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8NOWSUUEING UP THE MOUNTAIN.
:\
^RJORIE^S
i
n \\
A^ ;)!AN WINTER
^ ^T. i;^ OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
Br
AoNES MAil.K MACTIAK
4. ■>..» "■
BO.STC»
n LOTIIROr ' ^M FA NY
■n
I
-■)/■. .
MARJORIE'S
CANADIAN WINTER
A STORY OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
AGNES MAULE MACHAR
Author of
^^ ''Stories o^ New Kkanck," etc
A^
%^J
y-^^iu^/^ '^
BOSTON
D LOTHROP COMPANY
OOPTBIQHT, 1892,
BT
D. LoTHROP CoMPAmr.
TO MY KEVEUED FRIEND
Jloljn (J^recnlcaf TObittiet
THIS LITTLE KOOK IS GKATEFULLY INSCRIBED IN
HEART-FELT RECOGNITION OF THE INSPIRA-
TION OF HIS WRITINGS AND
HIS LIFE
" Our Friend, our Brotlier and our Lord,
What may Tliy scj-vicc be ? —
Not name, not form, not ritual word,
But simply following Thee."
CONTENTS.
CHAI^TEU I.
A NOVEMHEIl EVKXlNc;
CIIAITKK II.
SOME DARK DAYS
• • •
CHAPTER III.
A NEW DEPARTURE
CIIAPTEU IV.
NORTHWARD ....
CHAPTER V.
IN MONTREAL ....
CHAPTER VI.
NEW FRIENDS ....
CHAPTER VII.
THE professor's STORV
CHAPTER VIII.
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP .
9
29
48
62
78
93
115
145
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IX.
HKVEN SCENES FHOM CHRISTMAS PAST
CIIAPTEIl X.
CHRISTMAS PRESENT . . .
CHAPTER XI.
FERE LE JEUNE's CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER XII.
A NEW year's party
CHAPTER XIII.
treasures op the snow and ice .
CHAPTER XIV.
carnival (JLORIES ....
CHAPTER XV.
PERE DE NOUE
CHAPTER XVI.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
CHAPTER XVII.
ANXIOUS DAYS
CHAPTER XVIII.
OPENING BLOSSOMS ....
CHAPTER XIX.
EASTWARD, IlO !
CHAPTER XX.
AMONG THE HILLS ....
lOG
194
207
228
242
256
285
300
317
334
353
368
MARJORIE'S CANADIAN WINTER,
CHAPTER I.
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
Marjorie Fleming sat curled up in a large chair
by the window of the dim fire-lighted room, looking
out into the misty grayness of the rainy November
evening, with wistful, watchful eyes that yet seemed
scarcely to see what was before them.
The train that generally brought her father from
the city was not quite due, but on this dull rainy day
the dusk had fallen very early, and Marjorie, always
a dreamer, loved to sit quiet in the " gloaming," as
her father used to call the twilight, and give full sway
to the fancies and air-castles that haunted her brain.
The fitful light of tlic low fire in the grate scarcely
interfered with the view of the outer world, such as
it was : of the 'evergreens, heavy with crystal rain-
drops, the bare boughs of the other trees, and, beyond
that, the street-lights, faintly outlining the houses and
9
"T
10
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
gardens on the other side. Marjorie, as she sat there,
with one hand on the head of her little terrier Robin,
scarcely looked her age, which was thirteen — a
delightful age for a little girl ; full of opening possi-
bilities of life, and thoughts, of which, only a year or
two ago, she had scarcely dreamed ; an age not yet
shorn of the privileges of childhood, and yet beginning
to taste of the privileges of " grown-up people ; '' for
now her father and his friends would not mind occa-
sionally taking her into their thoughtful talks, which,
to her, seemed so delightful and so profound.
As Marjorie waited, absorbed iii a reverie, her
mind had been roaming amid the fair scenes of last
summer's holiday among the hills, with her father and
her dear Aunt Millie ; and latterly with the stranger
who had appeared on the scene so unexpectedly to her,
and had eventually carried off her beloved auntie to a
Southern land of whose " orange and myrtle " Marjorie
had been dreaming ever since. The bustle and
novelty of a wedding in the house were very fresh in
her mind, and she still felt the great blank left by the
departure of the bride, whose loss to her father Mar-
jorie had made such strong resolves to supply by her
own devotion to his care and comfort. These resolves
had been fulfilled as well, perhaps, as could be ex-
pected from a girl of thirteen, whose natural affinities
were more with books and study than with housewifely
cares ; but their faithful maid Rebecca, trained so
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
11
carefully by " Miss Millie," regarded the somewhat
superfluous efforts of her young mistress with some-
thing of the same good-humored disapprobation with
which the experienced beaver is said to view the crude
attempts of the young beginners at dam-building. So
household cares had not weighed heavily on Marjorie
yet, and the quiet life alone with her father had been
much pleasanter and less lonely than she could have
believed. For, though he was all day absent at the
oftice in the city, Marjorie had her school and her books,
and the walks in the bright October days with school
friends. And then there were the long cosey evenings
with her father, when Marjorie learned her lessons at
his writing-table, while he sat over his books and
papers ; yet not too much absorbed for an occasional
talk with Marjorie, over a difficult passage in her
French or German, or an allusion in a book which she
did not understand. Sometimes, too, he would read
to her a manuscript poem or sketch, to see how she
liked it ; for Mr. Fleming was engaged in editorial
work in connection with a New York periodical, and
often brought manuscripts home from the office to
examine at leisure. These were great treats to Mar-
jorie. It seemed to her charming to hear a story or a
poem fresh from the author's hand, before it had even
gone to the printer ; and she looked with a curious
feeling of reverence at the sheets covered with written
characters, that seemed about to fly on invisible wings
12
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
to all parts of the land. As for her father, Marjorie
tliouirht that there was no one in all the world so clever
and so good ; and his verdict she took as a finality on
every possible subject. Only one person stood yet
hiuher in her thonuht: and that was the dear mother
who now seemed to her like a lovely angel vision, as
she imagined her in fragile delicacy and gentle
sweetness, and knew, too, how her father had mourned
her, and how he revered her memory as that of one
far better than liimself. All that that memory had
been to him Marjorie could as yet only very faintly
appreciate, but she knew or divined enough to give a
loving but profound veneration to the feeling with
which she looked at the picture over the mantel-piece,
or the still sweeter smaller one that stood on her
father's dressing-table. Marjorie had learned by heart
Cowper's beautiful lines to his mother's picture, and
she sometimes said them over softly to herself as she
sat alone, looking at the picture by the firelight.
She was recalled now from the mazy labyrinth of
rambling thoughts by Robin's sharp little bark and
whine, as an umbrella with a waterproof coat under it
swiftly approached the gate and turned in. It was a
race between the dog and Marjorie, which • of them
should be at the door first. Robin was, but had to
wait till Marjorie opened the door for his wild rush
upon his master, while she threw her arms about him,
wet as he was, for the greeting kiss.
A NOVEMHEK EVENING.
13
"Oh ! how wet you are, father dear," she exclaimed.
" Such an evening ! "
" Yes ; it makes me glad to be back to home and
you, Pet Marjorie," he said, looking down at her with
bright dark eyes very like her own, while she tugged
away at the wet coat, in her eagerness to relieve him
of it. He shivered slightly as he sat down in the
easy-chair which Marjorie pulled in front of the fire,
while she broke up the coal till the bright glow of the
firelight filled the cosey apartment — half-study, half-
sitting-room — where a small table was laid for a
tete-a-tete dinner. Marjorie looked at him a little
anxiously.
" Ah ! now you've taken cold again," she said.
" I've taken a slight chill," he said, a little wearily.
" It's scarcely possible to help it in this weather —
but we shall be all right when we've had our dinner,
eh, Robin ? " as the little dog, not meaning to be
overlooked, jumped up and licked his hands.
" But you look so tired, papa," said Marjorie again,
using the pet name by which she did not usually call
him.
" I've been out a good deal in the rain, and among
saddening scenes, dear," he said.
" Oh ! why did you go out so nmch lo-day ? "
" I had made an appointment with an English
friend to show him how some of our poor people live,
and, Marjorie dear, it made me heart-sick to see the
14
A NOVEMBEK EVENING.
I
I
f
misery and wretchedness, the dingy, squalid, crowded
rooms — the half -starved women and children. It
makes me feel as if it were wrong to be so comfort-
able," he added, looking round the room with its books
and pictures. " And then, to pass those great luxuri-
ous mansions, where they don't know what to do with
their overflowing wealth, and where they waste on
utter superfluities enough to feed all those poor starv-
ing babies. Ah! it's pitiful. It makes me wonder
whether this is a Christian country."
Marjorie looked perplexed. "But don't those rich
people go to church ? " she asked. " And, surely, if
they knew people were starving, they would give them
bread? "
" It's a queer world. Pet Marjorie," he said. " I
suspect a good many of us are half-heathen yet."
Marjorie said nothing, but looked more puzzled
still. She had heard a great deal about the heathen
in foreign countries, but how there should be heathen,
or even half-heathen people in a city like New York,
and especially among the rich and educated portion of
it, was not so clear. No doubt they v^ere not all as
charitable as they should be — but how did that make
them " half -heath en " ? But she was accustomed to
hear her father say a good many things that did not
seem very clear at first, and she liked to try and think
out their meaning for herself.
" I saw an angel to-day," Mr. Fleming went on
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
15
half-musingly, then, smiling at Marjorie's surprised
look, he added: "But I mustn't begin to talk about
it now, or we'U keep dinner waiting, and I see Kebecca
is bringing it in. I'll tell you about it in our ' holiday
half-hour,' by and by. It'll be a conundrum till then."
It was rather a " way " Mr. Fleming had, to mys-
tify a little his " Pet Marjorie," as he liked to call her,
after the wonderful little girl who was such a pet of
Sir Walter Scott, as Dr. John Brown has so prettily
told us. And it had the effect of making her wonder-
fully interested in the explanation, when it was not
possible for her to think this out for herself. And
the " holiday half-hour " was the last half-hour before
Marjorie's bedtime, when Mr. Fleming was wont to
make a break in his busy evening, and give himself
up to a rambling talk with Marjorie on matters great
or small, as the case might be. For this half-hour
Marjorie used to save up all the problems and dilficid-
ties that came into her busy mind during the day ; and
then, too, he would read to her little things that he
thought she would like — generally from his office
papers. It was no wonder that she looked forward to
it as the pleasantest bit of the day, and that it left
happy and peaceful thoughts to go to sleep with.
They had their quiet dinner together, while the
rather dignified and matronly Rebecca waited on both,
with a kind of maternal care. Then the table was
cleared and drawn nearer the fire, while Mr. Fleming
16
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
sorted out on it his books and papers. Among them
were two or three new books for review. Marjorie
looked at the titles, and dipped into the contents a lit-
tle, but finally decided that they " were not as nice as
they looked." Then, instead of producing granmiars
and exercise books as usual, she opened her little work-
box, and unfolded, with an air of some importance, a
large bundle of flannel.
" Nettie Lane and I were at the Dorcas Meeting to-
day," she explained, in reply to her father's surprised
and inquiring glance. " Nettie said I ought to take
more interest in doing good to poor people, as Miss
Chauncey always tells us we should. So she took me,
because her mother is president, and she wants to 'en-
list the interest of all the little girls,' " quoted Marjorie
with satisfaction to herself. " And I took this home to
make up before Christmas Day."
" All right, my child," said her father, smiling.
" Only try to do whatever yoii undertake. If it should
turn out as my Christmas slippers did last Christmas,
I'm afraid the poor people will have to wait a while,
unless Rebecca takes pity on you."
" O, papa ! But then there was so much work on
them, and you didn't need them then — just exactly.
And I'm sure they look very nice now," she added,
surveying with pride the slippered feet, adorned with
two brown dogs' heads, which rested on the fender,
while her father looked through the evening papers.
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
17
" Yes, dear, they do, and I'm very proud of them,"
he said, leaning over to stroke her soft dark hair with
a loving hand ; " all the more that I know you are no
Penelope."
''Oh! poor Penelope had nothing better to do," said
Marjorie. " I don't suppose she had French or Ger-
man to learn, or any new books to read."
"Happy woman!" sighed Mr. Fleming. '*0f
making many books there is no end." And he looked
a.t the pile of books and MSS. he had just laid on the
table.
" O, father ! have you any stories to read to me to-
night ? " asked Marjorie.
" I'll see by and by. I noticed one that I thought
looked as if you would like it. It's called ' The
Story of the Northern Lights.' But now I'm going to
work till our half-hour comes, and then I'll give my-
self a rest — and you a reading."
" Well, then, father dear, I think I'll put my sew-
ing away, and do my lessons for to-morrow. When
you are ready to read I can work while I listen."
Mr. Fleming smiled a little, but said nothing. The
flannel was folded up with a rather suspicious alacrity,
grammars and exercises were brought out, and perfect
silence reigned, broken only by the turning of leaves
or the scratching of pens ; for Marjorie knew that
when her father said he was going to work, he did not
wish to be disturbed by any desultory remarks, aud
18
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
thus she had learned a lesson often difficult for women
to learn — that there is " a time to keep silence."
" Is your exercise very difficult to-night, Marjorie ? "
asked Mr. Fleming, after a long interval, during which
he had occasionally noticed long pauses of Marjorie's
pen, with what seemed to be periods of deep abstrac-
tion in her task.
Marjorie colored deeply. "Oh I T haven't begun
my exercise yet. This is my translation," she said.
" And do you find it so difficult to make out ? "
" O, no ! not difficult to translate ; only I thought
I W( lid like to do it, you see it's poetry, and so " —
" You wanted to translate it into verse ? " he
continued.
" Yes ; I've got the first verse done."
" Well, let me see how you're getting on."
He took the sheet of paper which Marjorie handed
him with a mingling of pride and nervousness, and
read aloud :
— " Know'st thou the land where the citron-trees grow,
Through the dark leaves the bright oranges glow ;
A gentle breeze blows from the soft blue sky,
The mild myrtle is there, and the laurel high;
Say, dost thou know it?
There, oh there —
Let me go with thee, Oh, my beloved, there."
" Well, it's not a bad translation for a little girl to
make, Pet Marjorie," he said, kissing the Hushed
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
19
cheek. "But you know ' there's a time for everything.'
Your work just now is to learn German, not to play
at translatinj; it — half by guess. You should keep
such things for your playtime — not waste your lesson
time on them. I don't in the least object to your
trying what you can do in this way at proper times and
seasons, but you know I don't wafit you to get into a
desultory way of working. It is a besetting sin of
temi)craments like yours — and mine," he added with
a sigh.
"•Yours, father?" said Marjorie, in astonishment.
"• Yes, dear ; it has been very much in my way, and
I want you to get the mastery of it earlier in life than
I did. And it is what makes half our women so
superficial."
Marjorie did not clearly understand what this word
" superficial " meant ; but she knew it had a good
deal of connection with grammatical accuracy and
mistakes in her sums and exercises.
'■'■ Well, father dear," she said resolutely, " I'll try
not to be ' superficial ' and ' desultory.' And so I'll
just write it out in prose, and do my exercises."
" Yes, only try to finish your poetical one another
time, since you have begun it. Though you are rather
young yet to try to translate Goethe. But I don't
wonder that Mignon's song attracted you."
The exercises were finished and put away, and the
bundle of flannel ostentatiously taken out, before Mr,
rr"
20
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
Fleming at last pushed away his papers, with a wearier
look than was often to be seen on his expressive face.
"There ! I won't work any more to-niglit," he said.
" I don't feel up to it. That cold damp air seems in
my throat still — and those wretched places — I can't
call them homes " —
" But the angel ? " asked Marjorie expectantly, set-
tling herself on her favoi'ite low chair, close to her
father, with her work on her lap.
" Oh I the angel ? well, perhaps most people wouldn't
have seen the angel, as I did. They might only have
seen a pajc young woman, in a rather worn gray gown,
soothing a cross baby and two or three restless children,
while the poor sick mother, to whom she was acting as
sick nurse, was trying to get some rest and sleep.
There wasn't any golden hair, and I didn't see any
wings, so my angel wouldn't have made much show in
a picture. And she does coarse, plain sewing for a
living — so she would hardly do for a poem either.
