am holier tlian tliou" air, which impressed 
 many people immen?ely and caused tliem to take him 
 at his own estimation. But Mrs. Fitz- Robinson was 
 never impressed by that kind of influence, and as the 
 evening wore on this member of tlie peerage wearied 
 her very considerably. He could or would not dance, 
 but the duties of a hostess obliged her to see that he was 
 entertained in a manner befitting liis rank. Towards 
 twelve o'clock she saw him standing alone again at 
 one end of tlie long ball room, gazing witli languid un- 
 interested eyes at the merry dancers as they wheeled 
 round in always varying evolutions. She must rnakc! 
 another effort, and crossing the room to the cornei' 
 where his lordship stood, said ; — 
 
 " Lord Camperdown, I am afraid you find all this 
 very tiresome. Would you like to see over the house ? 
 Everyone seems to be getting on very well and I can 
 leave the dancing room now. It might amuse you to 
 see our curiosities. You know both Mr. Fitz-liobinson 
 and I take a great deal of trouble in arranging this old 
 
 r 
 
 house." 
 
 " Ah ! Heally — yes, I should — ah, like to see it very 
 
THE KEEPER OF lUC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 85 
 
 much," replied his lordship, wishiii:^ that he could go 
 home and not be bothered any more." 
 
 " Then come with nie. I will take you to the pic- 
 ture gallery. We have just added two or three par- 
 ticularly good paintings to the collection," she said 
 leading the way. 
 
 Passing through the hall they encountered the Hon. 
 Fetor, who was discussing the political situation with 
 two or three ministerial friends, and who paused to ask 
 where his wife was taking Lord Caniperdown. 
 
 "To show him the house and the picture gallery, she 
 replied. 
 
 " That's right my dear, and, by the way, don't forget 
 the new picture by Jules Brettm. It arrived just be- 
 fore dinner. I forgot to tell yuu. There wasn't time 
 to hang it in the gallery, and I told the man to leave it 
 in your boudoir. Be sure to let Lord Camperdown see 
 it. It is a splendid bit of color and reminds me of 
 some scenes in French Canala. That is why I bought 
 
 it." 
 " Ah ! my husband is very patriotic," remarked Mrs. 
 
 Fitz-Iiobinson, as she mounted the broad oaken stair- 
 case, lighted with daik crimsm lamps which threw a 
 rosy radiance on all around. " He is intensely pa'.riotic. 
 He lias the most profound br-lief in tin; future of 
 Canada." 
 
86 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 " Pieally," said bis lordship with faint interest. " Ah I 
 Very nice, I'm sure." The supper of the future was of 
 infinitely greater importance to him, and he devoutly 
 hoped that it was in the near future. 
 
 "This is my boudoir," said Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, open- 
 ing a door on the right hand side of a long corridor on 
 the second landing. " It is very dark. Just wait a 
 moment while I turn up the light." 
 
 The room was all in shadow except for the fitful glow 
 from the log fire in the small grate, which shot up sud- 
 denly as Lord Camperdown glanced towards a large 
 arm chair where Julie sat sleeping placidly. 
 
 "Great Heavens !'Mrs. Fitz-Eobinson, who is that T 
 he cried in an agitated voice, which contrasted strongly 
 with his ordinary calm, even tones. 
 
 Mrs. Fitz-Ilobinson turned and saw the girl. She 
 had forgotten all about her. How beautiful she looked 
 to be sure, as she lay back unconscious of observation 
 among the \iolet velvet cushions, her golden brown 
 hair contrasting in rich beauty against the imperial 
 coloring. The rosy flush of sleep was on her cheeks, 
 and all trace of care and anxiety had vanislied now. 
 
 " That," answered Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, " that is a 
 little French friend of mine. You seem rather taken 
 aback, Lord Camperdown. I forgot all about her, else 
 I would not have brought you in here. Poor girl, she 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 8T 
 
 is tired, we must not disturb her. Come away. You 
 can see the picture an{»tlier time." 
 
 She turned the light down again and they went out 
 as noiselessly as they had come, leaving the room with- 
 out awakening Julie, who, unaccustomed to late hours, 
 had lieen very weary and overcome with sleep. 
 
 "What on earth is the matter, Lord Camperdown ?'* 
 his hostess said when they returned to the brilliantly 
 lighted hall, and she perceived that the fresh color had 
 left his face, and his eyes had in them a strange, almost 
 terrified, expression. 
 
 " Ah : Ah ! Nothing, that is, ah ! I Iiave a little 
 weakness about the heart and any excitemei.t upsets 
 nie verv much." 
 
 "You liave had very little excitement this evening.*' 
 
 "Ah! yes, pardon me, your delightful ball and all 
 that," he said, evasively, and then, perceiving the 
 hardly veiled incredulity in the lady's face, he went 
 on with the air of a man who resolves to make a clean 
 breast of it. Ah ! the fact is, my dear Mrs. Fitz- 
 Piubinson, your friend, the young lady in the boudoir, 
 reminded me so much of a favorite ah ! er — sister I 
 lost two years ago and of whom I was very fond." 
 
 It flashed across Mrs. Fitz-Ilobinson's mind that she 
 remembered Mrs. Green assuring her that Lord Camp- 
 erdown had been an only child, and on matters con- 
 
%8 
 
 THE KPJEPFR OF ETC LIGUT HOUSE. 
 
 nected with the peerage Mrs. Green never inacle mis- 
 takes, 
 
 " A sister, did you sny ?" she inquirrd rather heart- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Yes, 'er — yes, my sister. I lost ]ier two years ngo 
 and it was a great shock to me. Yes, I suff'-'r from my 
 heart, and the slightest thing upsets me." 
 
 He looked so very much upset and completely uu- 
 iiei'ved that Mrs. Fitz-Ilobinson thought he was goinif 
 to faint, and hastily summoning a servant, ordered a 
 glass of sherry to be brought him. After drinking this 
 he seemed better and his fresli color slowly returned. 
 
 " I am really sorry you were so upset by the sight of 
 my little friend, Julie," remarked Mrs. Fitz-Eobinson. 
 It will be painful, perhnps, for you to meet her again, 
 and I had hoped to have interested you in her sad his- 
 tory. LUit you will not be likely to care to meet any- 
 one \\ho reminds you of your er — cr — sister.'' 
 
 "Oh, I daresay she is not really like her, it nmst 
 only have beei. one of those chance resemblances," said 
 His Lordship, hurriedly. 
 
 "Yt'S, I expect if you saw my little French-Canadian 
 friend from llic closely, you would scarcely see the like- 
 ness a second time." 
 
 What was the matter \^ith Lord Camperdown now? 
 Why did this n)an come to balls if he was affected in 
 
 .1' 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 CO 
 
 this ciirions way — he oiiglit to go to a hospital rather, 
 thoiiLjIit liis puzzled hostess, because for a second time he 
 orew dea'lly pale, and coidd utter no articulate sound, 
 though afterwards Mrs. Fitz-Kobinson declared that 
 the word "]^>ic" proceeded from Ids tightly closed lips. 
 He came to Idmselfslowly and apologized for alarming 
 her, bt^u'L'inL]' to be exeuseii. He would not wait until 
 his sleiL^h came, hut said he would drive to the Yice- 
 Rei^id resideneein an ordinary one. He was much dis- 
 tressed at having marred the harmony of her evening, 
 and tiiially requ<'sted her to make his adieux to the 
 lid!). re<"er, and assured her tliat he would soon re- 
 covL'r from his temporary weakness, wliich was aggra- 
 vated, in all probalility, by the change of climate. 
 
 ]\rrs. Fit z- Robinson said good niglit with many 
 expressions of regret and rejoined her other guests. 
 The ball continued till the small hours of the morn- 
 iii'j:, and was always looke'l back upon as one of the 
 best ever given in Ottawa. After everyone had gone, 
 the host and hostess stood in the empty ball room 
 talking over the events of the evening and comparing 
 nott-'S. 
 
 " And what did Lord Camperdown think of the new 
 picture ?" asked Mr. Firz-Robinson, after having with 
 much patience listened to his vvife's enthusiastic descrip- 
 tion of Lady N.'s new gown. 
 
90 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 i i 
 
 " I don't know. He didn't see it." 
 
 "Didn't see it ? I thought, my dear, you took him 
 specially to look at it ?" 
 
 " The poor man got an attack of the heart and had to 
 go home suddenly. Didn't you miss him at supper ?" 
 
 "No. I don't think so. I was busy attending to the 
 wants of the dowagers and I had not time to miss any- 
 one. 
 
 " My dear," said his wife, musingly, " there is some- 
 thing very odd about this Lord Catnperdown. Non- 
 sense, you needn't laugh, I am sure of it ? " 
 
 " You are letting your imagination run away with 
 you as usual." 
 
 " I have no imagination, as you ought to know. I 
 am a thoroughly practical person, but I'm perfectly 
 convinced that there's some mystery about that man. 
 By the way, do you remember the otiier day ]\Irs^ 
 Green was here at dinner and she told us about the 
 pedigrees of all the visitors at Government House ?" 
 
 " Yes, of course I do. AYho could forget it? She 
 talked as usual of nothing but the British aristocracy 
 the whole evening. I got thoroughly sick of her and 
 them. But what has that got to do with Lord Camp- 
 erdown ?" 
 
 " Don't you remember she said that she had looked 
 him up in both Bn^ke and Debrett, as she always does 
 
 ' VM 
 
TUE KEEPER OF BIC LIQIIT HOUSE. 
 
 91 
 
 any. 
 
 any new arrival, and had found the extent of his rent- 
 roll, ancestry, and that he was the only child of the 
 last baron." 
 " Yes. I remember all that perfectly." 
 "I'm so glad. I knew I wasn't mistaken," said 
 the little lady triumphantly. Now, what could be 
 Lord Camperdown's object in telling me, a perfect 
 stranger, that he had had a sister to whom he was sa 
 much attached that a chance resemblance to her made 
 him faint." 
 