Yes, Hood could put her into one. But if ever I saw
the face of an angel on any mortal creature — and I
have seen it before," he said reverently, with a momen-
tary pause, which Marjorie understood — " it was
there, so calm, so sweet, so pure, so happy — in such
contrast to the wretched surroundings. It put me in
mind of words I learned long ago " —
The light shiueth iu darkness.'"
A NOVKIVIHKK KVKNIN(i.
21
" Is the angel very poor, then ? " asked Marjorie.
" Poor ? Yes, 1 .suppose most i)eople woiikl call her
poor. To nie she seemed rich in things no gold could
buy — the ' peace that passeth understanding,' the love
tiiat 'seeketh not her own,' the 'faith that vvorketh by
love.' "
" Was she taking care of the poor woman who was
ill, then ? " asked Marjorie.
" Yes. She earns her living by making coarse gar-
ments for a mere pittance, lint she was giving up
her time, and her money too, I suspect, to acting as
an angel of mercy to this poor suffering woman and
her family. O, Marjorie ! hov» much more real
heroines there often are in the poorest, humblest life,
than any of your love-lorn heroines of romance. Some
one says so truly :
" ' Few save the poor feel for the poor;
They little know how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarred.'"
Marjorie' s eyes were wet with tears as the picture
rose before her mind. Presently she said softly, put-
ting her hand in her father's : " I wish I could send
the angel something, father dear. Couldn't I put my
gold half-eagle into an envelope, and you could address
it to her, and she would never know where it came
from?"
fT
22
A NOVKMUKU KVKNINO.
I:
r^
" But yoii, were saviii<:^ it up for " —
''Oh ! never luintl, papa dear. I'd so luuch rather
give it to her."
" I'm afraid it's ou(? of your romantic fancies, Pet
Marjorie," he replied, smilinji;' down at her. " You
must think it well over. It is best not to follow an
impulse too hastily, lest you have to repent at leisure.
Wait a little, and count the cost, and then, if you still
wish it, you shall put it up and address it yourself."
"And we'll write inside the envelope, 'The light
shineth in darkness.' Won't that be nice?"
Mr. Fleming smiled as he bent down to kiss his
little girl's eager face. lie thought it was like what
her mother would have done, and the thought brought
a suspicious moisture to his eye.
"But my angel won't have the least idea of your
meaning in making the quotation," he said. " She
hasn't the least idea that she is doing anytliing angelic.
She will think that it is the kindness of an unknown
friend that is the ' light shining in darkness.' " And
then he commented inwardly : " Why don't such
kindnesses oftener occur to people who could do them
so easily '^ "
" I don't know that I should have thought of those
words myself just then, if I had not been reading this
little story before I went out. It is by a young author,
I think, as I don't know the name at all, and it sounds
like a young writer. And it bears the motto : ' Lux
I
A NOVKMliER EVENIMU.
28
Lvcet in Tenehris. You know enough Latin to trans-
late that, don't you ? "
" Why, it's on your little match-box, father dear.
I learned it there long ago."
" Well, now for the story," he said, as he took up
the manuscript.
THE STORY OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS.
The great King of Light sat in his palace, radiant
with an intensity intolerable to any mortal eye. About
him were gathered the various Light spirits who were
to proceed on their life-giving mission, each one to her
allotted task. There were the rich, warm sunbeams,
who were to proceed in ordered files of myriads, each
at her post, making the wintry air soft and balmy,
sending the quickened sap through the budding boughs,
waking the tiny lilossoms from tlieir winter sleep,
drawing up the young blades of grain, swelling the
ears day by day till they reached autumn ripeness,
molding and coloring flowers and fruit, to gladden
man's heart, and make earth seem for the time a para-
dise. To them was given the glad task of sparkling
in the crystal drops of dew, gleaming on the shining
green leaves, sending showers of golden arrows into
the shady recesses of the solemn pines, and glowing in
the rich hues of dawn and sunset.
Next in beauty and brightness came the spirits of
IT"
\i
24
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
I
I
1!!
the silvery moonbeams, and they too received their
appointed task. To them it was given to replace the
departed j^lory of the sunbeams, by a softer and more
restful luster, spreading a solenm and ethereal beauty
over woodland and lea — shedding a broad, quivering-
stream of silver across the restless waves, guiding the
navigator to his desired haven, and the belated traveler
to home and rest. They too went to discharge their
mission in ordered ranks, and made for the night a
second glory, as beautiful, though not as bright, as the
glory of the day.
At last there was left only one spirit who had not
received her charge. She was the most subtle and
ethereal of all the Light spirits, and unlike those of
the sunbeams and moonbeams, her immediate parentage
was veiled in mystery. Her light was not golden, like
that of the sunbeams, nor silvery like that of the moon-
light spirits, but of a pure, white, intense radiance, so
pure that even its intensity was scarcely dazzling, but
only luminous. But she was a shy and sensitive spirit,
fond of sheltering herself in obscurity, and becoming
invisible. She stood in the background, nearly hidden
by a dark cloudy veil, till all the rest had received
their commission, and departed to fulfill it. Then the
king called her and said :
" For thee, too, my child, there is a mission, and the
most precious mission of all. Thou art to be a light
to shine in the darkness."
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
25
Then he told her that she was to be sent to a remote
region, dark and cold, where, for weeks and months
the sun shines not, and where Stern winter's reign is
almost unchecked. And there she was to carry her
pure white radiance, to gleam brightly out from the
blackness of the wintry sky, to lighten with her soft
brilliancy the long, dark, moonless nights, to show to
the traveler in his sledge the way over the trackless
snow, and cheer the icy desolation with the hope of re-
turning sunshine and warmth which should at last dis-
perse the darkness, and cheer the dreary waste with
light and life.
The timid spirit trembled at the task before her,
and begged that she might have an easier, less solitary
mission. But the king said :
"For thee, my purest and strongest child, I have
reserved this noblest task — to go where light is most
needed. Fear not, but depend on me for the power
to fulfill thy mission. When thou feelest thyself
weakest and most afraid, I will strengthen thee and
make thee brightest. Not in thyself shall be thy light,
but in constant communication with me."
The spirit bowed her head and departed to the
cold and dreary northern regions, where for months
the sun never rises. And there she spread out her
luminous banners and streamers of light, till the black-
ness of the winter night seemed to throb with pulsa-
tions of quivering brightness, seen amidst the darkness
26
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
iii
>HI
and the brighter for the contrast with it. And when
the loneliness, and the power of the surrounding dark-
ness which she could not entirely overcome threatened
to overpower her, and her light trembled and grew
faint, the promised power from the great king came to
her aid. In the hour of weakness came her strength,
and at such times her brilliancy fairly flashed and
coruscated across the sky ; and golden and rosy tints,
that seemed borrowed from the dawn itself, flushed
through the pure, pearly radiance of her unwearied
light. And grateful 'nen, watching the glory and
beauty of this " light shining in darkness " have called
her the Aurora Borealis — the rosy-fingered dawn
of the Northern sky.
As Mr. Fleming laid down the paper, he looked at
Marjorie, who sat lost in thought, her work lying
neglected in her lap. " Well, Marjorie," he said,
" what do you think of the story ? "
"It's very pretty," she replied. " But I don't think
I quite understand it. I suppose it's a parable."
" Yes ; it has a very deep meaning, to my mind ; but
I could scarcely expect you to see all its meaning yet :
or until you have thought and felt a great deal more
than you have had time to do yet."
" You said it made you think of the angel you saw
to-day ; or that she made you think of it, as she did
of the ' light that shineth in darkness.' "
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
27
*' Yes ; it's a type of the Light that is always at
present ' shining in darkness ' ; of the light as it shines
in our own hearts amid so much of surrounding
darkness. It made me think of brave Gordon, shut
up there in Khartoum, like a man holding up a soli-
tary torch in that great gloomy desert ; and of many
a missionary light-bearer, at home and abroad, each
carrying a lonely ray of light into the darkness about
him ; and, most of all, of Him who is still the ' Light
that shineth in darkness,' and the darkness, even yet,
comprehendeth it not. You don't know yet half of
what that means, Pet Marjorie, but you'll know more
of it by and by — especially if you should be a light-
bearer yourself."
Marjorie looked very grave. "I'm afraid, father
dear, I would rather be one of the sunbeams. It must
be so much nicer to shine where everytliing else is
warm and bright and simny too."
" Yes, ever so much ' nicer,' " he replied with a
smile ; " and there are a great many good people of
your way of thinking. But it is hardly so useful or
so noble, or so Christlike as it is to shine in the dark-
ness, even though you may be uncomprehended or mis-
understood. But now it is getting late, and I don't
intend to sit up much longer myself to-night, for I
still feel that chill hanging about me. So we'll read
about that Light shining in darkness, and then say
good-night."
28
A NOVEMBER EVENING.
/
Mr. Fleming usually read aloud a few verses from
the Bible before Marjorie and he parted for the night.
This evening he read the first half of the first chapter
of St John's Gospel. Marjorie had often read it be-
fore, and knew it almost by heart. But she had never
before attached any definite meaning to the words :
" The Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness
comprehendeth it not." But to-night the image of the
bright Aurora, shining amidst the dprkness which
still remained darkness, opposed and cmcomprehending,
seemed to throw a new light on the old familiar words.
When she fell asleep, the same vision seemed to be
floacing through her brain. She dreamed that she was
walking alone over a wide trackless waste of ice and
snow, through a dark moonless night, not knowing
whither she was going, or how to choose her path,
when suddenly a shaft of pure white light shot up
amidst the darkness. It grew and grew, until it
seemed to wear the semblance of a great shining angel
beckoning her onward. And presently, more lights
appeared in the sky, till all the night about her seemed
•*-o be filled with an angelic host, and she heard sweet
strains of music, such as she had often heard in church,
bearing to her ear the old familiar words of the Clirist-
mas song: "Glory to God in the highest; on earth
peace and goodwill to men."
J
CHAPTER II.
SOME DARK DAYS.
That was the last talk that Marjorie and her father
had for a good while. The chill that Mr. Fleming
had taken that evening produced serious results. He
felt so ill next morning that the doctor had to be
summoned, and, in spite of all he could do, the attack
developed into inflammation of the lungs, accompanied
by a touch of bronchitis, to which he was constitution-
ally liable. For days he had to be kept perfectly
quiet, while the doctor came every few hours and
watched his patient's progress with great anxiety.
Marjorie was distressed and anxious, though she scarcely
realized the danger, being accustomed to her father's
severe colds and attacks of bronchitis. By his express
desire she went to school as usual and tried to study
her lessons, though not by any means with her usual
success. But when she hurried home from school, with
an anxious heart, eager to know how her father felt
now, and how Rebecca thought he was getting on,
she was much more inclined to hover about the sick
w
11
SOME DARK DAYS.
room, attempting the superfluous task of assisting the
capable and experienced Rebecca in attending to tlie
patient's comfort, than to set to work at the lessons
which had never seemed so dry and difficult before.
But she knew it worried her father when she neglected
her studies, and the aoctor had said that much depended
on keeping him perfectly quiet, so Marjorie toiled
away over French verbs and Gernum adjectives and
still more tiresome sums, with a very half-hearted
attention, glad when they were done and she was free
to sit by her father, or carry him the nourishment that
Rebecca prepared. The short November days had
never seemed so dreary, and the solitary meals seemed
so uninviting that, but for Rebecca's energetic remon-
strances, Marjorie would have half-starved herself.
" It's just too ridicklous," that sensible handmaid
would declare, " for you to be frettin' yourself sick,
when you ought to be savin' up yourself to cheer up
the master ; an' then, when he's gettin' well, you'll be
taken down sick next, worry in' him to death almost ! "
This consideration never failed to have its effect on
Marjorie, when nothing else would make her feel like
swallowing the food that seemed as if it would choke
her.
But at last the doctor announced that he thought
his patient out of danger, and that, with care, he might
soon be restored to his usual state of health. Mar-
jorie's relief and delight were so great, and the reac-
SOME DAllK DAYS.
31
tioii to overflowing^ spirits so strong, that Rebecca had
to be constantly warning her not to excite or fatigue
her father by too frequent expressions of her satisfac-
tion at his slowly returning strength.
One cold, bleak November afternoon, two or three
days after the turning-point, she was walking home
from school with her friend Nettie Lane. Marjorie was
in her brightest mood, as she talked of her father's
recent improvement. During the time when she had
been feeling oppressed by anxiety, she had shyly
avoided speaking of his illness, as far as it was possible
for her to do so ; had answered inquiries as briefly
as possible, and had even avoided Nettie herself, from
an instinctive dread of Nettie's too ready and often
thoughtless tongue. But now, with a natural desire
for sympathy, she talked freely and hopefully of her
father's daily increasing improvement.
But Nettie was not so sympathetic as might have
been expected. At home she had heard it confidently
predicted that Mr. Fleming " would not get over it,"
and people are often unwilling to admit their judgments
to be wrong, even in such matters. So Nettie looked
rather important, and remarked that her mother had
said that appearances were often deceitful, and, any
way, Mr. Fleming was in a very "• critical condition."
'' And I guess ' critical ' means something pretty
bad," added Nettie, "• for that was what the doctor said
before our baby died."
32
SOME DARK DAYS.
\\\
11
l<!
"But Dr. Stone says he thinks papa will soon be
all right again," said Marjorie, keenly hurt by Nettie's
blunt and unfeeling words.
" O, well ! you never can tell what doctors mean by
that," she added sententiously. '' Mother thinks, any
way, you ought to realize the danger more ; for she
says it would be dreadful if he were taken away while
he is so unprepared."
" My father — unprepared ! " exclaimed Marjorie,
too much shocked to say more.
*' Yes," replied Nettie decidedly ; " every one's un-
prepared if they're not converted, you know ; and
mother says she's sure he's never been converted."
" I don't think your mother knows anything about
it, then," said Marjorie, indignantly.
" Marjorie Fleming ! aren't you ashamed ? My
mother knows all about such things. She says she
can always tell when a person's converted," exclaimed
Nettie, aggrieved in her turn.
" Well, she doesn't know much about my father ;
and I don't think you ought to say such things to me,"
said Marjorie, trying hard to repress the tears that she
would not on any account have let Nettie see.
" Yes, I ought," persisted Nettie, " because you
ought to pray for him every day — that he mightn't
die till he was converted, for you know that would be
dreadful I"
" Nettie Lane, I just wish you would mind your
SOME DARK DAYS.
own business ! " almost sobbed out Marjorie, who could
bear no more ; and without another word she turned
the corner quickly, and almost ran till she was safe
within her own doo**. And then, when she had got
into her own little room, she gave way to the fit of
grieved and indignant crying that she could no longer
keep down.
It was intensely wounding both to her pride and to
her affection, to hear Nettie talk in such a flippant, un-
feeling fashion, of the father she so passionately loved
and revered. And to be told that she ought to pray
for her father's recovery — when she had been praying
so earnestly morning, noon and night that he might
be restored to health ! And under all the rest lay
an uneasy misgiving lest there might be some truth in
what Mrs. Lane had said. She knew how Mrs. Lane
was looked up to as an " eminent Christian " — a leader
in all good works ; and if she said such a thing, she
must think it ; and how could Marjorie tell what this
mysterious " being converted " meant ? And she knew
that her father was not a very regular attendant at
church, and that in some other respects he was not just
like some of the people that Nettie, on her mother's
authority, called "real Christians." But then she
remembered what he had said about many people being
" half-heathens," and how he had spoken to her about
the " light that shineth in darkness." She felt per-
plexed and bewildered ; and it was a great comfort to
34
SOME DAliK DAYS.
! !
her when Dr. Stone's neat little equipage drove up
to the door, and the brisk, cheery little doctor bright-
ened her up by his hopeful, encouraging words about
her dear father.
" I've told him he can leave his room and take tea
with you to-night," he said. '' A little change will be
good for him now ; only take care to have a good fire ;
and keep the temperature of the room very even," was
his parting injunction.
How good it was to see her father once more in his
own easy-chair by the fire, and to see that, though still
weak and pale, he looked so much like himself, and
smiled so cheerfully at all the little i)reparations for
his comfort, while he also expressed his satisfaction in
his own way.
" Why, Marjorie," he said, " you and Rebecca will
spoil me altogether, if you coddle me up like this,"
and he bent over to kiss his excited child, thinking
how much she looked like her motlier just then. She
had forgotten, for the time, all about the disquietude
of the afternoon ; but by and by it came back to her
when tea was over and she sat down by her father, who
seemed disinclined to try to read yet. It was Friday
evening, so that she did not need to learn her lessons
till next day.
" Well, Marjorie, what subject are you considering
so deeply?" asked Mr. Fleming, watching her pre-
occupied and absent air as she gazed into the fire and
SOME DARK DAYS.
86
stroked Robin's shagf^y locks. Marjorie had often
wondered at her father's jjower of dlvinino- her " moods
and tenses," as he used to call them, and she was not
sorry to have an o})portunity of unl)urdening her mind
a little to tlie only person who, slie felt, could give her
any light on the subject. So she looked up, and asked
shyly : *" Papa — what does it mean, exactly — to ' be
converted ' ? "
" To be turned round from the wrong to the right,"
he replied.
" Is that all ? " she asked in surprise. " I thought
it meant — to have a new heart. Were you ever con-
verted, father ? " she added, finding no way of getting
at what she wanted, except the direct question.
" What has Nettie Lane been saying to you, dear?"
Mr. Fleming asked, with one of his scrutinizing looks
and a slight smile.
'' Why, father, how could you know ? " she asked in
startled surprise.
" I can put things together," he said quietly. " I
know Mrs. Lane's ideas pretty well, and I can guess
her opinion of me. She is one of the Christians who
forget that their Master has said, '■'• Judge not," and
who doesn't understand any one's being religious if it
isn't in their own way. She is a good woman, and
honestly tries to do good, but, like many other good
people, she is apt to make mistakes when she tries to
judge others."
36
SOxME DAKK DAYS.
ill
'!«
ill I
11 i
'' I knew you were religious, father ; but 1 don't
understand about being- converted."
" Well, my dear child, I don't want you to mistake
me, and 1 think the best way to answer your question
will be to tell you something of my own experience
and my own mistakes. It may save you from some,
and I should like to tell you more about myself than
1 have ever done yet. 1 have been very ill, you know,
dear, and in all these quiet hours and days that 1 have
been laid aside — not knowing whether I should ever
jome ba(;k to my old life again — I have been think-
ing a good deal about my own past, and of things I
have been led to see, that once I did not see."
Marjorie's eyes had filled with tears as her father
referred, in his still weak voice, to that terrible possi-
bility, and then, with quick anxiety, she asked if it
would not tire him too much. And Rebecca came in
to enforce the necessity of Mr. Fleming saving his
strength, and not wearing himself out with too nmch
talking yet, a truth which the fatigue he already felt
obliged him to admit. So what he wanted to tell
Marjorie was postponed, and eager as she was to hear
it, she cheerfuUv settled down to read to him the
newly arrived papers, and some things that specially
interested him in the last unopened number of the
periodical with which he was connected.
The next evening an old friend from the city office
came in to see him, aud he and Dr. Stone had a little
flOMK I) Aim DAYS.
37
private talk witli Mr. Fleming' while Marjorie finished
her lessons, for once, in her own room. Sunday was
a lovely day for November — almost spring-like in its
mildness — and Mr. FItunIng was downstairs to give
Murjorie a pleasant surprise vVlien she eanie home
from church. This unexpected pleasure made her
forget what she had heen going to tell him, until her
return from Sunday-school, as the early dusk was
closing in.
" O, father ! we needn't have the lights in yet ? "
she asked eagerly, for the warm glow of the firelight
was so inviting, and Marjorie liked nothing better
than a twilight talk with her father on Sunday
evening.
" No, dear ; I have read as much as I care to read,
just now, and I would rather go on with the talk we
began the other evening."
Marjorie gladly settled herself down in her low
chair by his side, and Kobin stretched himself content-
edly at their feet. Then, with a sudden recollection,
she exclaimed :
" O, papa I what do you think was the text this
morning ? It was a stranger that preached, and I
don't know his name, but his text was : ' The light
shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth
it not.' Wasn't it odd?"
"Not very," replied her father. "You would never
have noticed the text specially if it hadn't been for
m
mm
M
38
SOME DARK DAYS.
our talk about it. Well, can you tell me any of the
sermon? "
" He said, for one thing, that Christ lighted every man
tha^ came into the world, and that meant, that he gave
them light enough to vvalk by, if they would take it.
And then he said just what you said that evening,
about our hearts being so full of darkness that the
light often shone in the midst of it without being able
to drive it away ; and that even good people often had
a great deal more darkness in their hearts than they
knew."
Marjorie had been accustomed to have to bring
home reports of the sermons she heard when her father
was not with her, and partly in this way she had ac-
quired the habit of listening with attention, and
carrying away leading thoughts in her mind.
" Yes," said Mr. Fleming, " that is only too true.
' Lighten our darkness ' is perhaps the prayer we all
need most. But then if we are only sincere in trying
to walk in the light we have, we shall have more light.
It has always seemed inexpressibly touching to me
that those words, ' more light,' should have been the
last on the great Goethe's dying lips. With all the
light his splendid intellect and vast knowledge could
give him, ' more light " was, he felt, what he needed
most. It seems sad, too, that he could not, while he
lived, have seen the true ' Light of the World.' But
pride and selfishness are terribly blinding powers."
SOME DARK DAYS.
" Well, father," said Marjorie, much less interested
in Goethe than in himself, "you said you were going
to tell me about yourself."
" Yes, darling, and so I will. Well, I was a long
time in getting to see that true Light, and that gives
me more patience with others. You know that I was
born and brought up in Scotland, though I left it as
soon as I had finished my university course. My
parents were good people, but very strict in their ideas
— my father especially so — and very sure that what
they had been taught to believe was the exact truth,
and everything different must be wrong. From the
people about me I got the idea that certain beliefs were
a necessary part of Christianity, which I now believe
people got out of the darkness of their own hearts, and
not out of the Bible — beliefs which are certainly
(piite inconsistent with the blessed truth that ' God is
Love,' and which, I think, taught them to be hard and
unloving and unforgiving, as they fancied God was.
I was too much of a boy — too lazy and careless about
such things — to study the Bible for myself, and see
what Christ and his apostles really taught. And so,
first I grew to dread and dislikii the very name of
God, and everything that reminded me of One whom
I never thought of loving>but only of fearing. And
then as I grew older, and met with other young men,
and read more, I was very easily persuaded that
religion was all a superstition — because some things
40
SOME DARK DAYS.
I had been taught could not be true — and that it was
impossible, even if there was a God, that we could
ever understand him, or could even know whether he
existed or not."
" That's what you call an Agnostic, isn't it, papa ?
Mrs. Lane thinks they are dreadful peojjle, but they
can't be, if you were ever one," said Marjorie, im-
pulsively.
" They are very much to be pitied, at any rate," he
said, " for wandering in darkness when there is light.
And often it is not so much their fault as that of the
Christians who pervert or misrepresent Christianity.
1 was unfortunate, too, in some friends of whom, at
one time, I saw a good deal — people who were very
earnest and devoted Christians, but seemed to care for
nothing in life that was not distinctly religious. Art,
science, even philanthropic reforms, they seemed to
think unworthy of a Cliristian's attention. There
was for them only one interest — that which they
call ' salvation,' and they seemed to care little even for
other people, vniless they thought as they did. Now I
thought, and truly enough, that if there was a God, he
was the God of nature as well as of religion, and that
he must have created all man's faculties and intended
him to use them ; and so th(j narrowness of these really
good people only confirmed me in my idea that
religion is only a superstition. And I took these
stunted, dwarfed specimens — stunted and dwarfed by
SOME DARK DAYS.
the perversity and narrowness of human nature — for
the natural fruits of the tree of Christianity, and
thought that I was thus judging the tree by its fruits.
" Well, as I said, I came to America just after my
university course, when your Uncle Kamsay married
my eldest sister, and came out to settle in Montreal.
I had very exalted ideas on the subject of human free-
dom, and I thought that republican institutions and
the growth of humanity would right every evil uruier
the sun. But I soon found that even these were by
no means perfect ; that abuses and selfish oppression
and many other evils seemed to spring up, like weeds
from the soil. As a young writer, trying to make my
way, I had a hard time of it, and many experiences
tliat gradually led me into very pessimistic, that is
hojieless, views of humanity, and I was feeling very,
very miserable and dejected, when — I met your dear
mother."
Marjorie's eyes followed the direction of her father's
— to the sweet face in the picture. Both were silent
for a few moments.
Then Mr. Fleming continued : " To me, in my de-
]n'essed state of mind, she seemed a very angel of
consolation. And when 1 found that she loved me,
and was willing to share my not very brilliant pros-
pects, life seemed to blossom anew for me. It seemed
as if now I had found the true light of life, and for a
time it was all I wanted.
'Ti
42
SOME DARK DAYS.
I'i
i i
" But it was not all she wanted. I had purposely
avoided saying anything to her about the faith in
which I knew she implicitly believed. I went to
church — though not very regularly — and she knew
I was serious and earnest in my ideas and in my life ;
that I worked with all my heart for what seemed to
me for the good of man, and I think that even while
she had a misgiving that her faith was not mine, she
still hoped that it was, and when she could no longer
even hope this, she still hoped that it yet would be."
Marjorie sat listening with intense interest. She
had never heard much of her dead mother except from
her Aunt Millie, and this opening of her father's
heart and life to her, was a more precious gift than
any other he could have bestowed on her. Mr. Flem-
ing spoke slowly and thoughtfully — almost as if
thinking aloud — now and then pausing, as if the
time he was speaking about was present still.
" As our happy marrii xi life went on," he continued,
" and your mother's nature matured and deepened, her
true, spiritual faith grew deeper and stronger also.
She did what I had never done — studied the Bible
daily and thoughtfully, with a loving and childlike
heart, and remembei*, Marjorie darling, it is only
love that ' comprehendeth love.' Without this, it is
no wonder so many critics should miss the vei^y heart
and. core of revelation. But as her love and faith
grew stronger, she grew more sensitive to my lack of
)
SOME DARK DAYS.
48
sympathy with either, and I well know it was a great
and growing sorrow to her. I always put the subject
aside as gently as I could when it came up, for by
that time my will was set against believing ; but I felt
the wistful pain in her face in spite of myself. Then
our first baby died, and I knew that in that sorrow her
one consolation was that which I could not and would
not share ; and this seemed to make a separation be-
tween us, just when sorrow should have drawn us
closest. She was never very strong, and I think this
double sorrow undermined her„health so much that,
shortly after your birth I lost her, as I then thought,
forever! " ,
Marjorie's tears were flowing now. Her father took
her hand in his, while he gently stroked her hair with
the other ; and, after a short pause, he went on.
" What I went through at that time, Marjorie, I
could never tell in words. It was the blackness of
darkness. I knew then what it was to be ' without
God and without hope in the world.' I would have
longed for death, but even that gave me no hope of
reunion with her who was my life — and what did I
know of a ' beyond ' ? And healthy human nature
shrinks from a vacuum ! So I lived on, trying to for-
get my sorrow in my work. Your Aunt Millie came
to live with me, and did all she could to cheer me.
She was passionately fond of Tennyson's ' In Memo-
riam,' and sometimes in the evenings, when I sat too
^1
Hi
n ^
44
SOME DAKK DAYS.
i
tired and sad to talk or read, she would read to me
bits of that beautiful poem, which I had never cared
to il u.^ . tlian glance at before. The beauty and
music of the poetry attracted me at first, and by de-
grees some of its teaching found its way into my heart.
I began to fo'A that human knowledge is not all knowl-
edge, 'u>.. ii'. there were other ways of getting at
truth than bj •. > sf^uses and our short-sighted human
reai'^ning. And o io w .ke a long story short, I be-
gan to streicn ''-t )', wjh through the darkness, to
the Light that can yiiJijii. o . jn in darkness, and that, as
I found, shone even for me. Your Uncle Ramsay too
helped me by telling me that if I wanted to get more
light, I must honestly seek to follow the light I had,
and that Christ had said, ' If any man will do his will,
he shall know of the doctrine.' I began to study
Christ's life and words, and was amazed to find there
many things that I had never seen before — often as I
had heard and read the words — things that transcended
my own highest ideal of moral purity, and that, alas, far
transcended my power of acting up to them. But I
felt that in the very desire to follow Christ came the
power of following. There were many things that I
did not see for a long time — some that I cannot say I
see clearly even yet ; but this I have long been sure of :
that no light has ever come to this world's darkness
to compare with the divine glory seen in Jesus Christ,
and that in the loving following of him, is the life and
ii
SOME DARK DAYS.
45
light of men ! I could say for myself, from the heart,
what was said by one who was also a long and anxious
seeker for truth, whose life I read some years ago.
' Fully assured that when I am most a Christian, I am
the best man, I am content to adhere to that as my
guide in the absence of better light, and wait till God
shall afford me more.' And as time has gone on, God
has given me more light, so that some of the very
things that once were difficulties to me, are now
additional proofs of the divine origin of a religion
which proud human nature could never, never have
originated."
The room was very still. The lire had burned low
as the absorbing talk had gone on only the ticking of
the clock and the distant sound of Rebecca's prepara-
tions for tea broke the silence. Mr. Fleming's voice
had grown tired and weak, but presently he roused
himself to say a few words more.
" I have told you all this, my child, because in this
age of conflicting opinions few thoughtful minds can
entirely escape the infection of prevailing doubt. And
as changes are always liable to come, and some may
soon come to our life together, I think it may be helpful
to you hereafter to know what has been your father's
experience, and what is his deliberate verdict after so
many years of thought and of trial of the illusions of
life without the true Light. I might not be able to
satisfy Mrs. Lane yet on u cross-examination, and as
8^
m
•!■' .:
46
SOME DARK DAYS.
it does not come natural to me to express myself in
her particular phraseology, I never try to do so. But
' God fulfils himself in many ways; '
and I am more and more satisfied that Christ's law of
love is the law of light ; and that in those two words,
loving and following, lies the essence of that which is
variously called ' conversion,' or a ' new heart ' or
practical Christianity. ' Rise up and follow me,' was
Christ's summons to those who would be his disciples,
and then '•If ye love me, keep my commandments,*
and ' This is my commandment, that ye love one
another!' And now, darling, ring for lights and tea ;
for I have talked rather too much and I feel a little
faint."
Mr. Fleming talked no more that evening, but Mar-
jorie never forgot that conversation, or rather her
father's earnest words, which lingered in her mind for
montlis and years to come. It made that mysterious
something called " conversion " so much clearer and
simpler than it had ever seemed before. Just to " fol-
low " Christ ; to try to do his will in loving obedience •
she could try to do that, and she would. And when
she read in her Testament that evening about the man
sick of palsy whom Christ told to " take up his bed
and walk," it flashed upon her that perhaps it was
just in trying to obey Christ that he received the power
SOME DAKK DAYS.
47
to do it. And the light that had shone for her dear
father and mother would, she was sure, shine for her
also.
But what could be the " change " her father had
hinted at, as if something unknown to her were im-
pending ? Her father, she was sure, was growing de-
cidedly better. The doctor no longer came to see him
daily, and when he did, he spoke so cheerfully, that
Marjorie felt quite reassured. Nettie Lane and the
other girls had often told her that she might have a
step-mother some day — an idea which seemed to her
as impossible as it was painful. But she felt sure that
her father could not have spoken of her mother as he
had done, if he had had the slightest thought of such a
thing ; and she dismissed it from her mind as out of
the question. Whatever the impending change might
be, it was not that. And, as often happens, what it
really was, was something which would in all proba-
bility have never occurred, even to her dreaming
imagination.
I.
CHAPTER III.
u \m
A NEW DEPARTURE.
A FEW days after that Marjorie brought in her
father's letters to the sitting-room, where he had be-
gun to write again, though he was not as yet allowed
to leave the house. One of the letters bore a Cana-
dian postage stamp, and the postmark of Montreal,
and was addressed in the well-known flowing hand-
writing of her aunt, Mrs. Ramsay. Another was ad-
dressed in her Aunt Millie's familiar hand, and
Marjorie carried them in with eager expectation, for
such letters were generally common property. But
instead of reading them to her at once, as he usually
did, Mr. Fleming merely opened them eagerly, and
after a hasty glance over their contents, resumed his
writing.