 " My dear, if he told you that you may rely upon it, 
 he told you the truth. Mrs. Green has probably made 
 a mistake. But, I see you are determined to weave a 
 romantic history about this extremely commonplace, 
 elderly gentleman. Wait till to-morrow, for you look 
 very tired. Now, good night, and don't dream of your 
 mysterious Lord Camperdown." 
 
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CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ! 
 ; 
 i 
 
 I 
 I ■ 
 
 t(i 
 
 Ceremony keepii up things; 'tis like a penny glass to a rich 
 €>pirit, or some excellent water ; without it, the water were f^pilt 
 -and the spirit lost-' — Selden. 
 
 JULIE had not waited until the end of the ball, for 
 she was very much fatigued, and had gone back to 
 her lonely lodging, slipping away quietly without dis- 
 turbing her kind friend. When she arrived at the door 
 of her boarding-house, it was opened to her by her 
 landlady, who handed her one of those aggravating mis- 
 sives on yellow paper, folded so ingeniously, and sealed 
 with a red stamp, that when in a hurry one is always 
 certain to tear the most important part of the tele- 
 graphic message. This was exactly what Julie did, and 
 it took her quite half an hour before she could collect 
 the scattered fragments and piece them together to 
 make a consecutive sentence, which ran thus : — 
 
 " Good news ; I leave to-day for Ottawa." 
 
 M. Oagnoit. 
 
THE KEEPER Of BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 o:^ 
 
 B8 to a rich 
 were f^pilt 
 
 e ball, for 
 le back to 
 hout (lis- 
 t the door 
 er by her 
 Eiting mis- 
 ind sealed 
 is always 
 E the tele- 
 e dill, and 
 aid collect 
 iogether to 
 
 (Jagnon. 
 
 M. le cur^ leaving for Ottawa, — then the news must 
 be good, indeed, to justify this important step ; and 
 JuHl' at once jumped to the conclusion that the long 
 niissiug pirate treasure must be foun-l. For many a 
 long night she had not slept so soundly as on that of 
 Mrs. Fitz-Kobinson's ball, and she dreamed of Bio in 
 suninier-titue, and thought she was paddling in Pierre's 
 c;\noe tar out into the waters of the great St. Lawrence, 
 as she was wont to do before this grief had come upon 
 her and changed the whole current of her life. 
 
 Xext morning, the first thought that occurred to her 
 was that M. Gagnon would arrive that day — but was 
 that possible ? She glanced again at the patchwork- 
 like pieces of the telegram, and saw the date. No, it 
 was hardly possible that he would come to-day, but she 
 would go and tell her kind friend, Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, 
 the news was too good to keep to herself one moment 
 longer than she could help. 
 
 This lady had hardly recovered from her exertions of 
 the previous night, still she received Julie, and ex- 
 pressed her delight at the telegram. 
 
 " Of course it means that the treasure is found, there 
 can Ije no doubt of that," she said. 
 
 " Do you think so, Madame ? " 
 
 " Certainly, I do ; I am sure of it. But M. Gagnon 
 cannot be here for two or three days yet, and you nmst 
 
 ■1" 
 
., 
 
 M 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIO LIQUT HOUSE. 
 
 not excite yourself, if he does not come for a week. I 
 always thought, my dear, that things would turn out all 
 right in the end for you, and now I am certain of it. 
 Now, Julie, what did you think of my ball ? " 
 
 " It was very fine, Madame ; I was quite dazzled, 
 though ; and the dresses, Madame, oh ! they were 
 splendid." 
 
 " Yes, I think it was a success ; I tried hard enough 
 to make it so, I'm sure. Now, there is only one more 
 show I want you to see before you leave Ottawa, and 
 that is the opening of Parliament. It takes place 
 to-morrow, in thy Senate-Chamber, and I have got you 
 a ticket for the gal ery. You may never have an oppor- 
 tunity again, and it is a sight well worth seeing. I 
 shall call for you at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. 
 and drive you to the House. Must you go, now? 
 Good-bye, then ; I'm glad to see you in such good 
 spirits, to-day. Au revoir 1 " 
 
 " So it came to pass that Julie Lafleur, on the follow- 
 ing afternoon, was comfortably seated in a corner of the 
 Ladies' Gallery, overlooking the Senate-Chamber, and 
 waiting to see the grand old-world pageantry amidst the 
 rawness and newness of this continent, which takes 
 place in Ottawa every year. This particular Thursday 
 happened to fall on a cold, blustering February day, 
 when a typical Canadian snow-storm raged without, and 
 
'wm^ 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIOIIT HOUSE. 
 
 95 
 
 veek. I 
 n out all 
 .ia of it. 
 
 dazzled, 
 ley were 
 
 i enough 
 )ne more 
 awa, and 
 :es place 
 3 got you 
 in onpor- 
 leeing. I 
 ifternooD) 
 50, now? 
 ucli good 
 
 le follow- 
 ler of the 
 aber, and 
 midst the 
 lich takes 
 Thursday 
 'uary day, 
 ;hout, and 
 
 the wind blew fierce and shrill round the nooks and 
 <;rannies of the grey stone Parliament Buildings. For 
 months, this day had been talked about, and many 
 were the fair dames, from all parts of the vast 
 Dominion — from Vancouver's Pacific shore, from the 
 rocky Atlantic coast of Cape Breton and Prince 
 E(* ward's Isle — who had come to be present at this 
 political and social function of the opening of Parlia- 
 ment. 
 
 The Senate-Chamber was all li^'ht and color, its 
 crimson hangings contrasting harmoniously with the 
 li<;ht gowns of the ladies, and the dark blue and gold 
 uniforms of the state officials. At three o'clock, a can- 
 non fired a royal salute from a distant point on the 
 other side of the river, giving the signal for the entrance 
 of the Eepresentative of Her Majesty in Canada, who 
 came attended by his guard of honor and aides des camp^ 
 in the gorgeous paraphrenalia appertaining to vice- 
 royalty. He took his seat, and round him were grouped 
 many of those distinguished statesmen whose names 
 will be handed down to posterity, as the pioneers of 
 successful national movements in our great Dominion. 
 There to the right were to be seen the rugged features 
 of the Premier, standing out a massive figure, clear and 
 distinct in his striking personality, towering,' over the 
 iieads of those in front of him. Here to the left, were 
 
 i H 
 
9G 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 vaiious picturesque Freuch representatives, remindiii;^ 
 the observer of those stately French counts and uobLs 
 of the old regime, bowing to their fiiends with courtly 
 grace. And in little groups further forward, were 
 seated the judges of the Supreme Court, clad in their 
 crimson robes, bordered with ermine, and near them, 
 serving for another contrast, wi^re the high ollicials of 
 the Anglican and Roman Catholic churches, attended 
 by minor curates and deans, from outlying districts. 
 
 The unsophisticated spectator in the gallery was 
 vastly amused by the performances of a little gentle- 
 man in black, who spent all his time in walking across 
 the floor of the Senate Chamber bowing, as she t) uij^ht, 
 to no one in particular. He carried a long black stick, 
 and had Julie been initiated into the manners of ilie 
 great world, these little bows, so dehghtfully rendered, 
 must have filled h^r with envying admiration. They 
 were so regular, so precise, so exc|aisitely self con- 
 scious. 
 
 How could they be otherwise, for was not the whole 
 house filled with dignified and exalted personages en- 
 tirely engaged in gazing at this little figure, which ap- 
 peared to Julie very small, to attract so much atten- 
 tion. The ceremonies soon came to an end. Parliament 
 was declared to be opened, all the exalted and non- 
 exalted people departed, and the ladies were not slow 
 
•'^■ 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT llOVSu. 
 
 0T 
 
 liiidiiiL; 
 nobles 
 sou illy 
 I, were 
 I their 
 
 them, 
 5ials of 
 : tended 
 cts. 
 
 ry was 
 geiiLle- 
 ; across 
 ) aight, 
 i stick, 
 
 of the 
 iidereil, 
 They 
 If cou- 
 
 B whole 
 ifjes eii- 
 ich ap- 
 1 atteu- 
 liameiit 
 id noii- 
 lot slow 
 
 iu finding their sleighs and driving home through the 
 frosty air. 
 
 Julie had had some dilfieulty in leaving the gallery, 
 owing to the crowd, and in this way had missed Mrs. 
 Fitz-Eobinson. The latter, after waiting for a time, 
 conel- ded that the girl had gone home, and conse- 
 quently did net look for her. 
 
 On emerging from the gallery, Julie missed her way 
 to the main door and accosted a very polite official, who 
 guided her and offered to show her the various objects 
 of interest in the buildings. She willingly accepted 
 his offer, and the guide proved to be a very efficient one, 
 for he had been acting as cicerone for many years, and 
 under his care she saw every nook and cranny in 
 the magnificent buildings. While in the picturesque 
 Gothic library, one of the finest examples of that scyle of 
 architecture in this country, the guide' was called away, 
 and Julie was again left to herself. It was dusk now 
 and everyone seemed to liave gone from the place, 
 except a few late students who were poring over the 
 old volumes, in a distant corner. 
 
 Suddenly, from lier seat, she saw pass by the door- 
 way the flutter of what she knew to be the black robe 
 of a priest, and caught a glimpse of the rugged, ascetic 
 features of Father Gagnon. Yes, she was sure it was 
 
 he. He walked in just that quick, jerky way ; ah ! she 
 
 i 
 
98 
 
 THE KEEPER OF DIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 would follow him, he must be starching for her. But 
 on reaching the main corridor there was no sign of him. 
 Wherfi could he have gone ? Perhaps he had timed 
 down this way. She threaded her way through what 
 seemed to her an endless labyrinth of passages, and felt 
 bewildered. Wnere could he be ? She was just giv- 
 ing up in despair* wlien the sound of voices reached her 
 from a little alcove in a side hall. That was the cure's 
 voice. Yes, there was no mistaking those clear, tren- 
 chant tones ; Init there was a note in his voice now 
 which Julie had never heard before. A stern, tlireai- 
 ening, angry cadence, and the voice wliich answered 
 him, though she couhl not distinguish the words, was 
 equally angry, in its liauglity, sarcastic accents. She 
 must interrupt them, however ; she must tell the cure 
 of her presence here. 
 