" Well, father dear," said Marjorie, in a disap-
pointed tone, " aren't you going to tell me what Aunt
Millie says ? May I read her letter ? "
" Not just now, dear^" he replied, and Marjorie no-
ticed that his hand was trembling a little ; " you shall
48
A NEW DErAKTUKE.
49
read both letters in the evening, when I have time to
talk to you about them. But I can't do that just
now."
Marjorie went off to school, feeling a little hurt,
and wondering why her father couldn't at least have
let her read her dear Aunt Millie's letter, when he
knew how eager she always was to hear from her.
However, she knew her father always had a good
reason for anything that seemed strange to her, so she
trusted him now. But the day seenu'd a long one,
and after school she made haste to learn her lessons
before tea, so that after tea she might be ready as soon
as her father was at leisure.
He did not write or study in the evenings yet, and
when Marjorie sat down beside him, and told him
that her lessons were over, he seemed quite ready for
their talk.
" I have a great deal to talk to you about, my child,"
he said, tlirowing his arm lovingly about her, " and
the sooner I begin the better — now, I didn't want
you to read those letters this morning, because I
wanted to tell you first what they were about, and
I didn't feel ready to do it then. Marjorie darling,
your Aunt Mary most kindly invites you to come and
spend the winter with her in Montreal."
"But, father dear, I couldn't go away and leave
you," exclaimed Marjorie in bewilderment.
"My dear child, I am afraid that I must go and
i'.\
50
A NEW l)^:l^VUTUUE.
leave you — for a whilo," he said sadly. "No, don't
be frightened, dear ; the doctor thinks I am getting on
nicely ; but I have had a severe shake, and he thinks
it would not be prudent for me to risk staying here
through the winter. He strongly recommends me to
go South, and your Aunt Millie is most anxious that I
should go to her, for part of the winter, at any rate.
Mr. Fulton and I have been talking the matter over,
and he too endorses the doctor's advice. I can still
carry on some of my work in connection with the
office, even there. And as I shall probably take a
voyage among the West India Islands, I can write
some articles that will be of use both to the office and
to myself. I should have liked very much to take you
with me, dear ; but there are several reasons against
that, besides the additional expense. It would be a
serious interruption to your studies just now, and you
would find it very hard to settle down after it. Then
your Aunt Mary has always been anxious to see more
of you, and that you should get to know your cousins,
and 1 know it will be much the best thing for you to
be under her care for a while. It will be the next
thing to having your own mother, dear."
Marjorie had listened without a word, so far too
much stunned by all these unexpected announcements
to say a word. She could scarcely realize at first, all
that such a plan involved. But as it gradually dawned
upon her that a long separation from her father was
si
1
A NEW DKPARTURE.
51
really inevitable, her head sank down on his shoulder
and a burst of tears eanie to lier relief.
" Don't suppose it isn't hard for me, too, darlinjy,"
said Mr. Fleming, tenderly stroking' her liair. " But
I am older than you, and have had more ex})erienee in
submitting to what must be ; and then a few months
don't seem so long to me to look forward, as when I
was your age. But I am quite sure you'll have a very
happy winter and that you'll soon learn to love your
aunt and eousins, and my dear old friend \amsay."
And then he went on to tell her stories of things
that had happened when they were at college together,
showing his friend's goodness and kindness of heart,
and also his love of fun, and l)efoic long Marjorie
had almost forgotten her first bi-oken-hearted feeling,
and was smiling over her father's narrative of his own
bewilderment when he first woke uj) to the fact that
Ramsay actually preferred his sister Mary's society to
his own I
" I can tell you, Marjorie," he said, '" it was one of
the severest snubs I ever got in my life, and how old
Ramsay did enjoy it ; and Mary, too, after she got rid
of her first shyness."
Mr. Fleming and Marjorie talked a long time over
all the arrangements that had to be considered. He
had a good opportunity for letting his house furnished
for a year, and as he and Marjorie always spent part
of the summer in some quiet country quarters, he
;i
m
i^
■H
1
52
A NEW DEPARTURE.
thought it best to avail himself of the chance. Re-
becca would remain in the house to look after things,
and could get on very well with the old gentleman and
his wife who were to take the house. And Mr. Ful-
ton had a friend who was going to Montreal, and who
could be Marjorie's escort, so that her aunt need not
take the long journey, as she had offered to do, in
order to take Marjorie North.
" But Robin, father ! " said Marjorie, suddenly look-
ing down at the shaggy little terrier. " We can't
leave poor Robin in the house. He would break his
heart."
" Oh ! that reminds me that you haven't read your
Aunt Mary's letter yet. I told her about Robin, and
how unwilling I knew you would be to leave him be-
hind — as she would have been herself indeed. And
she says : * By all means let Marjorie bring '' Robin
Adair." He will find a warm welcome from all tne
family, including our big, good-natured Nero, who will
patronize him with the greatest satisfaction.' Now
read the letter for yourself, and see if you don't think
you will love your Aunt Mary just as much as your
Aunt Millie, when you come to know her as well."
So Marjorie sat down to read her ainit's letter in
which, after expressing the pleasure with which she
would receive her niece, she went on to predict how
much Marjorie would enjoy the novel experience of a
Canadian winter, tlie sleighing, tobogganing, snow-
A NEW DEPARTURE.
63
shoeing, and last, not least, the wonderful sights of
the winter carnival. " The children are wild about
outdoor sports," she said, "and T am sure the exercise
and fun will be very good for Marjorie, for when I
saw her I thouglit that, like yourself, she read and
studied too much, and lived too dreamy and solitary a
life."
Mrs. Ramsay had paid her brother a short visit, on
the occasion of their youngest sister's marriage, and
Marjorie could not but be attracted by her motherly
manner and genuine kindliness. She was her father's
" common-sense sister," as he used to call her, and he
had frequently told her how her hapi)y tranquillity of
disposition had often been a true solace in his youthful
troubles. He knew that the influence of her calm,
bright Christianity and active, practical life would be
very good for his impulsive and rather dreamy Mar-
iorie, and this more than half reconciled him to the
parting which he dreaded almost as much as she did.
And it was pleasant, also, to think that his friend
Ramsay should know and love his little girl, of whom
he was secretly very proud, and whom he knew his old
classmate would appreciate.
The next few days were very busy ones. Dr.
Stone was anxious to get his patient off just as soon
as possible, and there were many preparations to be
made. Rebecca, who at first almost cried her eyes
out at losing "the master and Miss Marjorie, not to
w
m
54
A NEW DEPARTURE.
mention poor little Robin," yet was glad to stay by
the old house, was almost buried in the boxes she was
packing, and the garments she was sorting and putting
to rights. Marjorie and she made a careful inventory
of the contents of the house, a task which made Mar-
jorie feel herself of much use, as she carefully wrote
down her list in a neat memorandum book. Mr.
Fleming went into the city when the weather was fine
enough, and made his arrangements at the office and
elsewhere. One of his pleasantest errands was to
leave Marjorie's half-eagle — neatly put up as it had
been planned — in the hands of the " angel " he had
met on that November day, when his illness had be-
gun. She looked ill, herself, and Mr. Fleming felt
sure that the little gift of money would be a real boon
to her, if she would only use it in procuring comforts
for herself. But he could not charge her to do this,
for he merely performed the part of a messenger, only
saying to her that he had been asked to hand her the
package, and then at once coming away without wait-
ing for questions.
Mr. Fleming's own papers had all to be arranged
and put away, and very soon the house began to wear
the strange and comfortless look characteristic of a
transition period, and the disappearance of the things
that most mark the individuality of the inhabitants.
At length, the last evening had come, and Rebecca
with very red eyes, had carried away the tea-tray for
•"T-PTEWTI . ' jr.r fMEl^if t ' l ' J^
A NEW DEPARTURE.
55
the last time. The fire burning brightly, alone seemed
unchanged, but the room otherwise looked very bare
and formal. Even Robin seemed to feel the difference,
and watched Marjorie and her father with a wistful
expression, as if he wanted very much to know what
could be the matter. All the preparations were made
and the boxes packed, for both travelers were to start
on the morrow, within an hour or two of each other.
Marjorie sat down on her low chair by the fire with
some sewing, glad to have something to do as an out-
let for her restlessness. She was trying to finish —
before leaving — one of the flannel garments she had
undertaken to make for the Dorcas Society.
" You've been sadly interrupted in your good in-
tentions, dear," said her father, smiling at her deter-
mination to finish her work at the last moment.
" Yes, papa. 01 ! doesn't it seem a long time since
that evening you read me the ' Northern Lights ' ! " she
exclaimed. " But Rebecca says she'll do the rest, and
it'll be all the same to the Dorcas. If I'd only known
we were going away, I might have worked more when
you were ill, but somehow I couldn't settle down then."
" No, dear ; you have hardly learned that amount of
self-control yet. But you are going to be a brave girl
to-morrow, are you not ? You won't make it harder
to part with you ? "
Marjorie shook her head, but her lips quivered, and
her father hastened to less dangerous ground.
66
A NEW DEPARTURE.
((
((
" I hope, my child, you will try to feel as if your
cousins were brothers and sisters. I am sure they will
want to be good to you."
Yes, father, but I hope they don't hate Americans."
Why, Marjorie, what put that into your head ? "
" Well, you know, father," said Marjorie, " that
little girl we met at the Glen House last summer?
She came from Montreal, and her name was -Ada
West."
" A pretty, fair-haired little damsel, very vain and
silly ? Yes, I remember her ; rather a spoilt child, I
imagine," replied Mr. Fleming.
" Well, she always used to say she hated Americans,
and their ways ; and that she never wanted to have
anything to do witli them."
" Why ! she seemed to have quite a fancy for you,
notwithstanding."
" Oh ! she insisted that I wasn't really an American
— she called it ' Yankee.' But I told her I was a
real American, and that my mother's great, great,
great-grandfather came over in the Mayfiower^ and
that my grandfather died fighting in the war, and that
I was proud of being an American, and never wanted
to be anything else."
" Well, dear, I want you to love your native country
and believe in it. And you know I am a naturalized
American and love your mother's country as much as
my own Scotland. But where did we all come from
A NEW DEPARTURE.
in the first place? — your great, great, great-grand-
father as well as your father? But there is no reason
why the children of the same mother should hate each*
other, because they live on different sides of a river, or
because some have been longer in America than others.
I don't suppose Miss Ada knew what the Mayflower
was."
" No, she said she didn't know, and didn't care."
" Yes, I thought so. These violent dislikes and
prejudices are generally signs of thoughtless ignor-
ance. And the rich, self-indulgent people one is apt
to meet at such places are not the best people to take
as specimens of any country. People often make this
mistake about Americans. But your cousins are not
like that, I know very well. Your Uncle Ramsay
has too big and noble a heart to allow such prejudices
in his family. How well I remember how he and I
used to hurry down Princes Street in the mornings, to
get the latest news of the American War, when we
were Edinburgh students, and the battles he helped
me to fight with the fellows who were so down on the
North then ; and the beautiful letter he wrote me
when he heard that I was going to marry the daughter
of a true, brave patriot who had fallen in that terrible
yet heroic war — heroic on both sides, as every one
can afford to admit now."
Marjorie's eyes glistened, for she had always been
proud of this unknown soldier-grandfather ; indeed
it
3
! ii
58
A NEW DEPARTURE.
i
iijii
she was, perhaps, privately guilty of a little ancestor
worship.
" But remember, Marjorie, no one can truly love his
country, who hates any other."
Marjorie looked surprised, and inclined to question
this strange proposition.
" I know some people call it loving their country,
when they abuse and attack others," continued Mr.
Fleming, " but it is really only loving themselves. They
love their country just because it is something that
belongs to them, and when they lose their selfish inter-
est in it, they soon show how deep is their love. You
have read Coriolanus, Do you remember how when
his pride and self-love were wounded, he turned against
the country he had been so proud to serve —
i!
" ' No more infected with m}' country's love ' —
and was only prevented by the entreaties of his wife
and mother from destroying it ? So Americans used
to boast of their country ; but when opposition of in-
terest and opinion arose, they split into two parts, each
for a time hating the other more than they could a
foreign enemy. No, Marjorie I true love never hates,
any more than heat can suddenly turn to cold. It
must go on loving, though human love must grow less
intense as it goes farther from home. And true
patriotism, in seeking the real good of its country,
A NEW DEPARTURE,
59
must seek the good of all others, too. Even an old
heathen poet could write the noble line :
" ' I am a man, and I hold nothing human as foreign to me.'
"And
still :
my country's poet has sung, more sweetly
" ' Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will, for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er.
Shall brothers be an' a' that.'
That is true patriotism and true cosmopolitanism or,
rather — for that is a very long word — true brother-
hood."
" Why, I never thought of that before," said Mar-
jorie, thoughtfully.
" No, dear, you could hardly be expected to have
thought yet, of all the things we older folks have had
time to think about. But don't forget it, dear. It
may save you from getting into silly and vulgar and
unchristian disputes. And, Marjorie, one thing more
let me say. The root of true brotherhood is, to
know and love our Heavenly Father. If we do that,
we can't hate any of his children. One of the things
that has taught me to know him, was my growing,
deepening love for you 1 I came to feel that that love
could only come from the source of all love, as of all
60
A NEW DEPARTURE.
life. Marjorie, whatever you do, let no one make
you believe anything but that God is Love ; and, just
because he is liove, seeking to save us from sin, our
worst enemy, but always loving us with a tender, faith-
ful, untiring love, infinitely more tender than any
human love, which can only faintly reflect his."
" Yes, father dear," said Marjorie. " I'll always
remember that when I think of you."
" And remember too, darling, that no part of your
life should be lived apart from God. People divide
life far too much into ' religious ' and ' secular ' things.
But our life touches God at all points, and must do so
save in wrong. In your lessons and daily interests,
yes, even in your amusements, you come in contact
with things that are God's, and can live always in the
sense of his presence, if you seek to do so. When
you have not me to come to, take all your troubles and
difficulties to your Heavenly Father. If you can't do
that, be sure there is something wrong, and go to him
to set it right. This will save you from many mis-
takes and much unhappiness, and will show you that
the true nobility and beauty of life lies in living it as
seeing him who is invisible. I don't want your path
to him to be so long and thorny as mine has been.
And remember too, that we know him best in the
tenderness and truth — the ever present love of him
who was ' bone v.f our bone, and flesh of our flesh ' ;
our Elder Brother.
A NEW DEPARTURE.
61
" You know those lines from my dear old Whittier,
that I have read to you sometimes :
•' ' That all our weakness, pain and doubt
A great compassion clasps about.'
And these others, from his ' Miriam,' that I have
learned to say from my own heart :
" ' We search the world for t.'uth ; we cull
The good, the true, the beautiful.
From graven stone and written scroll,
From all old ttowertields of the soul ;
And, weary seekers of the best,
We come back laden from our quest,
To find that all the sages said
Is in the Book our mothers read,
And all our treasures of old thought
In his harmonious fullness wrought
Who gathers iu one sheaf complete
The scattered blades of God's sown wheat,
The common growth that maketh good
His all-embracing Fatherhood.'
" As you grow older you'll understand that better,
and love the lines, as I do, for their own sake. And
now, my dear child, it's getting late, and we have to
be up early. So now we won't say another word but
good-night."
There was a long, fervent embrace, and then they
parted, trying not to think how long it would be be-
fore they could say " good-night " again. .
^>i... ' .i:" ' s ' "j f - -^
CHAPTER IV.
NORTHWARD.
It''
i;
li
Mr. Fleming had arranged to depart on the same
day witli Marjorie, by a train leaving only an hour or
two after that b)^ which she and her escort were to
start. They went into the city by the earliest morn-
ing train, after a hurried breakfast before daylight of
the gray December morning. The parting words were
said to the tearful Rebecca, and they were whirling to-
wards New York before Marjorie could realize that
the journey was begun. Robin seemed overpowered
by surprise at the strange proceeding, and cowered
down in a corner beside Marjorie's satchel, to see
what would happen next. The conductor talked to
Mr. Fleming about his journey and his intended ab-
sence, while Marjorie wiped away some tears that she
could not quite keep back, notwithstanding her deter-
mination to be " brave."
, In New York there was a hurried transfer from one
station to another ; the arrangements about luggage,
the bustle and noise of the drive through the long New
62
NOKTHWAKD.
63
York streets, the crowded station, the brief talks with
Mr. Field, her escort, the few bright parting words
said by her father, when she and liobin — the latter
by special permission — were comfortably settled in
the Montreal train, and then, before she could realize
what was happening, the locomotive whistled, her
father gave her the last kiss and jumped off the train,
and, as he took off his hat and waved it toward her,
they glided off and the parting was over.
Mr. Field kindly left Marjorie to herself for a little
while, till the tears that had been kept back with such
an effort, had had their way, not a few of them falling
on the shaggy coat of the still astonished Kobin, whom
Marjorie hugged close to her as if she was in danger
of losing this last link with her home life. For the first
hour or two she felt thoroughly and utterly homesick.
It seemed to her that she could never be happy till she
should see her father again. Then her mind went
back to his earnest words of the evening before, and
she found the soothing solace that comes to each one
of us in remembering that those who are separated
from us are not separated from our Heavenly Father,
and from commending them, simply but earnestly in
our hearts to that ever loving care. Nor did she for-
get Rebecca, left lonely in the house to prepare for
the arrival of strangers, and just then "fretting" a
good deal, as she would herself have called it.
By degrees Marjorie's impressible nature began to
64
NOUTllWAKD.
assert itself, and she began to look out with some in-
terest at the country through whicli she was passing :
the villas and villages, the glimpses of river and
mountain, beautiful even in the cold grayness of De-
cember. Mr. Field, in his desire to entertain her,
brought her two or three morning papers, at which
Marjorie tried to glance, out of courtesy ; he also
bought for her — to her secret annoyance — a packet
of candy from the ubiquitous "newsboy" and ottered
her her choice from the parcel of gaily bound volumes
laid down by her side, when the boy again made his
inevitable round. But Marjorie could truthfully say
that she did not want to read just then, and in watch-
ing the ever changing panorama without, and mentally
trying to follow her father's movements as he set out
on his southward journey, the hours crept on, not
so slowly after all. Dinner made a break not unwel-
come to either herself or Robin. Then there were
changes of cars, and cities and towns to rush through,
and by and by the short December day began to draw
to a close as they were nearing the Canadian frontier.
It was some little time after Mr. Field's announce-
ment that they were in Canada now, that a lady
entered the train accompanied by a very young girl,
and took vacant seats quite near Marjorie's, on the
other side of the car. Marjorie was looking with ad-
miration at their rich sealskin jackets and fur muff-
lings, when, as they laid aside some of their wraps she
NOKTHWAKD.
65
gave a little start of recognition. She could not be
mistaken, the fair hair and lively chatter were certainly
those of Ada West, and the handsome and handsomely
dressed matron with her must be her mother, so much
did Ada resemble her. She was too shy, however, to
make any advances, and sat jn-rfectly still, watching
the two with some eagerness, till Ada, whose quick
eyes were not likely to leave anything or any one
about her unnoticed, glanced at Marjorie with a
scrutinizing glance, which speedily changed into one
of surprise.
*' Why, I do believe it's Marjorie Fleming," she ex-
claimed, darting from her seat to Marjorie, and over-
whelming her with questions, while her mother looked
on with an inquiring and critical air. Mr. Field had
just then gone into the smoking-car for a chat with a
friend, so that Marjorie was left alone.
*' Mamma," said Ada, as soon as she had extracted
from Marjorie some information as to what she was
doing there, " this is Marjorie Fleming, that I told you
about — you know I met her when I was traveling last
summer with auntie — and how clever she was, and how
her father wrote poetry, and all sorts of things."
" Ada ! Ada, how you do talk ! " exclaimed her
mother. *' How do you do. Miss Fleming ? " she
continued, somewhat stiffly ; " are you going to
Mo real?"
^ .irjorie explained as briefly as she could, and then
G6
NORTHWARD.
Mrs. West having done all she thought necessary, re-
clined comfortably in her corner, leaving Ada to
chatter away to her heart's content.
"Mamma and I have been pa;yiig a little visit to
my aunt. I was awfully sorry to come away, for I
always have lots of fun there. But mamma said if I
didn't come home now, it wouldn't be worth while to
go back to school before Christmas. Well, I'm aw-
fully glad you're going to stay in Montreal all winter ;
we can have such a nice time ; and there'll be the
carnival, you know — that's such fun. Did you ever
see an ice palace? We've had two before this, and
they say this one will be the best yet. And so you're
going to the Ramsays'V I know Marion and Alan
Ramsay quite well. Marion's ever so much older than
me, so of course she's not in my set at all ; but Gerald
knows Alan very well, so I see him pretty often, and
he's ever so nice and jolly. Mamma," she ran on^
scarcely leaving Marjorie room for the briefest replies,
" Marjorie's going to stay at Dr. Ramsay's — Mrs.
Ramsay's her aunt. She told me that last summer,
and I tjld her you knew Mrs. Ramsay quite well."
" Yes, of course I know Mrs. Ramsay, and every
one knows Dr. Ramsay's a very clever doctor," replied
Mrs. West, whose indifferent and somewhat patroniz-
ing manner impressed Marjorie somewhat unpleasantly,
she scarcely knew why.
"Yes," continued Ada, in a lower tone, "Gerald
NORTHWARD.
67
says Dr. Ramsay's awfully clever. He once came to
our house for a consultation wlieu my eldest brother
was dreadfully ill. Gerald and Alan go to school
together. T daresay you and I will go to school to-
gether. What school are you going to ? "
Marjorie replied that her father had left that alto-
gether with her aunt to decide.
'* Well, then, I'm almost sure she'll let you go to
my school, for every one says it's the best in Montreal.
And that'll be ever so nice, for then I can get you to
help me with my lessons. It's an awful bore to learn
lessons, but I know you don't mind it, you're so clever.
It must be nice to be so clever as you are."
Notwithstanding the liveliness and cordiality of this
unexpected traveling companion, Marjorie, whose heart
was still rather heavy and preoccupied, had had time
to grow somewhat tired of the ceaseless flow of ques-
tions and remarks, by the time Mr. Field returned to
tell her that, in a short time, now, they would be in
Montreal. He seemed much pleased to find that Mar-
jorie had found a friend of her own age who could
talk to her so much better than he could, so he took
his seat at a little distance to look over a Montreal
paper he had just bought in the train. As he did so
he remarked : " It's a pretty sharp night outside.
The Northern Lights are very bright, too. I expect
you'll know you've got a good way North when you
get out of the train."
mm
J-
•11
f
-11
68
NORTHWARD.
Poor Marjorie ! the mere mention of the Northern
Lights almost upset her, so vividly did it bring back
the thought of her father, now so far away. But it
brought memories, too, that helped to console her.
Meantime, Ada and her mother had begun to gather
up their wrappings, and Marjorie was counseled to
muffle up well.
"• You don't know how cold it is in Montreal iu
winter I You'll have to get some furs ; you never can
get on in our winters with a hat like that. Why!
is that your dog ? " added Ada, as Marjorie, in rising,
woke up Robin, who had been sound asleep in a
corner.
Marjorie explained that Robin, as well as herself,
had been invited to Montreal.
" Well, isn't that funny ! Look, mamma ! Mar-
jorie has brought her dog with her, too. Her aunt
said she might. Isn't he sweet? He's almost like
Cousin Ethel's little Skye. Where did you get him ? "
Marjorie replied that he had been given to her
father by a great friend of his who had brought him
from Scotland.
" Well, you'll have to take awfully good care of
him, or he'll be stolen. Gerald had such a lovely dog
stolen once. Who do you suppose will come to meet
you ? Most likely they'll send Alan. And Gerald's
sure to come to meet us. So I can tell him you're
here, and Alan won't miss you — for how could he
NORTHWARD.
69
know you when he has never seen you ? There now,
look out if you can ; we're just across the Victoria
Bridge."
Marjorie tried to catch a glimpse of what was with-
out. She could see very little, however — only a dim,
white expanse around, with a long stretch of twinkling-
lights to the right, which Ada told her was Montreal.
Then they glided into the great terminus of Point St.
Charles, and a few minutes after the train drew up
beside the long platform of the Bonaventure station.
. Mr. Field assisted Mrs. West and Ada, as well as
Marjorie, to alight, and then they stood watching the
bustling scene and the people who were looking for
their friends along the line of cars.
" Oh ! there's Gerald," exclaimed Ada, as a tall,
slight lad in a fur-trimmed overcoat came swiftly
toward them, scrutinizing the various groups as he
passed. " And there's Dr. Ramsay looking for you —
look ! that tall man in the beaver coat and cap.
Now, isn't it well I'm here to point him out to you?
O, Gerald ! " she went on, as the lad greeted his
mother and sister, " Dr. Ramsay's looking for his
niece. You'd better tell him she's here with us ;
Miss Fleming, Gerald."
Gerald bowed, and went off at once, and returned
directly with Dr. Ramsay, who gave Marjorie a warm
welcome, in a kind, cheery Scotch voice, and heartily
thanked her escort for the care he had taken of her.
I ll' f
Kt
70
NORTHWARD.
u
" I was looking for a little girl all alone," he said,
smiling, " so I was led astray by seeing you with Miss
West. I had no idea you had acquaintances here
already."
Mrs. West explained that her daughter had met
Marjorie while traveling the previous summer, and
then, after many promises from Ada to come and see
Marjorie soon, they parted, to look after thei? luggage
and see it taken off to the waiting sleighs.
" Your aunt would have come to meet you herself,
Marjorie," said Dr. Ramsay, after they had said a
cordial adieu to Mr. Field, who promised to look
them up before leaving town, " but she has a slight
cold, and I thought she had better stay at home ; so I
undertook to find you. Luckily, I was disengaged,
and able to drive down for you myself. Alan is hold-
ing my horse, so we'll go out at once and I'll give him
your check and get him to look after your trunk ; it
makes so much delay. You've got your dog safe, I
see.
They soon reached the doctor's snug little cutter,
where Marjorie was duly introduced to her cousin
Alan, who looked a very big boy in the blanket coat
and blue tuque that so many Moi "eal boys delight to
wear in winter.
" All right, father," he said briskly, as he took the
check, and went off whistling merrily, to look after
the trunk, while Dr. Ramsay stowed Marjorie and
Imi
NORTHWARD.
71
Robin, whom she had been holding tight in her arms,
down among the soft fur robes of the low cutter.
" Poor little fellow ! " he said, as he patted Robin's
soft head, " so you've lost your master for a while.
Your father was always a lover of dogs, Marjorie," he
said, as they drove off. " I remember him of old, with
two or three trotting at his heels. He was so proud
of knowing the original *■ Rab.' Of course you've read
' Rab,' Marjorie ? Your father and I used to devour
everything that my dear old professor, John Brown,
wrote, and I wasn't a bit surprised when I heard he
called you ' Pet Marjorie.' "
The tears started to Marjorie's eyes as she heard
her father's pet name for her quoted, but it made her
feel as if Dr. Ramsay was an old friend ; and he kept
her busy looking at the various objects of interest
clearly visible in the bright glare of the electric light,
which almost totally eclipsed the soft glow of a bril-
liant Aurora that threw into bold relief the dark hill
before them, rising boldly against the northei'u sky.
" There's the Windsor," he said, as they passed the
great hotel block with its shining windows. " And
there's the site of the ice palace ; they're just begin-
ning the foundations. And that's what we Montrealers
call our 'mountain,'" he added, laughing, "though
when your father and I were boys, we would only
have called it a brae."
It was impossible to resist the influence of Dr. Ram-
•1,1!
; iiiui
li: "^
72
NORTHWARD.
say's cheery spirit, as indeed many of his patients had
found out, for his brightness and kindliness cheered
many a sick room, like a veritable '•' light shining in
darkness." His repeated references to her father
had the effect he desired ; of making her feel at home
with him at once. Then it was inspiriting in itself to
glide so swiftly over the white snow-clad streets to the
merry jingle of sleigh-bells in all directions, through
the keen frosty air in which the stars seemed to glitter
like diamonds of rarest luster.
" Here we are, then," said the doctor, reining up his
spirited little horse at a door in a long row or " ter-
race " of stone-fronted houses, on one of the streets
running up toward the mountain. " Here, give me
Robin, now ; that's right." And by the time Marjorie
reached the door it was thrown open, revealing the
warm, lighted hall within, and a lady who stood wait-
ing to give Marjorie a motherly welcome.
" Now, Marion will take you upstairs," said Mrs.
Ramsay, whose tranquil manner and peculiarly sweet
voice strongly attracted Marjorie. " And you will
come down as soon as you get your wraps off, and
have some supper."
Marion was a blooming girl of eighteen, tall like
her father, but with her mother's brown hair and soft
dark eyes, with something, too, of the matronly and
protecting air which is often noticeable in a helpful
elder sister. She put her arm kindly around Marjorie
NOKTHWARb.
73
as she showed her the way to the neat little room
which had been prepared for her, and helped to re-
move her outdoor wrappings, with a quiet cousinly
frankness that made Marjorie feel at once as if she
were no stranger.
" My room's just next to yours," she said, " and we
can talk through the wall when we choose. But
mother thought you would like best to have a room to
yourself, as you had always been accustomed to it."
It looked a little strange to Marjorie, who had had
one room for her own ever since she could remember,
and this one seemed rather small at first. But she
thanked her cousin, saying that she was sure she
should be very comfortable, and the two girls went
downstairs arm in arm.
Dr. Ramsay met her at the dining-room door, and
courteously led her into the cheerful room with a
bright fire burning, and a light supper laid for the
traveler. " You and I are going to have supper to-
gether," he said, smiling, " for I have been out all the
evening, and am as hungry as a hawk. The rest don't
indulge in suppers, for I think people are better with-
out them, as a general rule. But you know doctors
are privileged people, who are quite superior to their
own rules."
There was something very infectious in Dr. Kam-
say's clear, almost boyish laugh, and Marjorie laughed
too, and began to feel some appetite, which a few
>
. .(3
74
NORTHWARD.
minutes before, she would have disclaimed. He was a
tall, athletic man, with wavy auburn hair falling across
a broad, white forehead, and sea-blue eyes which
seemed to have a gl«^am in them of the old Danish
sea-kings, some of whose blood was in his veins.
Kindly eyes they were, which, however, could be very
keen or even stern when occasion required. Just now
they were bent with affectionate scrutiny on Marjorie,
to see how much he could trace in her of the linea-
ments or expression of his old friend, Jolm Fleming.
Marjorie was thinking what a contrast he was to her
own father, with his slight nervous figure and earnest
face, so expressive of study and thought, and rather
sad when in repose, though often so bright in conver-
sation. Mrs. Ramsay had been thoughtfully attend-
ing to Robin's comfort, and giving liim his supper. Tt
was a pleasure to her to care for her brother's little
favorite, and the creature seemed to recognize her as a
friend, and took to her with a readiness which aston-
ished Marjorie. She and Marion helped Marjorie
and her uncle to the delicious ham and bread and but-
ter and coffee — made very weak by the doctor's
order, so that it might not keej) the child awake ; and
presently Alan came in, looking not quite so big when
his blan.^et overcoat was off, but much more like his
father than his mother, with his blue eyes and fair
complexion brightened with a rich color from the
keen, frosty air.
NORTHWARD.
75
" And how did you happen to get acquainted with
Ada West?" asked Mrs. Ramsay, when they had
talked over Marjorie's journey and arrival.
Marjorie explained how she had met her at a favo-
rite summer resort near which her father and she had
spent some time the previous summer.
" And were you great friends ? " Mrs. Eamsay
asked.
" Well, we saw each other very often," replied Mar-
jorie, a little doubtfully ; " but she iised to say she
hated Americans."
Dr. Ramsay laughed heartily, as did Alan also, who
exclaimed : " Isn't that just like Ada ! She always
says whatever comes into her head, no matter what.
And then sha's so pretty, people don't seem to
mind."
" Well, she doesn't seem to hate you," said Dr.
Ramsay ; " and she really is a good-hearted little girl,
only rather spoilt by getting everything she wants,
poor child I She's developing fast into a society belle,
like her mother."
" They're awfully rich people," said Alan, for Mar-
jorie's benefit ; " and they have a fine house on Sher-
brooke Street, just below the ' mountain.' Gerald's in
my class at school, and he has a pony of his own, and
as much pocket-money as he wants to spend."