 , *'■ M. Gagnon," she said, stepping forward and holl- 
 iug out her hand. " ^1. Gagnon, 1 am so glad to see 
 you. I did not know you had arrived.** 
 
 The priest turned sharply round at her words of 
 greeting, no sign of pleasure in his voice, and the man 
 to whom he had been speaking looked at the girl 
 anxiously for an instant and then made a movement as 
 if he would walk away. 
 
 But the curd detained him with a glance, saying : 
 " No, you do not escape me now. You must answer 
 
w 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIOUT HOUSE. 
 
 99 
 
 
 . But 
 of liim. 
 trrned 
 h what 
 ind felt 
 List giv- 
 iied her 
 e cure's 
 r, treii- 
 ice now 
 threat- 
 nsweved 
 irds, was 
 ts. ^^he 
 the cure 
 
 nd hohl- 
 id to see 
 
 words of 
 the man 
 the ^irl 
 emeirt as 
 
 ying: 
 5t answer 
 
 ine after all these years. Julie, my child, I have no 
 time to attend to you now. Go liome. I will follow 
 you there." n 
 
 She went without a word. It luid been her life-long 
 custom to obey M. le cur^ implicitly, and she obeyed 
 him now without hesitating. 
 
 " She came opportunely," said M. Gagnon, turning to 
 iho other, a tall, fresh looking man of about his own 
 a;^fe, but in marked contrast to him. One might have 
 served as a model for an early knight of the holy cross, 
 who had overcome the worhl and tlie pleasures thereof, 
 his eyes lighted up with enthusiasm for His Master's 
 cause and the flock which was committed to his charge. 
 The other was of different "stamp. The world to 
 him had been a pleasure ground all his life, to take all 
 the good he could get from it had been the keynote of 
 his career, and until this moment no Nemesis had 
 warned him of a coming judgment. 
 
 " She came opportunely," repeated the curd 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said the other, in his slow, 
 drawling way. 
 
 " I mean that your daughter appeared exactly at the 
 right moment, guided by the good Providence whish 
 watches over the desolate and oppressed." 
 
 " I am at a loss to understand you, sir. My daugh- 
 ter, you said ? She is in E-igland, and this young lady 
 
I<' 
 
 100 
 
 lUE KEEPER OF DIO LIGHT UOUSE. 
 
 I never saw before. My dear sir, I think, with all due 
 respect to your cloth, that you must be mad." 
 
 " Herbert Flower, once and for all, I ask you to settle 
 this matter peaceably. I have no wish to expose you, 
 though you richly deserve it. But I ask for restitution, 
 for some signs of contrition on your part. Are you 
 made of stone ? I could not have believed that human 
 nature was so false as this." 
 
 " My good sir, let me assure you again that you have 
 made a mistake. I have never seen you before, and 
 perhaps for your own peace of mind it will be as well 
 if I never see you again. My poor harmless presence 
 seems to agitate you, you really look ill." 
 
 M. le cur^ had a large stock of patience, but it was 
 now well-nigh exhausted ; there was something horribly 
 exasperating in this man's cool, sarcastic words. Could he 
 have mistaken him — the thought flashed across his mind 
 but for a moment, to die away as quickly as it had come. 
 
 " No, I am not mistaken in you, my lord, as you are 
 called, now-a-days. I am not mistaken in you, Herbert 
 Flower, time has dealt too gently with you for that — 
 you are one of this world's favorites. You feast in high 
 places, you bear an honored name, while your wife and 
 daughter are left, for all you know, to starve in the 
 remote village of Bic." 
 Not a shade passed over the face of the man he de- 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIQUT HOUSE, 
 
 101 
 
 nounced. His self-control was wonderful, as he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I do not know of whom you speak. I know nothing 
 of that remote v'llage you mention. Allow me to 
 assure you that Lady Camperdown and my daughter are 
 both in London at this present moment, and I haven't 
 the slightest idea about whom you are speaking." 
 
 " Herbert Flower, you surpass Ananias and Sapphira, 
 they were nothing to you, but it is to be war between 
 us, I see. I am prepared, and you will regret having 
 defied me. We shall meet again." 
 
 The priest walked away, metaphorically, at least, 
 shaking the dust from his shoes, and the fresh looking 
 Englishman watched him disappear down the corridor, 
 and then sighing, as if a weight had been lifted from 
 his mind, sat down on a bench in the alcove. 
 
 " Great heavens," he said, " that was an ordeal, but I 
 think I came out of it pretty well, considering that it 
 was so unexpected. Who could have dreamed that the 
 old fanatic would turn up at this late hour of the day 
 and recognize me. But I'm perfectly safe, no need to 
 worry about that. Poor Julie, I wonder how the 
 governor came to tell me she was dead ; the wish was 
 father to the thought, I expect. I hope they haven't 
 got that certificate ; if they have, things mipjht be a little 
 awkward for me, but I don't think they car: do much now." 
 
 
 *n 
 
CHAITEPt IX. 
 
 Save, oil I save 
 
 Froti) doubt, when all is double ; 
 
 When wise men are not strong, 
 
 When comfort turns to trouble. 
 
 When just men sufhr wrong. 
 
 When faiths are built on dui?t, 
 
 When love is half mit^trupt. 
 
 Hungry and barren, and sharp as the eea — 
 
 Oh ! set us free. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 ON the morniiiji; following the meeting of Lord Cam- 
 perdown and the good cur^ of l>ic, a small council 
 af war was held in Julie's siiting-room, and Mrs. Fitz- 
 Eobinson, M. Gagnon and Julie lierself, were present. 
 They had judged it best to tell her of Lord Camper- 
 down's relationship to her, and consulted her as to the- 
 advisability of telling her mother of his re-appearance 
 in the country. On consideration, they all agreed that 
 it would be belter to keep silent, for there was no use 
 raking up the ashes of a dead past, or reviving memo- 
 
i^^^l 
 
 THE KEEP Eli Ot DlC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 103 
 
 lies wliich could only bo bitter. Mti.laine Lalleur had 
 settled down comfortably, having outlived her soirow 
 anil become reconciltd to her lot, believing that 'ne to 
 whom she had given her love, slept somewhere bene.'ith 
 *) the green sod, otherwise lie would not have kept silence 
 fill' so long. 
 
 The three had much to talk over ; there was the un- 
 iii'isking of his lordsliip, which would bi a delicate 
 la>k ; there was the wonderful discovery of the old 
 pirate's treasure ; and, lastly, there wns tlie all important 
 Hiu.'Stion ot Pierre's lieaUh, which was, jusL now, in a 
 Very precarious condition. Julie had, only that niorn- 
 inif, received a letter from Pierre Grenier's vvardei at 
 ►St. Vincent de Paul, telling her that tlie prisoner could 
 scarcely work an hour at his allotted task, that he was 
 •gradually losing his strength, and that continually he 
 asked for her. The cure, also, had received a note from 
 till! prison doctor, saying, that whatever was to be 
 dune, must be done quickly, for Grenier had, :n hia 
 opinion, but a few weeks more to live. 
 
 "And what can we do, Madame ?" said Julie, pite- 
 ously. "We are all so helpless, we have no money, I 
 have spent my last cent ; I can do nothing ; it is terri- 
 ble to think that Pierre must be left there to die." 
 
 " He will not be left there to die," said Mrs. Fiiz. 
 lltibinson, " though things look very black just at pre- 
 
104 
 
 THE KEEI'ER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 sent. Unfortunately, I cannot help you now financially. 
 I have overstepped my allowance this quarter, and 
 baldly like to ask for more. But your father must help 
 
 you." 
 
 " My father ? " said the girl, wouderingly, forgetting 
 thi> newly-found relation. 
 ■ " Yes, your father — Lord Camperdown." 
 
 *' I would not ask help from him," said Julie, proudly. 
 ^' Kcver." 
 
 " No, perhaps not, for yourself, my child, but for 
 Pierre's sake, llemember, it is a case of life or death, 
 we must be prompt. We must employ every means in 
 our power to effect his release. This is not a time fur 
 pride, Julie." 
 
 " Madame, rather than accept help from Lord Cam- 
 perdown, I would starve." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Julie, I allow all that, and I admire your 
 independent spirit, but you must put all personal con- 
 si(lerati( ns in the background. You must think of 
 Pierre, and Pierre alone. This Lord Camperdown h;i3 
 wealth, unbounded wealth, and has much influence — 
 we must enlist him on your side, by some means or 
 other." 
 
 "Madame," said M. Gagnon, "it is useless. He will 
 do nothing for us. J met him face to face, yesterday ; 
 he tried to pass me by, but I barred his way. He said 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIO LTGIIT HOUSE. 
 
 105 
 
 .ncially. 
 er, and 
 ust help 
 
 rgetting 
 
 proudly. 
 
 but for 
 r death, 
 leans in 
 ;ime for 
 
 rd Cam- 
 ire your 
 aal con- 
 :hink of 
 3\vn has 
 uence — 
 leans or 
 
 He will 
 sterday ; 
 He said 
 
 4 
 
 he did not know nie, but I forced him to listen. At 
 first I remonstrated gently with liiin,. and implored help 
 for his wife whom he had deserted. He utterly denied 
 having ever met mel>efore, and said I must be com- 
 pletidy mistaken in him, but I could see him wince 
 under my gaze, and knew that it was only a very fine 
 piece of acting on his lordship's part. I could not help 
 admiring th^ man's magnificent self-control, and I was, 
 at first, rather shaken in my own mind as to whether 
 this could actually be the Herbert Flower of the old 
 days, at Bic." 
 