" Yes, and it's a great wonder that he's as nice and
steady a boy as he is, considering how he has been
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I
76
NORTHWARD.
I
!i4 '
brought up," said his father. " When you've got to
my age, Alan, my boy, you'll understand better that
it's anything but a good thing for a boy to get all he
wants so easily. It's a good thing for a man, as well as
a horse, to ' bear the yoke in his youth,' and be well
broken in, too, as he has got to be sooner or later.
So don't be envious of poor Gerald. If he doesn't fol-
low in his elder brother's footsteps it'll be a wonder."
" Oh ! I don't want to change with Gerald," said
Alan, as he drank off the cup of hot coffee his mother
had handed him ; " though he is a good fellow, and I
wouldn't mind having his pony."
" Be thankful you have old Chester to drive some-
times, and your toboggan to ride," said his mother,
smiling.
"You never went down a toboggan-slide, did you,
Marjorie ? " inquired Alan. " Well, wait till we get
a little more snow, and then you'll see what speed is."
" Well, Marjorie has finished her supper now, and
it's time she went to rest after her long journey. I
sent the younger ones to bed before you arrived, dear,"
she added to Marjorie. "They wanted very much to
wait till you came, but I thought you would have
enough new faces for one evening, so they will be all
impatience to see Cousin Marjorie in the morning."
" »Tust bring the Bible to me, Alan," said Dr.
Ramsay. "You know I was out at prayer-time, and
so were Alan and Marjorie."
NORTHWARD.
77
So the Bible was brought ; the doctor read his favo-
rite evening psalm, " The Lord is my Shepherd," and
then, in a few simple, earnest words of prayer, com-
mended all present, and all dear ones distant, to the
care of that good Shepherd whose vigilance never
sleeps.
As Marjorie laid her tired head down on soft pillows,
she could not feel herself so far away from home. She
could scarcely realize, indeed, that that very morning
she had awoke in her old familiar room, and had break-
fasted with her father, between whom and herself there
were now so many miles of distance and darkness.
But she felt as if the consciousness of a Father's lov-
ing care were around her still, and with this restful
feeling in her heart she quickly fell into a sound, al-
most dreamless slumber.
a
lit 'I
■f'l
*^1
1'^ y
CHAPTER V.
I N M () X T REAL,
^i;.;
Marjorie was awakened next morning by the
s«;ratehing of Robin's little paws, he having come to
look for his young mistress in this strange house.
Then she became conscious of the sharp patter of fine
snowflakes against the window glass, and looking out
between her curtains, saw a pale misty grayness
with white puffs of drifting snow whirling through
it. At first she could not remember where she was.
Then she heard children's merry voices in the distance,
and began to realize the new circumstances of her life.
Just at first the tears rushed to her eyes as the thought
came of her father, and how long it would be before
she should see him again. But the interest of novelty
counteracted the touch of i)ain ; and before Marion's
gentle tap sounded on her door, she was half-dressed.
Marion was watching to go down with her, and not
far off was Millie — her Aunt Millie's namesake —
waiting for an introduction. She was a year or two
younger than Marjorie, with a strong likeness to her
78
IN MONTllEAL.
79
father, and a good deal of cleverness and ambition in
her eager face.
From the hull downstairs came ringing shonts of
langhter, which, Marjorie soon found, came from Jack
and the two youngest children, who were watching
with great anmsement the introduction of Hobin to
Nero. The staid, dignified, but good-natured New-
foundland looked at the little intruder with evident
surprise, but with a tolerant, patronizing air, while
Kobin, who was more than half-disposed to snarl and
quarrel, after the manner of small terriers, seemed
gradually to take in the situation, and reconciled liim-
self to be patronized, though evidently much relieved
when Marjorie ai)peait'd and gave him an opportunity/
to retire gracefully.
Jack was nearly as old as Marjorie, but somehow
seemed much younger, despite his greater height. lie
was much plainer than Alan, and rather awkward, if
not shy. He and his sister Millie always " hunted in
couples," as their father expressed it. They were al-
ways together when it was possible for them to be so.
Millie went to the grammar school with her brother
and kept up with him in his classes, notwithstanding
his seniority. Jack had long made up his mind to be
a doctor, and it was Millie's secret ambition to be one
too ; aiid then she and Jack could go into partnership
together " to kill people," as Alan unfeelingly put it
when this secret had incautiously leaked out.
ii
80
IN MONTREAL.
nn
The two youngest were Norman, a sturdy eight-year-
old in knickerbockers, and little Ettie, the household
pet, who WIS only six, and, as everybody declared, a
little image of her mother. Mrs. Kamsay wa^ already
in the dining-room, and called them all in to prayers.
" Your uncle is not up yet," she said to Marjorie,
when she had given !ier a warm kiss of greeting.
" He was called out late last night, and was out most
of the night- Such things often happen in doctors'
families, and we have to breakfast without him when
they do.''
Marjorie felt disappointed. She could not have
believed that the absence of the doctor's genial pres-
ence could have made such a difference. Mrs. Kamsay
indicated an appropriate hymn, which all sang together
very sweetly ; even Effie's childish voice accompanied
her mother's ; and then followed the reading and the
simple prayer, the whole lasting only a very few
minutes, for, in the opinion of both Doctor and Mrs.
Ramsay, brevity is one of the essentials of devotion
where children are concerned. The simple little ser-
vice closed with the reverent repetition of the Lord's
Prayer by the servants as well as children. To Mar-
jorie, accustomed to so small a family, in which such
had not been the practice, this hearty little household
service was a very pleasant and impressive novelty.
Then followed breakfast, while the clatter of so
many lively tongues was rather bewildering. Marjorie
IN MONTREAL.
81
was kept busy answering questions : whether she liked
snow ; whether they had sleighs in New York, or to-
boggan slides ; whether she could skate or snow-shoe ;
or had ever been in a toboggan ? Norman generously
offered to take her down in the small toboggan which
was the joint property of himself and Effie, and which
they expected to use in a day or two, on a children's
slide in a neighboring field ; while Alan and Jack dis-
cussed the merits of the various slides then ready, and
tlie new ones about to be prepared for the approaching
carnival.
••'There will be plenty of snow for them soon," said
Mrs. Ramsay, " if this snowstorm lasts all day. But
you won't get out much to-day if it does, Marjorie.
You will have to amuse yourself in doors, I fear. And
now, children, it's time to be off to school."
None of the little Ramsays minded a snowstorm
unless it was very bad indeed. Even little Effie got
on her striped blanket suit and blue tuque, in which she
looked a charming little picture, and trotted merrily
off with Norman to the school, not very far away,
which they attended. When they were all fairly off,
Mrs. Ramsay went to attend to her housekeeping, and
Marion who did not go to school now, but only to one
or two special classes, conducted Marjorie on a tour of
inspection of the house und the things in it which she
thought would specially interest her cousin. One of
these was a tiu'ti large photograph of her father when
U ?■.'
h ,,1
im
"'M
82
IN MONTREAL.
a young man, which Marjorie had never seen before,
and at which she could scarcely stop gazing.
They finally found their way into " the study," a
cosey room 1 a,lf-f ull of books, where the children
learned their lessons, and practiced on the old piano,
and followed the various pursuits that interested them
out of school hours ; and where they could make " a
litter " without detriment to the order of the rest of
the house ; being always expected, however, to put
away tiieir books and toys when not using them.
Here Marion and Marjorie established themselves
with some mending, in which the latter offered to help,
and here Mrs. Ramsay by and by joined them. Dr.
Kamsay looking in also for a few minutes when he
had had his breakfast. This room had a window look-
ing toward the " mountain," which, however, in the
snov/storm appeared only as a somewhat dim jketch
in black and white, the dark pines above weirdly con-
trasting with the white clouds of snow-drift. The
wintry world without made the indoor comfort all the
pleasanter, and Marion and Marjorie had a long talk
over their work till the latter felt as if she knew her
Cousin Marion almost as well as her Aunt Millie.
Mrs. Ramsay held a sort of family council with the
two girls as to the best plan for Marjorie's studies. It
was too near the Christmas holidays now, to be worth
while to begin attendance anywhere till they were over.
Dr. Ramsay believed in a thorough grammar school
ir I
IN MONTREAL.
88
education for girls, from the beginning, but his wife
could not quite reconcile herself to what she called his
" advanced " ideas, and had a great })reference for
placing a girl ^rowing into womanhood under the
care of cultivated women, with companions of their
own sex. She had had her own way with Marion,
who was not particularly intellectual, and had no am-
bition in the way of higher educat'on ; but Millie was
totally different, and Mrs. Ramsay had the good sense
to see that it was best to let her follow her bent.
"After all," Dr. Ramsay would say, '"since Nature
has made our girls so different, why should we want to
trim them all off on one pattern — like a box hedge ?
Variety is the very spice of life, and I like both
my Marion and my Millie, each in h.jr own way.*'
So Marion had been educated mainly on the old-fash-
ioned plan, while Millie already, at eleven, planned for
herself a professional education and a professional
career, though, fearing to be " chaffed,'' she was not
given to talk freely on the subject. Mrs. Ramsay
knew that her brother rdiared, to a great extent, her
"old-fashioned prejudices," tliough he had always
taken a personal supervision of Marjorie's education ;
and as she herself had no desire for the novel experi-
ence of a high school, it was decided, to her satisfac-
tion, that after Christmas she should enter the same
school that Ada West attended, and where Marion
still continued to take lessons in music and painting.
4ii
II
H' '
84
IN MONTREAL.
The snowstorm continued unabated during the day.
Norman and Effie came home with cheeks glowing
with exercise and fun, and wanted to begin a snow
'• fort '■ and " robbers' cave " in the yard at once.
"Jack and Jill," as Jack and Millie were often
called, brought home jubilant reports of the depth of
the snow, anci declared that there would be enough for
snow-shoeing and tobogganing to-morrow. Marjorie
found the afternoon pass quickly enough, between
reading the " Adventures of Amyas Leigh " — in which
she had become profoundly interested — watching her
Cousin Marion paint a china cup, intended for a Christ-
mas present, and making acquai: stance with the little
ones. They soon found out she could tell stories ;
and she had to ransack her brain for all tlie old <iriffiii
and fairy tales that her fatlier used to tell to her on
winter evenings.
"And don't you know any bear or Indian stories?*'
Norman wanted to know, when at last the sui)ply
seemed to run short. Marjorie confessed that she did
not ; whereupon Effie volunteered to tell her the story
of the Three Bears, from her nursery book, and told
it very amusingly, too, in her own quaint little way.
" I'll tell you what, Cousin Marjorie," said Jack,
who had been standing by, " you just ought to get
Professor Duncan to tell you some of his stories. He
knows lots and lots ; all about the Indians, and Cham-
plain, and priests — Jesuits they were, you know —
I II
IN MONTREAL.
85
that came to try to convert the IiuUans, and how they
went and lived in their wigwams till they were almost
dead with cold and hunger, and how they killed and
burned them."
"Burned the Indians ?" asked Marjorie, shocked,
but yet with an association of ideas connecting the
Jesuits with the Inquisition and the persecution of the
Waldenses.
"Jack," exclaimed Millie, with a touch of scorn,
" how you do tell things upside down I No, Cousin
Marjorie ; these Jesuits weren't like that. They were
awfully good, brave men, and they were always risking
their lives among the savages, and some of them were
killed and burned with the greatest barbarity. You
must get Professor Duncan to tell you about Isaac
Jogues."
And Millie, having thus elucidated the matter to
her own satisfaction, subsided again into the book she
was devouring.
" Who is Professor Duncan ? " Marjorie asked Jack.
" Oh ! he's a great friend of ours."
" Of father's, you mean," interpolated the critical
Millie, without raising her head.
" No ; of all of us," insisted Jack. " He often
comes to see us, mostly always on Sunday evenings ;
and he's splendid, and never gets tired of telling us
things ; and he knows an awful lot. They say he's
an author," continued Jack, mysteriously.
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IN MONTREAL.
" So is Uncle John, isn't ho, Cousin Marjorie?" in-
quired Millie.
Marjorie was a little taken back. It had never oc-
(Uirred to her to consider her father in the light of an
" author," though of course she knew that he wrote a
great deal.
" Yes, T suppose so," she said, secretly much pleased
to find his reputation so well sustained.
Next morning was clear, bright and bracing. The
sky was blue, the sun shone on the new-fallen snow,
making it sparkle till it was fairly dazzling. The
" mountain " rose, a glittering rounded mass of white,
relieved by the inky blackness of its leafless trees
and crest of dark pines above. The merry music of
the sleigh-bells seemed unceasing, and contributed to
the general exhilaration. The children were ;dl in
the merriest mood, and were discussing toboggans and
snow-shoes, snow forts and Christmas-trees, all in a
breath. Alan bclon ,ed to a Sno"'-shoe Club already,
and went on long tramps, and it was one of Jack's
ambitions to do the same.
Dr. Ramsay offered to take Marjorie in his cutter,
for a drive about the city, when he went on his morn-
ing rounds, and Mrs. Ramsay arranged to meet h^r,
with Marion, at one of the book stores, in order to go
on a sho])ping expedition to get Marjorie a fur cap and
some other needed outdoor wraps, among which Alan
had specially requested that a blanket ulster, tuque
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and sash should be included, for he should want her
to go tobogganing with hini often, and she must have
a tobogganing costume.
*So she was well muffled up, temporarily, in Millie's
warm fur cape and blue " cloud," and stowed herself
away in the doctor's cutter, with great satisfaction.
Chester needed no urging to dash off to the tune of
his own bells, and tlu'y were soon gliding down Beaver
Hall, across Victoria Square, and along Great St. James
Street with its massive stone buildings, and then be-
tween the queer tall French houses of the narrow
Notre Dame Street, growing more and more French in
aspect and speech as they went eastward. Dr. Ram-
say pointed out the banks, and the beautiful post-office,
which made Marjorie wonder when there would be a
letter from her father, and the stately church of Notre
Dame with its two tall towers ; and the market-women
going in and out ; and to Marjorie it all seemed like
pictures out of books that she had read long ago.
" Look, Marjorie," said her uncle, as they were
obliged to thread their way more slowly along the nar-
row, crowded street, " that is the entrance to the Old
Gray Nunnery. Some of the oldest buildings in Mon-
treal are there, going back almost to the time when it
was first founded as Ville Marie ; that was its old name.
You must go in some day and see the little old church,
and hear the story of my favorite heroine, the benevo-
lent Marguerite de Bourgeoys, and see her picture,
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IN MONTREAL.
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with the kind sensible face — the face of a true
woman."
" Who was she ? " asked Marjorie.
" A maiden of Troyes in France, who became a
nun, and came out to Canada in the old French days
to be a missionary to the Indians, and especially to
teach their children. She was one of the founders of
Montreal and of its oldest church, and you will see her
picture in there when you go to see the convent. It's
what we Scotch call a ' soncy ' face, full of heart and
goodness."
" .Another light in the darkness," thought Marjorie,
and her thoughts flew southward to her father. But
they were quickly recalled by the novel scene about
her, as Dr. Ramsay guided his horse carefully through
the throng of vehicles of all kinds on runners, from
the great drays and the large handsome family sleighs,
with their rich fur robes, down to a miniature cutter
drawn by a goat, which delighted her greatly. They
passed the Champ de Mars with the stately fa<;ade
of the court house behind it, and Nelson's Column,
and then as they approached the crowded Bonsecours
market, a mass of market sleighs and people — sellers
and buyers — they had to go more slowly still. Mar-
jorie watched with great interest the crowds of hahitans^
horses and vehicles of quaint and curious fashion, and
the wonderful variety of articles they were offering for
sale, from carcasses of sheep and poultry to great pans
IN MOiNTKKAL.
80
of frozen milk which was sold by tlio pound. Tlio
shrill chatter of intei'niin<»led French and Englisli
tongues, in which the French predominated, made it
almost impossible for her to hear Dr. Ramsay's oc-
casional exj)lanations as they passed some object of
special interest. vSonie fine carcasses of beautiful deer,
frozen stiff, excited her admiration and pity. Dr.