 " M. Gagnon, this man must be met with his own 
 weapons, despicable as they are," said Mrs. Fitz-Robiu- 
 son. "One thing he values, and that is the appro- 
 bation of the world in which he moves. We must 
 strike at the root of the matter — threaten to expose 
 him, but in an unexpected manner. Listen, I have a 
 plan — but no, on second thoughts, I will not tell 
 even you of it. Can you meet in ray boudoir at five 
 to morrow afternoon, in order that I may summon you 
 ill case I need your help in my little plot ?" 
 
 " Yes, madame. at any hour you wish. Julie and I 
 have f«w engagements in your gay capital." 
 
 " Well, then, that ie settled, do n^t be later than five. 
 Kow, M. Gagnon, tell me about the discovery of the 
 mysterious treasure, I havj been wild with excitement 
 
 III 
 
 
IOC 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 to hear all about it ever since Julie told me there was 
 the slightest chance of finding it." 
 
 " Ob, there is not much to tell about that," said Isl. 
 le curd The discovery came about very simply. Old 
 Jacques, the fisherman, died three weeks ago, and of 
 course, when dying, sent for me. You know, Madame, 
 that under ordinary circumstance?, any confessions 
 made to a priest, are sacred, but the old man's conscience 
 gave him no rest, and he felt that he had done Pierre 
 Grenier a well-nigh irreparable wrong, and wished me 
 to write down his confession, and after his death to 
 make it public. It seems that Pierre had incurred the 
 hatred of Jean Pinsonneault by his success in winning 
 the affections of Julie, and the defeated rival had made 
 a vow to revenge himself on the interlope r. For a long 
 time no opportunity presented itself, for Pierre's 
 character was unimpeachable, and every one liked and 
 respected him. At length, however — I verily believe 
 that Satan plays into the hands of his disciples — the 
 opportunity came, and it came through my unfortu- 
 nate carelessness in leaving my spectacles at old AVil- 
 sou's house. You know all that part of the story, and 
 how strong the circumstancial evidence was against 
 
 Grenier." 
 
 " In Jacques' statement he said that both Jean Pin- 
 sonneault and his father had offered him a hundred 
 
 ".'r'SIHMiii,- 
 
«^' 
 
 t m 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 107 
 
 3 re was 
 
 iaid ^r. 
 
 r. Old 
 and of 
 [adame, 
 Sessions 
 iscience 
 i I'ierre 
 hed me 
 eath to 
 Ted the 
 viniiing 
 d made 
 ' a long 
 Piene's- 
 :ed and 
 believe 
 es — the 
 mfortu- 
 Ld AVil- 
 H' and 
 against 
 
 lan Pin- 
 luudred 
 
 dollars, which was a heavy bribe to a poor man in his 
 position, to bear false witness against Pierre Grenier. 
 The old fisherman had, it seems, seen him go into the 
 house about midnight, and come cut in great liaste a 
 few moments later, and when he had disappeared, Jean 
 Phisonneault appeared at the door, taking with him a 
 heavy wooden chest, which he carried slowly and with 
 great difliculty. He was much staitled at seeing the 
 old man and bound him over to silence. Next morn- 
 ing he offered him the bribe and lialf Wilson's treasure 
 if he would help him to incriminate Pierre by telling 
 half the truth. Between them they buried the treasure 
 in old Wilson's garden, and after Jean's sudden death 
 the old fisherman never dared to dig it up," 
 
 "AVhat becomes of it now ?" said Mrs. Fitz-Pobinson. 
 
 " It goes to the church, as old Wilson originally in- 
 tended that it should. In truth, this gold has had 
 many a strange adventure." 
 
 " Indeed it has," said the lady. " I suppose this con- 
 fession will awaken public sympathy in Pierre's case. 
 It seems to me that he was much more sinned against 
 than sinning." 
 
 "It has already aroused much sympathy for him, 
 Marlame," replied the priest. " I have had the con- 
 fession published all over the country, and I think it 
 ^vill bring help in time, but the wheels of the law move 
 
 uV tfi 
 
 :i!!i 
 
108 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 very slowly, and Pierre may be beyond all human help 
 e'er he obtains his release." 
 
 "M. Gagnon, you must look on the bright side of 
 things. What is the use of taking such a gloomy view ? 
 I have the greatest faith in my plan. Wait till to-morrow, 
 we shall see if Lord Camperdown will not be forced to help 
 U8. Now, I must go. Do not fail me to-morrow." 
 
 Next afternoon Mrs. Fitz-Robinson had invited about 
 thirty of the very innermost of the inner circle of 
 Ottawa to one of her delightful little afternoon teas in 
 her pink drawing-room. People always came to these 
 afternoon receptions, though they talked about their 
 entertainer's eccentricities, veiy freely, as soon as they 
 had left the front door steps. That morning, in town, 
 during one of her shopping expeditions, the little lady 
 had met Lord Camperdown, not quite so accidentally 
 as she would wish it to appear, standing at the door of 
 the Russell House. She greeted him with one of 
 her prettiest smiles and invited him to her tea that 
 afternoon, telling him that it was given expressly for 
 him, which was quite true, though hardly in the flat- 
 tering sense he took it. 
 
 The inevitable Mis. Green, with her eternal reminis- 
 censes of the aristocracy, was to the front to-day. 
 She had scented nobility from afar, and wished to gaze 
 once more on the face of a real live lord. 
 
 to 
 
 . 
 
 "spu 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 10^ 
 
 iman help 
 
 it side of 
 imy view ? 
 o-morrow, 
 ;ed to help 
 row." 
 ited about 
 
 circle of 
 3n teas in 
 e to these 
 )out their 
 m as they 
 
 in town, 
 little lady 
 ;cidentally 
 :ie door of 
 ;h one of 
 r tea that 
 )ressly for 
 [1 the tlat- 
 
 l1 reminis- 
 nt to-day. 
 ed to gaze 
 
 " Ah 1 there he is," she said eagerly, to Captain 
 Smythe, who was handing her her tea without sugar. 
 " Ah ! Lord Camperdown has arrived, I see. Isn't he 
 good looking ? See, he's coming to speak to me. Hold 
 my t ja cup, please. Yes, thank your lordship, I am 
 very well and happy to meet you. How do you like 
 this country ?" 
 
 " Very much, really, ah ! very much," said his lord- 
 ship, laconically. 
 
 " I suppose you have had some skating ? You do 
 not have much on your ancestral acres at Camper- 
 down ?" questioned Mrs. Green. 
 
 " N'o, the climate is rather warm for that." 
 
 '• Mrs. Green," put in the new aide-de-camp, " I was 
 at a picnic last night. It was great fun, I can tell you." 
 
 •' A picnic in this weather ?" 
 
 " Yes, a tobogganning picnic. We went first for a 
 long drive to the hill, about four miles out of town, 
 dragging our toboggans with us. Then we lighted fires 
 on the snow and made tea. It was very picturesque, I 
 assure you. The most amusing thing I ever saw in my 
 life happened at it. You know there's a tremendous 
 hollow in the middle of the slide, and alter it the hill 
 goes up suddenly." 
 
 " Yes, I know it perfectly," said Mrs. Green, longing 
 to continue her remarks to his lordship. 
 
 i 
 
110 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 " There were about twenty of us sliding last night, 
 among the number was that pretty American girl, Miss 
 Van Scliuyler." 
 
 " Do you mean the giil with the beautitul hair, \vho 
 is spend inu' the winter with Lady K ?" 
 
 " Yes, the girl witli the beautiful hair," replied Cap- 
 tain Smytho, smiling mischievously, " Yes, she was 
 there, and so were Jones, of the Inland Revenue De- 
 partment, and the dark little Frenchman whose name! 
 forget, but both these youths are devoted to M'ss Van 
 Schuyler. When I first got to the top of the hxil there 
 they were standing, disputing as to which of them 
 should take her down on his toboggan, and Miss Scott 
 was watching them with a great deal of interest." 
 
 " Yes, of course," put in Mrs. Green, " it was re- 
 ported that she and Mr. Jones were engaged, at lea^t 
 the course of their true love seemed to be runnin'4 
 smoothly enough until the fair American came here, 
 then Mr. Jones suddenly transferred his allegiance." 
 
 " Miss Scott had her revenge last night, at any rate," 
 went on the aide de-camp, "and I suppose under the 
 circumstances she is to be forojiven. I never lauiihed 
 so much in my life. Jones and the young lady finally 
 went down together, and all went well until they came 
 first to the hollow and then to the bump in the slide. 
 Then I saw something dark fall from Miss Van Schuv- 
 
jirl, Miss 
 
 mir, who 
 
 ied Cap- 
 she was 
 3nue De- 
 se name I 
 Miss Van 
 hxil there 
 L of them 
 Vliss Scott 
 
 3St. 
 
 was re- 
 at lea^t 
 e runiiiii;^ 
 amo here, 
 lance." 
 any rate," 
 under :he 
 r hiu-i It'll 
 dy finally 
 they came 
 the slide. 
 an SchuY- 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ler's liuad, and this object was picked up a moment 
 afterwards by Miss Scott, who had followed down the 
 slide on the Frenchman's toboggan. All four climbed 
 the hill slowly, Jones and the American girl arriving at 
 the top first. I thought the young lady looked queer, 
 but couldn't make out exactly what was wrong. Pre- 
 sently Miss Scott arrived, and walking over to her rival, 
 handed her before us all, the dark round object, saying 
 in a voice which everyone could hear quite distinctly : 
 " MisB Van Schuyler, I think this is your hair. I 
 picked it up just now." Miss Van Schuyler fainted, 
 and tliere was a scene which I shall never forget." 
 