Kamsay told her they were brought from a long way
back among the hills, and promised her vi'uison for
dinner some day, as a treat. And Marjorie tiiought
she would rather have the deer bounding over the hills
than lying stark and stiff in the market})lace. But
then, on the other hand, the deer might starve in win-
ter, which was one consoling consideration. As they
passed the great dark stone pile of the market itself,
Dr. Ramsay pointed up a narrow alley at the end of
which was a quaint, weather-beaten little stone church.
"There," he said, '*is the (pmintest, oldest little church
in Montreal, ' Notre Dame do BonsecoHvs ' — ' Our
Lady of Gracious Help.' Many a prayer has been
put up there for soldiers and sailors, and many a sailor
has hung up his little votive offering in token of grati-
tude for merciful deliverance. I can't wait for you to
go in now, but you sliall go in another time, and take
a good look at it all ; for it will give you a very good
idea of many an old church abroad. It might quite
well be in Normandy."
They were now gliding along St. Mary Street,
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IN MONTREAL.
through the old French suburb of Hochelaga,with the
white expanse of the river to their right, and the wood-
crested mound of St. Helen's Island rising out of tlie
wide river plain. Dr. Kamsay explained that this
was the oldest part of Montreal ; that Ihe name Hochc-
laga had been the name of the original Indian village
which had occu})ied the spot when Jacques Cartier
first visited it, shortly after he had first discovered the
St. Lawrence itself, lie described how the gallant
Breton navigator had left his largest shii)s at Quebec,
and sailed up in a small sloop to visit this large
palisaded village which he had heard of as the capital
of a great country on the river, then also called the
river of Hochf^laga. He told how Cartier had landed
somewhere near that very place, and had walked uj)
through the maize fields in state, to the village of bark
wigwams, with its triple wall of palisades ; and how
all, from the withered and decrepit chief, down to the
squaws and children, received the white strangers with
the greatest joy and respect, even believing that Car-
tier could heal their maladies. And then Cartier had
been conducted through the primeval forest to the top
of the beautiful mountain, and had given it the name
it has kept ever since — " Mount Royal " ; in honor of
the magnificent view, beautiful then as now.
They turned by and by, after Dr. Ramsay had
pointed out the great convent at Hochelaga, where so
many French Canadian girls received their education,
IN MONTREAL.
91
and which he said she should go to see some day.
" The nuns," he said, " are sweet and gentle women,
and their scholars love them dearly, and learn from
them gentle and womanly manners, which make French
Canadian girls so charming, and are like a low voice,
' an excellent thing in woman.' ''
Dr. Ramsay turned into St. Paul Street on their
way back, to sliow Marjorie the very oldest bit of the
city, the site of its first foundation, and talked about
the old heroic days when this one little street of small
houses stood alone to stem the great tide of savage
barbarism that swept like a flood over all the sur-
rounding country except only the rock of Quebec
and the fringe of eastern settlements of her Puritan
forefathers.
" In those days, Marjorie," he said, " the bitter
enemies of Canada — the fierce Iroquois — were the
friends of your forefathers ; and I am sorry to say
that these two colonies of Christian nations not only
went to war with each other before the eyes of these
poor heathen savages, but even urged on their Indian
allies to fall <m the defenseless colonists on each side,
and murder and plunder and destroy. It was horrible
that such things should be ! Let us be thankful tliat
the world has grown a little better since then, and
that nations are beginning to see the wickedness of
war in its true light.
" But there were heroes in those days, Marjorie,"
IN MONTREAL.
he added, and he went on to tell her how that very
Place d'Arnies, in front of the big church of Notre
Dame, had been the scene of an exploit as brave as
the " holding of the bridge " in the " brave days of
Rome," which she had read about in Macaulay's Lays,
when Maisonneuve, the Christian knight and soldier
who founded Montreal, had kept a horde of Indian
assailants at bay, single-handed, until every one of his
pursued retreating followers was safe within the walls
of the little fort.
" And was he killed ? " asked Marjorie.
" No," he replied, " the Indians were so impressed
by his brave defense that they were determined to
take him alive, and then he managed to strike down
their chief, and, in the excitement that ensued, he too
got within the walls. And so that adventure at least
ended hap])ily."
" For the French, yes," said Marjorie, and the
doctor laughed.
" Ah, I'm afraid we've all a little heathenism left,"
he said, good-humoredly. " But then, you see, if
Maisonneuve and his men had been killed, it might
have involved destruction to the whole French colony
at that time, which would have been a far greater mis-
fortune than the death of a few savages could be."
And now they were back in St. James Street, and
Dr. Ramsay set down Marjorie at the bookstore where
her aunt and cousin were to meet her.
CHAPTER VI.
NEW FRIENDS.
As Marjorie expected, her aunt and cousin had not
arrived when she entered the bookstore, so she fol-
lowed her uncle's directions, bought some Canadian
postage stamps, and sat down by the counter to look
at the new books there displayed, until her aunt's ar-
rival. Not far from her sat a gentleman who seemed
deeply engaged in looking over some large volumes,
yet occasionally darted keen, scrutinizing glances at
the people who came in or went out, one or two of
which rested a moment on herself. She could not
help stealing a glance at him again and again ; for he
seemed to her both a very peculiar and a very interest-
ing-looking man. He had a strong face, which no
one could have called handsome, but which was full
of deep lines of thought and expression ; a powerful,
though by no means tall figure, somewhat high-shoul-
dered and stooping. He liad the air of one who
lived much alone and communed nuich with books, and
yet had strong sympathy too with men, for the lines
93
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NEW FRIENDS.
of his face were kindly as well as thoughtful, even
when it was at rest. The bookseller treated him with
marked respect, and brought out one volume after
another to show him — books which seemed very large
and learned-looking, Marjorie thought.
At last, after selecting two or three volumes to be
sent to him, he rose, buttoned his overcoat, shoved his
lu'j-vy fur cap — which had been lying on the counter
— down almost to his shaggy eyebrows, and t ok his
leave after a kindly good-morning to the bookseller
and a last glance at Marjorie, which seemed to say
that he knew quite well that she was a stranger, and
was mentally classifying her as he might a botanical
specimen. Just as he reached the door, he stopped to
greet with the most overflowing cordiality, Mrs. Ram-
say who was just coming in. Both she and Marion
responded to his greeting with evident pleasure, part-
ing with the words, " We shall see you to-morrow,
then."
" O, Aunt Mary ! who is that gentleman ? " asked
Marjorie, with eager interest.
"That is Professor Duncan, one of our dearest
friends here," replied Mrs. Ramsay, with a smile.
"But what made you ask ? "
" Oh ! I couldn't help looking at him while I was
waiting. And I thought he must be very wise and
clever ; I am so glad you know him ! eTack and Millie
were talking about Professor Duncan yesterday."
NEW FRIENDS.
95
,d
" Yes ; he's a great favorite of theirs, as he ought to
be ; for he is most kind in talking to them and tell-
ing them stories. He lives all alone, and often drops
in to take tea with us on Sunday evenings, so to-mor-
row you will see him and hear him for yourself."
The shopping expedition began, and Marjorie ac-
companied her aunt and cousin from one large shop : '»
another, where furs, blanket-suits and an infinitude of
other articles of winter wear were displayed in bewil-
dering profusion. After a good deal of con>parison and
consideration, Marjorie finally decided on a warm
squirrel cape, cap and muff, for ordinary we.ir, and a
tobogganing costume, consisting of a white blanket
ulster with a striped border of sky-blue, and blue sash
and tuque hleue to match ; colors which Alan had
especially commended, because he belonged to a club
bearing the name of Tuque Bleue.
They were just coming out of the last shop when a
large family sleigh with handsome fur triii)pings, drew
up in front of it. Marjorie was just admiring the
beauty of the horses and the appointments of the
equipage, when a light figure sprang out and she heard
a lively voice exclaim :
" O, Marjorie ! I'm so glad we've met you. I was
just going to drive up as soon as mamma was done
shopping, to see if you would come and take lunch at
our house to-day. May she, Mrs. Ramsay ? It was
too stormy yesterday to go to see you, you know, but
96
NEW FRIENDS.
I ' I
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mamma always lets me have any one I like to luncheon
on Saturdays."
Mrs. West who followed her daughter more leisurely,
endorsed Ada's invitation, and as Mrs. Ramsay seemed
quite willing that Marjorie should accept it, the matter
was quickly settled, Ada saying that they could leave
Marjorie at her uncle's house when they drove out in
the afternoon.
Marjorie prefei'red to sit with Ada in the sleigh
while Mrs. West went in to make her purchases. She
thought she should never tire of watching the stream
of people and sleighs of such variety of aspects, that
»
poured along Notre Dame Street — the great shopping
street of Montreal — and Ada's brisk accompaniment
of remarks and explanations made the scene still more
entertaining, for she could tell Marjorie something
about a good many of the people who passed.
When Mrs. West came out the horses' heads were
turned homewards, and they were soon again across
Victoria Square and ascending the slope of Beaver
Hall. Then they drove a little way along Dorchester
Street, and Ada pointed out the beautiful churches
and mansions there, and the fine English cathedral
with its rectory close by ; and then they crossed the
wide St. Catherine Street and soon were gliding along
Sherbrooke Street where the stately mansions that
line it on either hand, stood out to view all the more
plainly, because of the leaflessness of the environing
NEW FRIENDS.
97
trees. Behind the line of handsome houses and snow-
clad grounds, rose the white slopes of the stately
" mountain " — in dazzling purity against the vivid
blue of the elear wintry sky.
They soon stopped in front of a fine mansion of
gray cut stone, with an ornamental portico and some-
what extensive grounds. Ada, as usual, was out first,
and waited impatiently for Marjorie to follow Mrs.
West, for whom she politely waited to descend first.
The door was quickly thrown open, and Ada eagerly
led her friend into the softly carpeted hall. Marjorie
had never been in so fine a house in her life. The
spacious hall and rooms,, all so richly carpeted and
luxuriously furnished, the gleam of gilding and white
statuary here and there, of gorgeously framed pictures
and rich tinted curtains, and a glimpse of a French
window opening into a conservatory glowing with
lovely flowers — all seemed to give her the sensation of
entering a fairy palace. It seemed a sort of charming
dream which would dissolve again directly. Poor
Ada's accustomed eyes had never seen her own homo
as the beautiful vision that it seemed to Marjorie's just
then. To her it was very matter-of-fact reality, though
she could have told just how much some of the pictures
cost, and was proud in her heart of her luxurious
home which she knew was so much admired. But to
Marjorie, as she followed her friend up the wide stair-
case to Ada's own room with its costly furnishings,
Il
98
NEW FRIENDS.
it all seemed too beautiful aud grand for homely
e very-day use.
"There's my canary," said Ada, pointing to the
gilt cage that hung between the pretty pink-lined cur-
tains. " He sings beautifully, and hasn't he a pretty
cage? Tliat was my last birthday present, but I'm
awfully afraid of forgetting him. Now if you're ready
come down, and I'll show you the drawing-room and
conservatory before lunch."
Marjorie was divided in her admiration between the
large handsome room with its artistic decorations and
charming pictures, and the pretty little conservatory
gay with geraniums and chrysanthemums, white and
golden, and its ferns and hanging baskets with their
clustering tendrils of drooping phmts and flowers.
She was still lingering in delighted admiration of these
when a gong sounded, and Ada said they must go to
luncheon.
They passed on through the spacious hall, its light
mellowed by the rich tones of the stained glass win-
dow, into the large dining-room with its heavy carved
furniture, where an oval table was n beautifully set out
for luncheon, with flowers and silver and gleaming
ojystal. Mrs. West came in with her somewhat slow
and languid air, and Gerald followed a few minutes
later, and after a courteous salutation to Marjorie took
his seat opposite her. He was not like Ada, being
pale rather than fair, with brown hair and rather large
NEW FHIENDS.
99
gray eyes like those of his mother. He was much
slighter than Alan in figure, and Marjorie thought he
looked like a clever lad and would be rather handsome
if his expression had not something dissatisfied in it.
She thought he did not look so bright and happy as
Alan, notwithstanding the pony and the abundance of
pocket-money.
The luncheon was quite good enough for any one's
dinner, Marjorie thought. There were three courses,
with fruit besides, and biscuits and macaroons to
finish with. Ada just tasted a little at each course
in turn, but evidently did not relish her lunch as
Marjorie did. Mrs. West had a better appetite, and
talked very little ; satisfying herself with asking a
few questions as to how Marjorie liked Montreal,
whether it did not seem very small after New York,
whether New York was very gay this winter, and so
on. She seemed surprised to find that Marjorie did
not live in New York at all, but 'only in one of the
suburban towns, and that she had lived very quietly,
not going much into the city.
" And'how is your little dog ? What is his name ? "
said Ada, asking, as usual, two questions in one breath.
Marjorie explained that her father had wanted to call
him Rab, after a dog in a book, but that she liked
Robin best, and so he had got the name of Robin
Adair, which, Ada declared, was a very funny name
for a dog.
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100
NEW FRIENDS.
Gerald looked up with more animation than he had
yet shown.
" Oh ! " he exclaimed, as if an idea had just struck
him, '' I suppose llab was the dog in a pretty little
story that Alan lent me about ' Kab and his Friends,' "
" Yes," said Marjorie ; " and my father knew that
Rab when he was at college in Edinburgh."
" And," pursued Gerald, " there was another story
in the book about Marjorie Fleming, I remember. Are
you the wonderful little girl that used to talk to Sir
Walter Scott and make all those verses about the hen ?
' And she was more than usual calm,'"
he quoted. " I suppose I mustn't give the rest."
Marjorie caught the little gleam of humor that
underlay his grave manner; but she only replied with
equal gravity :
" That little girl died, I believe," at which Gerald's
face relaxed a very little into a faint smile.
" Gerald, what nonsense you do talk ! " exclaimed
Ada. "How could Marjorie have talked to Sir
Walter Scott when he died ages ago ? "
" Did he really ? " replied Gerald satirically, and
Marjorie, who detested satirical remarks, hastened to
say that her mother's name had been Margaret, and
that her father could not bear that she should have
the very same name, and so had bethought himself of
NEW KKIKNDS.
101
calling her Marjorie, an oltl Scotch name in Imh own
family, and whicli was connected with that of the
historical Marjorie Fleming.
" Gerald's going to Oxford in a year or so," said
Ada. " And we're all going abroad as soon as I have
done with school here. Perhaps I'm to go to school
somewhere abroad for a while, too. Wouldn't it be
nice for you to come with me, Marjorie? I'm sure
you could learn to speak French and German a good
deal quicker than I could."
Marjorie's eyes sparkled. The vision of going
abroad some day with her father, was one of her cas-
tles in the air, but she could not talk about her father
here.
Just then the door opened, and a young man, rather
handsome and very fashionably dressed, strolled in
with a listless air, very like his mother's. He threw
down a small packet l)eside Ada's plate.
" Why, Dick," said his mother, looking up at him
with a look brighter than any Marjorie had yet seen
her wear, " I had given you up. I thought you
must be taking lunch down town with your father."
" Oh ! the governor's over head and ears in work,
so he couldn't spare time to go out to lunch — just
sent out for some biscuits ; and I thought I had had
enough of the office for one week and might as well
give myself a half-holiday as not, so I came home.
Father ought to take a half-holiday himself on Satur-
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102
NEW FRIENDS.
(lays, and give every one else one, ull round. How do,
Miss Fleming I ' he responded to Ada's introduction,
and then went on.
" I had to* call in at Notman's on my way up, Ada,
so I brought home the photos you wanted."
" See, Marjorie," said Ada, undoing the package,
"this is the last photo I have had taken. It was
taken in my fancy dress costume tor a masquerade at
the rink last winter."
It was a good likeness and a very pretty picture,
representing Ada as Titania, with a coronet and a pair
of Psyche wings, and all the other accessories.
" Have you had your photograph taken ? " asked
Ada ; " because if you have, we'll exchange and I'll
give you one of these."
Marjorie had not had one taken for a long time, she
said ; her father regretted very much at the last mo-
ment that he had not been able to get a good one
taken in New York.
" Then I'll tell you what," exclaimed Ada, in great
glee, "" you must go and have a good photograph taken
at Notman's and send it to your father for Christmas.
And then you can give me one, too. Now go the very
first thing next week."