 " What, all those beautiful basket plaits false ?" said 
 ]\[r3. Green. " It is too bad. But what a spiteful 
 thin!:^ for the other "irl to do." 
 
 "AVasn't it ? Fancy poor Jones' horror. They tell 
 me he has been composing poetry by the yard lately on 
 the American's fair locks, beauty leading him by a 
 single hair, and all that sort of thing. I expect Miss 
 Van Schuyler will leave for the land of the brave and 
 the free, where the stars and stripes wave, to-morrow, 
 and that Ottawa will see her no more." 
 
 " What gossip are you two talking," interrupted their 
 hostess, coming towards them. " Captain Smythe, I'm 
 ashamed of you, repeating such ill-natured stories.'' 
 
 " I'm not repeating stories, I was an eye-witness of 
 the whole thing. It was as good as a play." 
 
112 
 
 THE KEEl'Eli OF LIG LWIIT IIOUSK. 
 
 " You all seem to be in a mood for hearing stnrie3 
 this afternoon," said Mrs. Fitz-llobinson, seating lier- 
 self in her comfortable arm chair and looking at her 
 visitors, who were enjoying their tea, their bread and 
 butter and gossip. " Supposing I tell you a story my- 
 self for a change. It is a true story and very interest- 
 ing, I can assure you." 
 
 *• Then tell it by all means," assented a chorus (4 
 voices. 
 
 " Very well then, I will, as the children say, begin at 
 the beginning. I'm afraid you are not very comfort- 
 able. Lord Camperdown. Take this arm cliair." 
 
 She pushed a large arm chair towards him and placed 
 it directly under the chandelier, so that the soft, clear 
 light fell full on his face, leaving not one line in shadow, 
 And then she draw her chair forward, and quite as it 
 were by accident, seated herself exactly opposite him. 
 
 " Yes," she went on, " it is a true sto.y, tliougli, per- 
 haps, you will not believe it. There is a villain in tlie 
 story, too, a very aristocratic villain. I could hardly 
 believe that such people could exist. Years ago, many 
 years ago, there lived in a remote French Canadian 
 village on the lower St. Lawrence, a pretty French girl 
 named Julie (I forget her other name), but she was the 
 Mayor's daughter. What, going Lord Camperdown ? 
 It is early yet. If you go now I shall think my story 
 has frightened you away." 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIOIIT HOUSE. 
 
 113 
 
 storie3 
 
 \ct 
 
 her- 
 
 at her 
 jad and 
 )ry my- 
 nterc'St- 
 
 lorus ut 
 
 begin at 
 jomfort- 
 
 d placed 
 ^t, clear 
 shadow, 
 te as it 
 ite him. 
 gli, per- 
 il in the 
 i hardly 
 0, many 
 'anadian 
 mch girl 
 ! was the 
 bidown ? 
 [ly story 
 
 
 His lordship looked very angry, more angry certainly 
 than the occasion seemed to warrant, as he replied 
 l;anghti]y : " Angry ? Not in the least Mrs. Fitz-llobiu- 
 son. What could your story have to do with rue ? I 
 thought it was late. By all means continue. I shall 
 wait till the en'l. I am really much interested." 
 
 " That is right, Lord Camperdown," said Mrs. Fitz- 
 liobinson. " Well, as I was saying, the Mayor's 
 (laughter was the most attractive girl in the village, 
 l)ut, she was hard to please, it seems, and none of her 
 many admirers seemed to touch her heart. Perhaps 
 she expected too much. I cannot tell. At length/ 
 however, she met lier fate, for it came to pass that 
 one summer an Englishman, his name was Flower, I 
 think — pretty name, was it not, Lord Camperdown ? — 
 came to this remote village for the fishing, and iell in 
 love with the French Canadian fjirl. Thev were mar- 
 lied in the llonian Catholic Church, which ceremony 
 was valid in Canada, even though one of the contract- 
 ing parties was a Protestant, even though one of the 
 contracting parties was a Protestant," she repeated 
 slowly, looking Lord Camperdown full in the face the 
 wliile. 
 
 Ah ! She had touched him at last ; he could not' 
 meet hiix gaze ; there was in his eyes the self-same 
 look of terror that she had seen there the night of the ball. 
 
 H;, lil! 
 
114 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LtOIlT HOUSE. 
 
 
 " Yes, he married, and it appears that tlie poor girl 
 was very fond of him, much more so than he deserved, 
 and things went on smoothly for two or three months, 
 and then lie got tired of her, calmly deserted her, mak- 
 ing no provision for her. What, did you speak, Lord 
 Camperdown ? Ah ! I was mistaken. I thought you 
 said something. Yes, he grew tired of her, went buck 
 to England, and left her, and that was the last she 
 ever saw of him from that day to tliis." 
 
 " I don't see anything so very extraordinary in your 
 story," said Mrs. Green. I expect there are hundreds 
 of such cases on record." 
 
 " Wait, I have not come to the extraordinary part 
 yet. This young Englishman a few years later inlier- 
 ited his father's title and estates, and without inquir- 
 ing whether the Canadian girl was dead or alive, 
 straightway married an English heiress. You would all 
 be surprised to know how I learned the facts of the 
 case. Some day, perhaps, I shall tell you how I even 
 have the marriage certificate of Julie in my possession, 
 here in this very room. Would you really care to 
 see it ? I actually have it in my pocket now." 
 
 She was somewhat in shadow, and no one observed 
 that, when she stretched out her hand to get the paper 
 out of her pocket, it was grasped by Lord Camperdown, 
 \fho whispered in her ear, his aristocratic calm accents 
 marvellously changed, and now harsh and grating : 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIG'IT HOUSE. 
 
 115 
 
 oor girl 
 jserved, 
 iionths, 
 sr, mak- 
 k, I^rd 
 ^ht you 
 it back 
 last she 
 
 in your 
 undreds 
 
 ary part 
 IX inher- 
 
 inquir- 
 3r alive, 
 vould all 
 s of the 
 w I even 
 (ssession, 
 
 care to 
 
 observed 
 .he paper 
 perdown, 
 1 accents 
 ing: 
 
 " You shall not show that paper, Mrs. Fitz- Robin- 
 son," he said, roughly. 
 
 " What do you mean, Lord Campordown ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you here what I mean, before all these 
 people, but you must not show that paper." He held 
 her wrist in an iron grip. She could liave screamed with 
 the pain, but that would m^ver do. She had won, she 
 knew now, and hers was the triumph. 
 
 " Lord Camperdown, I will not show that certificate 
 now, but you must stay till all these people have gone 
 and give me some explanation. Let my hand go at 
 once. I promise you. Ls hot that enough ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, why don't you go on with your 
 story, we are all waiting," said Captain Smythe. 
 
 " I was answering Lord Camperdown's questions. 
 Where was I in my story ? Tell me." 
 
 " The hero had just come into the title and estates, 
 and was saddled with two wives." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, then the other wife, the Canadian one, 
 died, I think, and that was the end of it. She never 
 knew that she was by right a baroness of Great Britain 
 and Ireland and that her husband was still alive." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Fitz- Robinson, I don't think your story 
 very exciting, it seems to have missed its point," said 
 Mrs. Green, discontentedly. " It would have been bet- 
 ter if the French wife had turned up again and made a 
 
116 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIQIIT HOUSE. 
 
 fuss and have shown the hero in liis true colors. Don't 
 you think so, Lord Camperdown ?" 
 
 " Ah ! yes, Mrs. Green, quite so, in fact I was not 
 paying much attention to the tale." 
 
 ** Were you not ?" remarked Mrs. Fitz-Robinson, 
 pointedly. " What, are you all going already ? why, it 
 is not six o'clock yet. But you will stay a little longer, 
 Lord Camperdown ?" 
 
 His lordship assented gloomily, and watched the 
 others depart with envious eyes. How he hated this 
 officious little woman who had got hold of his early 
 history in some mysterious way ! He must be polite 
 to her, however, and find out exactly how much she 
 knew, and at all hazards get that certificate in his own 
 possession. 
 
 When all her other guests had gone, Mrs. Fitz- 
 Robinson turned to him and said, in her most glacial 
 voice : " And now. Lord Camperdown, what explan- 
 ation have you to offer me for your most extraordinary 
 conduct this afternoon ?" 
 
 " Explanation, Mrs. Fitz-Robinson. It was a joke my 
 dear madame, a joke, I assure you. Are you one of 
 those people who can't see a joke ? " 
 
 " I think, Lord Camperdown, I can see a joke as 
 well as anyone, but this is no time for trifling. It is 
 grim truth v^e are dealing with now. Do not attempt 
 
 fiTi 
 
THE KEEPER OF DIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 IVt 
 
 Don't 
 
 was not 
 
 )binson, 
 
 why, it 
 
 J longer, 
 
 led the 
 bed this 
 is early 
 e polite 
 ueh she 
 his own 
 
 s. Fitz- 
 
 glacial 
 
 explau- 
 
 ordinary 
 
 joke my 
 u one of 
 
 joke as 
 y. It is 
 attempt 
 
 to tritlo with me. I know all your past, and have such 
 proof that with all your cleverness you cannot with- 
 stand." 
 
 " You threaten me, madame V 
 
 " I wish you to compensate in some small measure, 
 tlie wife you deserted, the daughter who grew up in 
 ignorance of your existence, and to make amends 
 though late." 
 
 " All thi . is very well," sneered his lordship. " You 
 threaten me, madame. How do you know I am the 
 man ? Your impulsive disposition, you know, often gets 
 the better of your judgment." 
 
 " How do I know ? You are maddening, Lord Camp- 
 erdown. How do I know ? See, I will show you." 
 
 She rang a little silver bell, which was lying on the 
 tea table, and a moment afterwards the silken draperies 
 over the door way were pushed aside and M. Gagnon, 
 in his long, dark, priestly robe, entered, leading Julie 
 by the hand. 
 
 " Here are my proofs, Lord Camperdown," said Mrs, 
 Fitz-Robinson, pointing to them. " Allow me to in- 
 troduce you to your daughter, M. Gagnon, I think, you 
 have met before." 
 
 " You are very clever, Mrs. Fitz-Robinson," said his 
 lordship, his face wliite with ill-suppressed passion. 
 
 It was a w 
 
 trap. 
 
 -laid 
 
118 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 scheme. My dear madame, you have missed your 
 vocation. Nature formed you for a private detective." 
 
 She paid no attention to his sneers, but demanded 
 quietly : " And now what do you intend to do ?" 
 ' " Yes, what do you intend tu do ? " repeated M. Ga- 
 gnon. " We have no wisli to cause a scandal or make a 
 scene, but unless you help your daughter, who is in 
 such sore distress, the whole country will ring with 
 your story. Julie, my child, you may go now. Lord 
 Campeidown, you have seeJi your daughter for the last 
 time." 
 
 His lordship made a movement towards her, holding 
 out his hand, but the girl drew bac*., leaving the room 
 as noiselessly and suddenly as she had come. 
 
 " What do you want with me?" lie demanded, turn- 
 ing to the priest. 
 
 " That is easily told. Your daughter is grieving be- 
 cause of the imprisonment of Pierre Grenier, whose 
 story you know." 
 
 ' " I should think I did know it," replied his lordship, 
 irritably. " Mrs. Fitz-Robinson has told us all of it 
 often enough, goodness knows, and I do not approve of 
 the alliance. I should think my daughter might aspire 
 to something higher than a convict." 
 
 " She might have done so," retorted the priest, " had 
 she been brought up as your daughter. Nature pro- 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG HGIIT HOUSE. 
 
 11» 
 
 ;ed your 
 3tective." 
 emanded 
 ?" 
 
 d M. Ga- 
 r make a 
 ;vho is in 
 'ing with 
 w. Lord 
 r the last 
 
 , holding 
 the room 
 
 led, tuin- 
 
 eving be- 
 Br, whose 
 
 lordship, 
 
 all of it 
 
 pprove of 
 
 ;ht aspire 
 
 est, " had 
 ture pro- 
 
 vided the girl with gifts, which if cultivated, would have 
 adorned niy station, but all this is begging the ques- 
 tion. She loves this man, convict as you call him. By 
 the way, did you ever think that you yourself might be 
 iu a prison, too, were your history told? The law, I 
 believe, is no respecter of persons." 
 
 His lordship winced. He had considered this ques- 
 tion and indeed had put the case before an eminent legal 
 man in Ottawa, giving of course fictitious names and 
 places, and the lawyer's opinion had been by no means- 
 
 reassuring. 
 
 " Now," continued M. Gagnon, " we want five hun~ 
 dred dollars at once for your daughter, who is almost 
 penniless. We want you to exert all your infiuence^ 
 and you know most of the influential people here, ta 
 help to obtain Pierre Grenier's release, and we want you 
 to provide for your wife in her old age." 
 
 •* Modest requests, surely," muttered his lordship, 
 sullenly, but I suppose I shall have to give in. You've 
 «^ot me in your clutches. I don't see why I should help 
 this convict fellow." 
 
 . '• You don't ? " said M. Gagnon, in his wrath and ex- 
 citement, walking hurriedly. up and down the room, his 
 long, black robes contrasting strangely with the dainty 
 roseate hued, silken draperies and furniture ; " You 
 don't ? Then I will tell you. It is because his release 
 
120 
 
 IHE KEEPER Of DlC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 mi. 
 
 means lite and happiness to Julie ; she has given her 
 love, her whole being, to him, and, convict though you 
 call him, he is worthy of it all, for Pierre Grenier 
 is an upright, honorable, and truthful man." 
 
 " It is indeed a thousand pities that such a paragon 
 should languish in prison," said his lordship, sarcastic- 
 ally. " I am only surprised that tliey should ever 
 have put him there. I will do what you wish, the game 
 is up, and I have lost. But what security have I that 
 you will keep silence ? I know wliat women's tongues 
 are," he said, glaring at Mrs. Fitz-Robinson. 
 
 " If you keep your part of the compact be assured 
 that 1 shall keep mine. You will find. Lord Camper- 
 down, that women can keep secrets admirably, when it 
 pleases them to do so," the lady said. 
 
 " Very well, madame, I suppose I am at liberty to 
 go now. It is scarcely probable that we shall ever 
 meet again, for I shall leave this confounded country as 
 soon as possible. I have the honor to bid you good- 
 bye." 
 
 " His lordship, whether irom fear, or touched with 
 a tardy r».^pentance, kept his word to the very letter, 
 and began his programme that night at <linner with his 
 vice-regal hosts. When the conversation languished 
 somewhat towards the end of tlie repast, he told the 
 story of Julie, his daughter, of course suppressing that 
 
 lilt 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIO LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 121 
 
 Lveu her 
 
 ugh you 
 
 Grenier 
 
 paragon 
 arcistic- 
 ild ever 
 he game 
 e I that 
 
 tongues 
 
 assured 
 
 Camper- 
 
 when it 
 
 berty to 
 lall ever 
 ►untry as 
 )u good- 
 
 part of her history relative to himself. And he told it 
 with such grace of diction, such pathetic interest, that 
 the sympathies of the whole table were aroused, and 
 all were enlisted in the cause of this faithful and de- 
 voted French peasant girl. 
 
 The wheels of justice move slowly, but Julie had now 
 many powerful and influential friends, and before a 
 month had passed she and M. Gagnon left the Dominion 
 capital for St. Vincent de Paul, armed with the order for 
 Pierre's release. Their joy that bright spring day was but 
 o'ershadowed by the haunting dread that they might be 
 too late, that, ere man could set their loved one free, 
 the great jiilor, death, would claim him as his captive. 
 All that lay within human power they had done. 
 Would Heaven be merciful to them and restore Pierre 
 to their care ? 
 
 :itlt 
 
 led with 
 y letter, 
 with his 
 iguished 
 told the 
 }iug that 
 
 i \\ ! 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 * - 
 
 " Old France has lost the lays, 
 It lored in olden time, 
 But these sweet songs of other days 
 Still linger in our clime. 
 
 Still may we hear them sung 
 By many a peasant maid, 
 As with her heart upon her tongue 
 She wanders through the glade." 
 
 "We hear them still, when glows 
 
 The moon in flowery dells, 
 
 And when across the sparkling snows, 
 
 Ring out the jingling bells. 
 
 Arthur Weir. 
 
 ON amviii'g at the prison, M. Gaguoii and Julie 
 found Pierre's health to be in so precarious a con- 
 dition that it was out of the question to undertake the 
 long and tedious journey to Bic at once. 
 
 Grenier had decided, if he should ever recover, that he 
 would return to live at his old home, having, through the 
 instrumentality of his benefactors at Ottawa, procured 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 123 
 
 the appointment of lighthouse - keeper there. All 
 promised well, and if he could only regain his health, 
 the future seemed bright and full of hope to the 
 released prisoner. 
 
 M. Gagnon had looked at things from every point of 
 view, and having talked over matters with Julie,, 
 thought the wisest plan would be to have the marriage 
 take place at once, in order that after he returned to 
 his parochial duties, she might remain behind and care 
 for Pierre. The priest wrote to Madame Lafieur to ask 
 her consent to this arrangement, and also begged her to 
 come to Montreal to be present at the ceremony. Tlie 
 first request she readily acceded to, but said that she 
 was now too old and infirm to travel to Montreal, and 
 trusted in M. le cure to make suitable arrangements, 
 and finally, hoped to see them all back at Bic before 
 very long. 
 
 When she first arrived in Montreal, Julie was com- 
 fortably established with an old widow lady, who had 
 known M. Gagnon in his college days, many years 
 ago. This kindly dame took quiet a motherly interest 
 in the girl after hearing her story, and she felt happier 
 now than she had done since the old clays before 
 trouble came to destroy her life's peace. M. Gagnon and 
 Pierre had rooms a block or two from Julie's abode, in 
 the French quarter of the city. During the weeks of 
 
 h » 
 
I 
 
 124 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIG LIOIIT HOUSE. 
 
 waiting which were necessary, in order to have the 
 banns tlirice proclaimed in the parish church of Notre 
 Dame, the three wliiled away the bright spring days in 
 exploring the city and its environs. Many an expedi- 
 tion they took to the picturesque suburbs of Canada's 
 metropolis, and M. Gagnon was a delightful cicerone 
 on these little journeys, for he was learned, as are few, 
 in the historic and antiquarian lore, with which French 
 Canada abounds. The days flew all too quickly when 
 he guided Pierre and Julie from place to place, pointing 
 out the spots where glorious deeds had been wrought 
 in the heroic age of New France, ere the commercial 
 spirit of our times had well nigh destroyed the chivalric 
 element on this continent. 
 . One day they would drive to the Seigneury, where the 
 Sieur de La Salle had built himself a manor house, on 
 what he truly judged to be the finest spot he could 
 choose for a permanent abiding place, after his many 
 adventures and perilous voyages. The cur6 pointed out 
 the ruins of Champlain's trading post, and the old fort, 
 where he was wont to barter with the Indians, and 
 showed them how well had been traced out the ground 
 a palisaded village. With graphic diction, and a 
 .^*h eloquence in keeping with his subject, the 
 priest conjured up to their mental vision the brilliant 
 pictures of the seignorial times in this country, when a 
 
THE KEEPER OF BW LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 125 
 
 modified form of old-world feudalism held sway, and 
 when scions of the noblest families of France, imbued 
 with daring in the cause of King and Holy Mother 
 Church, filled the land with echoes of their daring deeds, 
 and often he would go back to a still earlier time, relating 
 to them the wondrous story of the discovery of 
 Hochelaga by the Breton captain Jacques Cartier, 
 making the dry narrative, over which they were wont 
 to yawn in their school days, sound to tliem like a fairy 
 tale. With enthusiasm he to^c them of the friendly 
 greeting the Hurons accorded to the French explorer, 
 whom they thouglit a denizen from another world, 
 praying for their conversion to the one true faith. So 
 'graphically did M. Gagnon describe the doinjn;s of that 
 olden time that Julie sometimes felt that she saw these 
 hardy bands of adventurous spirits sailing in their 
 primitive vessels, the vast silvery sheet of the great 
 St. Lawrence, straining their eyes in vain search for 
 .that long sought highway to the Indies, whose dis- 
 covery destiny had reserved for the people of another 
 age and nationality. 
 
 As the weather grew milder the trio ventured on 
 longer expeditions, and one bright spring morning 
 crossed to Chambly, a place full of associations to the 
 cure, who had spent many a day in his early youth at 
 this historic spot. He conducted them to the fort, and 
 
126 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 recalled to their memories the brilliant deeds of the 
 De Salaberry warrior, the hero of Chateauguay. In 
 the little church they gazed wiih reverential eyes on 
 the obelisks erected in honor of him who bore on liis 
 arms the motto bestowed by Henry of Navarre, " Force 
 dj superhe^ mercy a faihlc^' and whose career so nobly 
 bore out the spirit of that proud legend. 
 
 At the cure's reminiscences, Pierre's languid eyes 
 would brighten, and living, as it were, in the glowing 
 past, he forgot for a time the gloomy shadow of sin, 
 which had blighted his own young life. And when the 
 three wandered far away on the quiet country roads, 
 Julie would sing in her sweet, clear voice the soul^s 
 they loved, those quaint Canadian melodies, half hum- 
 orous, with a touch of pathos in them, and their music 
 seemed to drive away all bitterness from Pierre 
 Grenier's memories of the past three years. These 
 songs of French Canada, liow characteristic they are 
 with an individuality all their own, and Julie sang 
 them from her heart ; "Pas derrier chez mon pere," "En 
 roulant ma boule," and " Sur le pont d' Avignon," were 
 her favorites, except when her mood would change and 
 she would break into the familiar : 
 
 " Chante Rossiguol chante 
 
 Toi qui a le coeur gal ; 
 Tu as le coeur a rire 
 
 Moi je I'ai-t a pleurer." 
 
 , 
 
THE KEEP EH. OF BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 127 
 
 of the 
 ay. In 
 eyes on 
 3 on his 
 
 , " Force 
 10 nobly 
 
 nid eyes 
 (i;lo\vini:f 
 / of sin, 
 A'hen the 
 [■y roads, 
 [le soni^s 
 alf hum- 
 }ii' music 
 n Pierre 
 These 
 they are 
 alie sang 
 |ere," "Eu 
 on," were 
 lange and 
 
 
 These songs of Canada, how dear they are to the 
 Canadian wherever he may roam, conjuring up the re- 
 membrance of the maple forest, the snow-clad woods, 
 and the jingling of the merry sleigh bells on crisp, 
 frosty star-lighted nights ! 
 
 But these lialcyon days could not last for ever. M. 
 Gdgnon's little Hock were anxious for his return, for 
 the young cure, who had taken his place for a time, 
 was to them but a poor substitute. The banns, too, 
 had been proclaimed for three successive Sundays in 
 the parish church, and there was no adequate reason 
 why the marriage should be longer delayed ; it would 
 be some weeks yet before Pierre could travel to Bic, 
 and the cure was very anxious to return home as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 It was the afternoon before the wedding, and the 
 little party of three had driven up the mountain for a 
 last look at Montreal from the summit. It was one of 
 those lovely clear days of early summer when eacn 
 object stands distinctly defined on the horizon ; the 
 foliage was in the tender fresh green of its new beauty, 
 and a vast and grand panorama lay stretched below the 
 feet of the gazers. In the far distance they could see 
 the peaks of the great Adirondacks, and the emerald 
 hills of Vermont, while to the east, as far as the eye 
 could reach, was the mighty St. Lawrence, its junction 
 
 !:l|i'l 
 
128 
 
 THE KEEPER OF lilC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 with the Ottawa marked by the distinctive' colors of 
 the rival waters. Leyond the round fortified island, 
 named alter the sainted wife of Cliamplain, tliey could 
 see the dim, blue, sugar loaf mountain of St. Hilaire, 
 and from the myriad vilHgcs on the river banks glis- 
 tened church steeples dazzling in the sun of this sweet 
 young summer time. Days such as this pass all too 
 quickly, and the cure was the first to remind Julie that 
 she must be up betimes next morning, for that would 
 be her wedding day, and they must tear themselves 
 away from Mount Koyal and its attractions. 
 
 The marriage morn was in all respects a beautiful 
 one, the sky was clear and blue, r»ot even one tiny 
 cloud broke its unruffled surface, and at eight o'clock 
 the small party was assembled in the church of Our 
 Lady of Lourdes, awaiting the bride. Julie had chosen 
 this church in which to be married out of tlie many in 
 Montreal, and by her choice of it showed that some- 
 where deep down in her nature slumbered artistic in- 
 stincts. To this church, during her residence in i\w. 
 Canadian metropolis, she was wont to come to say her 
 devotions, and to gaze with admiration, mingled with 
 reverential awe, on the paintings, which more nearly 
 than others in the Dominion resemble those of the vast 
 cathedrals of European cities. Here, with much more 
 skill and refinement than are usually loun i in western 
 
THE KEEPER OB BIG LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 129 
 
 )lors of 
 island, 
 y couM 
 Hihiire, 
 ks glis- 
 is sweet 
 all too 
 Lilie that 
 t would 
 miselves 
 
 leautiful 
 me tiny 
 o'clock 
 of Our 
 1 chosen 
 many in 
 it some- 
 istic in- 
 le in the 
 say her 
 led witli 
 e nearly 
 the vast 
 ch more 
 western 
 
 r 
 
 churches, are faithfully and admirably portrayed the 
 events of the life of tlie Holy Mary. Thi^ llie cen- 
 tral figure, the motif, as it were, of tlie whole orna- 
 mentation of the editice Julie loved to louk on wiili 
 that unquestioning adoration seldom to be found, 
 except in the devout and simple-minded Catliolic. 
 Though the girl knew little of the laws of ail, the 
 emotional and religious sides of her nature licld her 
 spell- bound as she stood before tluit life-like figure, 
 with the arms meekly folded across the breast, far re- 
 moved from earthly turmoils and cares, su]ti)orlcd only 
 by the ethereal clouds of Heaven, and clothed with the 
 sun. 
 
 On that beautiful morning Julie entered llie church 
 with her old and faithful friend. ]\[. (lULiiion, and Lhi; 
 expression on her face was oni' of iiuiuL hai)jiiuess, al- 
 beit a happiness vastly different fitjui liiat dc[)ictcd on 
 her bright countenance, when we lirst met her in her 
 mother's garden many years ago. 
 
 Her beauty was now more subdued, iiu)re chastened 
 and matured, and as the sun slreamed throu-h the 
 stained glass window, its rays, like a halo, lighted (tn 
 her wondrous nut-brown hair, as if the patient saints, 
 who slept beneath the altar, had crowned her for her 
 faith and long endurance. 
 
 The service over, all returned to Julie's lodging 
 
 4 
 
 il 
 
130 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BIC LIOHT HOUSE. 
 
 wliero niadamc bad prepared a little breakfast in boiior 
 of tlic occasion, and they made merry after the custom 
 of these good French Canadians. Of course M. Ga- 
 f^non made a speech, to which Pierre replied, and then 
 madame's husband, who was one of those men to be 
 found in all grades of society, alwaysspokenof asmadame's 
 husband, essayed to make one also, but failed lament- 
 al)ly, thereby incurring the wrath of madame, who 
 hated failure of any kind. In feasting and merriment 
 the day passed away, and soon it was time for the 
 euro to go, as he wished to take the steamer down 
 to Quebec that evening and thence to IMc. Pierre and 
 Julie accompanied him to the wharf, and saw the last 
 of him as he stood on the deck of the steamer, amidst 
 a heterogeneous crowd of children, nurses, and anxious 
 motliers, wlio were taking their noisy flocks down to 
 the coast for their summer outing. Thoroughly out of 
 place the good man looked in this busy crowd, a 
 mediae val figure amid tlie \ ushing practicality of our 
 day, but he would not lia' e to endure the discomfort 
 long. Soon lie would l)e back with his own people, in 
 his quiet presbytery on the banks of the great river. 
 
 
 
in honor 
 ) custom 
 
 M. Ga- 
 ind then 
 [jn to be 
 nadanie's 
 
 lament- 
 ,me, who 
 lerrinient 
 3 for the 
 aer down 
 ierre and 
 the last 
 r, amidst 
 \ anxious 
 
 down to 
 ily out of 
 crowd, a 
 ty of our 
 liscomfort 
 people, in 
 it river. 
 
 
 (( 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Then gavest Thou the Binile 
 
 Whence aogel wings thrill quick like summer liglituing, 
 Vouchsafing rent beeiJe thee, where they never 
 From Love and Faith may sever." 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 THE Island of Bic glistened in the autumn sunli^lit 
 like some bright gem set in the multen silver 
 stream of the great St. Lawrence, wliich glimnuu*ed 
 with a million varied lights ; the day was perfect in its 
 braciu" freshness, a hundred times mora exhilaratin*^ 
 than champagne, that freshness of the pure dry Canadian 
 air. The scent of new mown hay was wafted* across 
 the waters from a distant meadow on the main land, 
 and the silence of the afternoon was only broken by 
 the multled movement of a canoe paddled swiftly 
 through the shining waters. 
 
 In this canoe sat two persons. Very silent they 
 were, devoting, it seemed, all their energies tu the loco- 
 motion of their skiff until they reached the shore of 
 
 .1 
 
132 
 
 THE KEEPER OE BIC LJQltT nOUSU. 
 
 lUc Island, where they disembarked. On the beacli 
 stood a tall, weather-beaten French Canadian, svho 
 welcomed them effusively, holding out his hand and 
 saying : 
 
 " Ah, Pierre ! so you have come at last. Well, 
 we've been expecting you a long time. And so you are 
 to take my place. You are welcome to it, I'm sure, for 
 I've been here for twelve years and I've had enough ot 
 it. I'm loiid of the island, tliough it is veiy lonely, 
 especially in winter, and perhaps when I get away I 
 may be sorry I left, but I've got a situation in Mont- 
 real. That will be livelier than here, ana there's more 
 pay, too, and tliat's what we all try for, eh ! So this is 
 your wife ? All, madame, I used to know you many a 
 year ago when you were scarcely able to walk. Now 
 come, I'll show you the lights. I've got to be off at 
 live o'clock. Will you wait here madame while we 20 
 up to tlie tower ?" 
 
 " "^^^s Monsieur, I shall be perfectly content here." 
 I*evfcctly content ; yes, that expressed Julie Grenier's 
 state of mind most accurately. She was content, alas ! 
 how few oi us can say those words with truth. Her 
 ])art was done, her work nccomplishcd, her heart's 
 desire fulfilled. What mattered it to her that licr life 
 henceforth would l-e spent on this lonely island, where 
 she could hold little intercourse with the outer world ? 
 
THE KEEPER OF BW LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 133 
 
 e beach 
 ,11, who 
 ind and 
 
 . Well, 
 ) you are 
 sure, for 
 nough ol 
 ' lonely, 
 away I 
 in Mont- 
 re's more 
 3o this is 
 L many a 
 k. Now 
 be off at 
 lie we ^0 
 
 t here." 
 1 Grenier's 
 ent, alas ! 
 ith. Hor 
 ir hoait's 
 it lier life 
 nd, where 
 ter world ? 
 
 What mattered it to her that she was thus exiled ? She 
 had Pierre, Pierre who hr.d gradually, under the care of 
 M. Gagnon and her.sell, been nursed back to health 
 and strength. Pierre was free, he had been provided 
 for by the kindness of friends, who had procured for 
 him the appointment of the keeper of Pic Lighthouse. 
 It was an appointment for which he was eminently 
 fitted, knowing as he did every channel and eddy of the 
 river in these parts. Mrs. Fitz-Robinson's energy and 
 kindness had helped him materially after his release, 
 and she never rested until this provision had been 
 made for him. 
 
 For long after Pierre's release the cure and Julie 
 feared that freedom had come too late, and that the 
 dread insidious consumption had marked him as a 
 victim, but happiness and liberty worked wonders for 
 him, and after a few months of his open-air life in the 
 wild woods, for which he had pined, the color returned 
 to his wan face, the thin, sunken cheeks filled out, and 
 the stooping shoulders became upright. Now, in Oc- 
 tober, he was strong enough to undertake his new 
 duties, and he and Julie had left her mother's house 
 that afternrion for their new dwelling. 
 
 Poor Madame Laflour found it hard to part with her 
 daughter so soon again, for she wns ageing very fast 
 but Julie comforted her with the assurance that half an 
 
 ! i 
 
134 
 
 THE KEEPER OF ETC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 hour's rowing would bring her from the island at any 
 time, and promised to visit her at least three times a 
 week. The old lady had never been told of her hus- 
 band's re-appearance, nor of his perfidy. What was 
 the use ? said M. le curi^. Why disturb her peace of 
 mind ? It could do no good and would only embitter 
 her declining years. Far better that she should believe 
 that the young Englishman had died many years ago, 
 than to know he had developed into the smiling self- 
 suiiicient and perfidious man of the world known as 
 Lord Camperdowu. And the old lady night and morn- 
 ing sent up her little petition for the repose of the soul 
 of Herbert Flower, cut off in the prime of his manhood. 
 Perchance that simple prayer, breathed by those faith- 
 ful lips and wafted to the throne of grace, may inter- 
 cede for him on the day of reckoning, when wrongs 
 will be righted and tlie full light of noon-day will 
 shine on hidden things, and falsehood and deceit will 
 be banished from this fair world for ever and ever. 
 
 The old light-house keeper had gone. The afternoon 
 faded into twilight, twilight into night. The moon 
 rose clear and full, and shone out in pale white splendor, 
 illuminating the dim blue Laurentian hills across the 
 great wide river. I'ierre, after attending to the lights 
 !•> the tower, arranged his nets on the beach and re- 
 turned slowly to the lighthouse, r-hinking how strangely 
 
THE KEEPER OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 135 
 
 all had come about, and after these long and weary 
 
 years he was back to his beloved river, for which ho 
 
 had yearned with that overwhclmin;^ home-sickness 
 
 characteristic of exiled Canadians. The past seemed 
 
 like a hideous dream, bah ! he would not think of it. 
 
 But try as* he would, the memory of that ill-fated 
 
 day, when he struck Jean Pinsonneault down, haunted 
 
 him at all times. This memory always disturbed his 
 
 peace ; one only had power to drive it away, even for 
 
 a few short moments ; one only, hark ! that was her 
 
 voice, what a clear sweet voice it was. He paused a 
 
 moment to listen to the quaint words and old fashioned 
 
 melody : 
 
 " Par derrier'chez moa pere, 
 Vole, in on cteur vole, 
 Par derrier 'cliez nion p^re, 
 Lui y a-t-un pon niier doiix 
 
 in 
 
 Non ce n'est qu'unn etoile 
 
 Vole, mon C(eur, vole, 
 Non ce n'est qu'une etoile 
 
 Qu' eclair nos amours. 
 
 Nos amants Pont en guerre, 
 
 Vole, mon cccur, vole, 
 Nos araanta sont en guerre, 
 
 lis combattent pour nous. 
 
 — Qu'ils perdent ou qu'ils gagnent. 
 
 Vole, mon coeur, vole, 
 Qu'ils perdent ou qu'ils gagnent, 
 
 lis les auront toujoura." 
 
 i|t 
 
136 
 
 THE KEEPER OF BW LIGHT HOUSE. 
 
 I ) 
 
 Julie's song came suddenly to an end as she lified 
 her head at his approach and exclaimed, 
 
 " Pierre, you have been thinking again. I can see it 
 by your face. You have been brooding over what ir, 
 long gone by. Pierre you must forget." 
 
 " Julie I cannot, not to-night. Do you not remember 
 what anniversary tliis it ? " 
 
 "Hush Pierre, you shall not recall it, M. le cure sayr^ 
 you ore too luird on yourself, you must forget. Oh ! 
 Pierre my beloved one, for my sake, forget. The guod 
 God has forgiven you, man has forgiven you. Why 
 will you not forgive yourself ? " 
 
 Several years have passed since that autunni evening 
 when Pierre and Julie took up their abode at the light- 
 house. In that remote district only a few changLS 
 have taken place. Pierre Grenier still retains his im- 
 portant post. Madame Laileur has been gathered to 
 her fathers, and sleeps amongst the tpiiet dead in Lie 
 churchyard, where a rough wooden cross marks her last 
 resting place. None would imagine tliat in this liumble 
 spot is buried the wife of the representative of tlie 
 noble house of Camperdown, nor that by right this pour 
 old woman shonld repose in their stately mausoleum, 
 far away in the old world. Another strange life story 
 is finished, another leaf from the book of fate turned 
 over. And M. Gagnon is now old, very old, long past 
 
TttE kEHPER OP MC LtOtIT ttOUSE. 
 
 137 
 
 le lifted 
 
 [Ui sc(i it 
 what ir, 
 
 Miieiiibiir 
 
 Hirti sayr^ 
 ut. Oh : 
 rhc good 
 n. Why 
 
 cveiiiirj; 
 ,hc light- 
 
 chaiige.'j 
 , his iiii- 
 hcrcd to 
 [id in lUc 
 s her last 
 is humble 
 /e of tlie 
 this poor 
 xusoleiiiii, 
 life story 
 Le turued 
 long past 
 
 the three score years and ten allotted to man for his 
 work, but he is still hale and hearty, laboring amongst 
 his poor, saying mass daily, and finding a vast amount 
 of pride and pleasure in the new wing he has added to 
 his little church. Old Wilson's hoarded money has 
 been spent at last, and according to his dying wish. 
 Still the old pirate's dwelling stands on the point, bleak 
 and deserted, for none will approach it even in broad 
 daylight. Fishermen coming home from their expedi- 
 tious lat3 at night, declare that they have seen ghostly 
 forms come out of that door, and have beheld a gaunt 
 old man, dragging after him a great oaken chest, and 
 have heard weird ghostly voices shriek in mad expostu- 
 lation on a stormy night, " Death ! death ! death ! to 
 him who touches the hidden treasure." 
 
 But on the Island at any rate, nothing comes to dis- 
 turb the harmony, and with her steadfast love and 
 devotion, Julie has guarded and watched over Pierre, 
 who has well-nigh out-lived the horror of his unpre- 
 meditated deed and bitter imprisonment. He is a 
 grey haired man, respected and honored throughout the 
 country-side, and now no accusing tongue would dare 
 to reproach him for the past. And the Island is no 
 longer lonely, for the melody of little children's 
 laughter and prattle resounds through its pinewoods 
 and overhanging crags, and their gracious presence haa 
 
•mm 
 
 138 
 
 7BB RESPSR OF BIC LIGHT HOUSE, 
 
 chased away the gloom, which of yore was wont to 
 o'erwhelm him, and thus little by little, with the aid of 
 the faithful Julie, and the omnipotent consoler — Father 
 Time — there has come into the life of the Keeper of 
 Eic Lighthouse, that great and abounding peace which 
 passeth understanding. 
 
 The End. 
 
'ont to 
 i aid of 
 Father 
 eper of 
 I which 
 
I