" You'll have to go. Miss Fleming, I assure you," said
the eldest brother, who made it a point to make him-
self agreeable to young ladies. " My sister has a way
of makino' her friends do what she wants them to do."
NEW FRIENDS.
103
" And I'll go with you to help to pose you," said
Ada. "'' Tui a very good hand at posing people, am I
not, Gerald ? "
Ada was much more given to appealing for appro-
bation to her younger than to her elder brother, not-
withstanding his propensity to '••make fun" of her;
perhaps because this very practice had inspired her
with greater respect for his opinion.
Luncheon seemed to Marjorie to last a very long
time. Nobody was in any hurry to rise, for nobody
had anything very particular to do ; and Dick and
his mother discussed at leisure the various bits of gos-
sip he had picked u\) in the course of the morning ;
the latest news about the arrangements for the coming
carnival, and the Christmas parties and receptions
that were being talked of. It was very evident that
Dick was Mrs. West's favorite child. Poor fellow, he
was a "• spoiled child." As he had always got every
thing he wanted for the asking, and had never had to
do anything he did not like, he seldom now did any
thing but what he "• liked " to do ; and the things he
did like to do were very often things that it would
have shocked his mother a good deal to know.
At last Mrs. West rose and she and the two girls
adjourned to the library, another luxurious apartment
containing a bookcase well filled with books in hand-
some bindings — seldom opened — an elegant writing-
table fitted up with all sorts of ornamental paraphernalia
i
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104
NEW FRIENDS.
'a
anct any number of comfortable easy-chairs, one of
which Mrs. West drew up before the bright coal fire
and took up a magazine that lay on the table, to while
away an hour in glancing over its pages. Ada opened
a large photograph album to show Marjorie the por-
traits of her friends. Presently the door-bell rang,
and shortly after a visitor was shown into the library ;
a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little lady with silver-
gray curls, and a brisk, animated voice and manner,
who put Marjorie at once in mind of some of the
people she knew at home. Mrs. West greeted her as
Miss Mostyn, and having expressed great pleasure at
finding Mrs. West at home, the visitor iurned to Ada
with a pleasant salutation, and then looked inquiringly
at Marjorie.
" This is Miss Fleming — Dr. Ramsay's niece from
New York ; she only arrived the day before yester-
day," said Ada.
"I'm delighted to meet any one belonging to Dr.
Ramsay," said Miss Mostyn, grasping Marjorie's hand
most cordially. " I'm sure I don't know how we
should get on without Dr. Ramsay. He's so good to
the poor and suffering ! And so you're from New
York, my dear ? I've got some very dear friends
there — noble Christian women. I hope you're going
to be like them."
Marjorie's heart was quite won by the pleasant face
and cordial words. Miss Mostyn had business on
NEW FRIENDS.
105
hand and she turned to a seat beside Mrs. West, but
MarjoT-ie was so much attracted towards this stranger
that slie couhl not help following her with eye and
ear, and giving a very half-hearted attention to Ada's
chatter.
Miss Mostyn explained that she had just come from
a poor family in great destitution and suffering, in
whose case she wanted to interest Mrs. West. The
father had recently met with a dreadful accident in
the "Works " in which Mr. West was a partner. He
had had one of his legs amputated and had been in a
very critical condition ever since. And now his wife
had a young baby and was much prostrated by her
watching and anxiety, and the family had nothing
coming in, and were in absolute want of food, clothes,
fuel — everything, with no money to buy anything.
Dr. Ramsay liad been attending them and had been
mo'st kind, as indeed Mrs. Ramsay had been also.
But they needed so many things, and Miss Mostyn
was trying to raise a subsori])tion to procure necessaries
for them during their present helpless condition. She
had come to Mrs. West, she said, hoping that she
would head the subscription with a generous donation,
as the poor man had mot with the accident in the
" Works " with which Mr. West was connected.
Marjorie felt intensely interested in Miss Mostyn's
narrative and graphic picture of the suffering helpless
familv. Now she felt how deliirhtful it must be to be
m
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106
NEW FRIENDS.
rich and able to reach a helping hand to people in
such distress. But Mrs. West did not seem at all
eager to respond to the appeal. She " thought," she
said, " the firm had done all that was necessary for
the man at the time the accident occurred, though it
really was no fault of theirs in any way."
" They did make him a donation at the time," said
Miss Mostyn, "but he has been two or three weeks ill
nov/, and that money is gone. You know, with rent
and fuel and food to pay for, how fast money runs
away."
" Well, I know Mr. West thought they did all that
was necessary," replied Mrs. West, chillingly. "And
I really have so many claims constantly. You could
have no idea what it is, unless you lived in a liouse
like this," with a complacent glance at the luxurious
appointments about her. Miss Mostyn smiled slightly,
but made no reply. ' •
" However, of course it's a very sad case, and 1
really must give you a little toward it." And she
took out of an elegant pocket-book a dollar in silver,
which she handed to Miss Mostyn. " It's really all I
can spare just now ; it's just one thing to give to after
another, and then there is Christmas coming, too, and
I always have so many presents to give. But if you
get a dollar from every one you ask you'll do very
well. But I think," she added, "that you should
head your subscription with the amount that tlie firm
NEW FRIENDS.
107
gave at first, because they ought to have credit for
that, you know."
Miss Mostyn thanked the donor rather formally,
and suggested at parting that Mrs. West might drive
round that way and see the family for herself.
" My dear Miss Mostyn ! " exclaimed that lady
pathetically, "you've no idea how many things I have
on my mind. It's all very well for you, with plenty
of time on your hands, to go and visit such people;
and I'm sure it's very good of you, and you'll have
your reward. But with my establishment to look
after, and my visiting list, I assure you it's quite out
of the question. And then it always makes me so
miserable to see how such people live ; it would quite
upset me, I assure you. Some people are more sensi-
tive to such things than others."
Miss Mostyn's sunny countenance was just a little
clouded, and there were bright red spots on her cheeks
as she took her leave with the same gentle kindliness
as that with which she had entered. Marjorie felt
shocked, indignant. It was the first time she had ever
seen the hard, cool, callous selfishness, naturally en-
gendered by a life of luxurious self-indulgence, come
out and display itself with unblushing insensibility to
the suffering of others ; and the moral ugliness of it
seemed all the greater in contrast with the beauty of
the material surroundings, and the grace and fairness
of the woman who had spoken such heartless words.
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:im
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108
NEW FRIENDS.
I f
III
She felt as strongly repelled from Mrs. West as she
had been attracted to Miss Mostyn, who had kindly
invited her to come to see her, as she took her depar-
ture. To her great relief, Mrs. West remarked that
the sleigh would soon be at the door for their after-
noon drive, and Ada carried her off to get ready.
" Miss Mostyn's awfully good, you know," Ada
replied, to a question of Marjorie's ; " but she's just
' got poor people on the brain,' Dick says. She's
always got some awful case of destitution on hand,
and mamma says it just makes her nervous to see her
now."
"But, Ada, don't you think that people who are
rich ought to be always helping tlie poor? T think
that must be the greatest pleasure of being rich — to
be able to help other people."
" Well, Marjorie, you do have such funny ideas !
I never heard any one say before that it was a pleas-
ure to give money to poor people. I know it's good
to be charitable, but that's because it isn't nearly so
nice as buying what you want for yourself."
" Well, my father always says that ' it's more blessed
to give than to receive,' and you know Who said that."
"Yes, I know it's in the Bible somewhere," said
Ada, " for we had a sermon about it lately. But I
didn't think that meant it was a pleasure, you know ;
for the Bible says: 'Blessed are they that mourn,'
and I'm sure that can't be a pleasure."
NEW FRIENDS.
109
Marjorie felt a little perplexed at this view of the
subject, but there was no time to continue the discus-
sion then, for Mrs. West called to them to make haste.
They were soon in the sleigh once more, and Mrs.
West directed the coachman to drive to the western
extremity of Sherbrooke Street, where she had to pay
two or three visits, and while she was so engaged Ada
could give Marjorie a little drive, and then leave her
at Dr. Ramsay's house. As they glided swiftly along
Sherbrooke Street, Ada pointed out the various objects
of interest ; the College grounds and buildings, the
palace-like residences on the street and on the slope
of the snow-clad hill. Every moment some beauti-
fully appointed equipage glided past them, and ladies,
wrapped in rich furs, and with color brightened by
the sharp, frosty air, exchanged bows and smiles with
her companions.
"Ada," remarked Mrs. West discontentedly, after
a critical scrutiny of her appearance, as she sat oppo-
site to her, " that cap of yours is really beginning to
look a little shabby already ; I shall have to get you
another soon. You really ought to take more care of
your things."
To Marjorie's eyes Ada's sealskin cap seemed all
that could be desired ; but Mrs. West had a very fas-
tidious eye for dress, and liked all belonging to her to
be irreproachable. Marjorie's thoughts went back to
Miss Mostyn's tale of misery imd Mrs. West's doto'
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NEW FRIENDS.
i
subscription ; and it was a relief to her mind when
that lady reached her destination and bade her a civil
good-by, expressing the hope that she would soon come
to see Ada again. She was, indeed, genuinely fond of
her daughter, and glad to gratify the great fancy she
had taken to this new friend, who seemed a nice little
girl, too, "for an American," as Mrs. West would
have put it.
After another swift, enjoyable drive along the whole
length of Sherbrooke Street — Ada pointing out the
long toboggan slides, with their wooden platforms and
inclined planes, on the mountain sloi)e at either ex-
tremity of the long, broad street — they turned down
the street on which Dr. Ramsay's house stood and
drew up in front of it, to the great delight of Norman
and Effie, who were drawing a little toboggan up and
down in front of their own door.
"O, Cousin Marjorie! we've been trying our tobog-
gan slide in the field, and it's lovely. We'll give you
a slide if you'll come," they exclaimed, in chorus.
Marjorie bade Ada good-by, and as the door was
opened Robin rushed out in wild delight at her return.
Millie stood by enjoying his transports, and declared
that he had been such a good little dog, and had gone
for a walk with her and Jack, and that he knew them
all quite well now, and was " great friends with Nero
already."
"And here's something you'll be glad to get, my
NEW FRIENDS.
Ill
dear," said Mrs. Ramsay, with a smile, holding up a
letter, on which Marjorie recognized, with delight, the
dear, familiar handwriting of her father.
" Yon must come back and tell me all your news
when you have read it, dear," said her aunt, as Mar-
jorie rushed off to devour her letter all by herself in
her own room. She sat down with liobin in her lap,
and felt as if she were transported back to the dear
old home in whi(;h her father and she had had so many
talks together, and as if she could hear the very tones
of his voice and feel his hand on her hair.
The letter was a pretty long one, and as she opened
it, there dropped out of it a folded printed paper, at
which she did not look until she had read the letter.
It was written by snatches ; telling her, in his own
characteristic way, what he had been seeing, and a
little, too, of what he had been thinking on his journey.
It contained many kind messages to the Ramsays, and
ended with a few grave words, which, as Marjorie well
knew, came from his heart :
" And now, my Marjorie, I have told you sometimes that I
believe life is a long education for us, by which our Heavenly
Father is seeking to lit us for higher things by and by. Your
school has been changed just now. in more senses than one; but
if you are only 'trusting and following,' you will be learning
day by day from the Great Teacher. I inclose to you — what I
think you will like to have — the story of the Northern Lights
in print. It is being published now, and I asked them to let me
have a proof on purpose for you — which reached me yesterday.
112
NEW FRIENDS.
if
So liere it is. You mif^htkeop it in your Bible, and then it will
remind you often of our tall\s tibout it. And ronieini)er, dear,
who it was said : ' I am tlie lii^lit of tlu; world ; he that followeth
me shall not waliv in darl^ness, l)ut sliall have the light of life.'
That is tlie secret of getting true light, and of a true and happy
life."
Marjorie wanted to sit clown and answer her letter
" right off," but she felt she must first go down and
read most of the letter to her aunt, and give all the
kind messages. And before slie had finished, Mr.
Field called, according to promise, and they had a little
talk about New York and her father's journey, and the
attractions of Montreal ; so that she only got part of
her letter written before tea. She luid begun it the
day before, giving a very detailed history of her own
journey and arrival, and now she had a great deal more
to tell. In fact, Alan, who came into the '' study "
where she was writing, inquired if she were writing a
book, and said he was thankful boys were never ex-
pected to write letters like that. But Marjorie knew
it would not be too long for her father.
At teatinie, when her uncle came in, late and tired,
as he often did, Marjorie's thoughts suddenly reverted
to his poor patients, in whom she had felt so much
interested, and she surprised him by asking how they
were getting on and if they were really so very poor.
Dr. Ramsay seldom spoke, in his own family, of the
sad sights he was constantly seeing. For one thing, he
himself wanted change of thought and feeling when
NEW FRIENDS.
113
he got home, and for another, he did not think it right
to depress the natural joyousness of youth by burden-
ing it too soon with the weight of the soriow and
suffering of life. But when, at any time, he felt that
his ehildren's sympathy could be awakened with useful
result, he did not hesitate to appeal to it.
"As sad a case as I ever met with," he replied.
" But how did you hear of it, my dear ? "
Marjorie briefly told of Miss Mostyn's visit of appeal
to Mrs. West.
" Ah ! well, I'm glad she went to her. And I hope
she will give something handsome, as she could well
afford to do."
" She said the firm had done something for him
already, but she gave Miss Mostyn something — a
dollar — I think," replied Marjorie, hesitating in her
reply between the desire to give her uncle information,
and an instinctive fear of violating the obligations of
hospitality.
Dr. Ramsay said nothing, but made a slight though
expressive grimace, as he looked at his wife.
Mrs. Ramsay remarked gently, " Well, probably
she may feel interest enough to go to see them, and if
she does that, she will feel that she must do more."
"No, I'm sure she won't," exclaimed Marjorie, her
indignation now thoroughly revived ; " for she said she
hadn't time, and that such things always upset her
I
so.
>5
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114
NEW FRIENDS.
'llli,
m
iii''!
h
Dr. Ramsay laughed outright this time. " Poor
woman!" he exclaimed; 'it's well that we doctors
don't have such superfine feelings ! No, Alan, no re-
marks, if you please. We have no right to judge
others for not setiing their privileges. But you can
tell Gerald about tiie case. It would be a useful way
for hiin to spend some of his superfluous pocket-money.
And I have taken care that they sha'n't starve for the
present. And your aunt is going to see them to-
morrow, so you can go with her if you like, Marjorie,
to see for yourself. Jietween her and the charitable
dispensary the poor sick ones have been kept sup-
plied with nourishing food. And as usual, the poor
neighbors have been very kind."
Marjorie's thoughts went swiftly back to the " angel "
her father had seen, and what he had said about her.
That evening, as she finished her jcurnal-letter, she
concluded her narrative with the following reflection :
" You said once that tlicre were a jyreat many ' half-lieathens'
in New York. I didn't know wliat you meant tlien, l)ut I tliink
there must l)e a ^ood many in Montreal, too. Ada's mother, who
is so rich and has sucli a beautiful house and everything she
wants, seemed to grudge to give a dollar to a starving family,
though the father had got hurt in Mr. West's business ! So I
think the light must be 'shining in darkness' here, too, I'm
so glad you sent me the Northern Lights in print, for I'm sure
they'll all like it here. I'm sure Uncle and Aunt Kamsay have
the ' light of life,' and I'm going to try to ' trust and follow,' so
as to have it too ! "
CHAPTER VII.
THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY.
^»
lis
ink
ho
she
o I
I'm
Bure
ave
' so
Sunday was anothor bright clear day, decidedly
milder, so that there was nothing* to interfere with the
pleasure of being out of doors in the pure, bracing air.
Marjorie, in her warm squirrel furs, with her dark
gray eyes sparkling and her rather pale cheeks brightly
tinted by the frosty air, looked, her aunt thought, much
improved already, as they took their way to church on
Sunday morning. The long anxiety and watching
during her father's illness, and the depression and
dread of the impending separation, had told a good
deal on her alwaj^s sensitive organization ; but a re-
action had just set in, and her natural shy reserve was
beginning to wear off already under the influence oi
her brighter spirits and the liveliness of her cousins.
Marion and she seemed like old friends as they walked
together to the Presbyterian Church which Dr. Kam-
say attended. Her father and she had been wont to
go to the Congregational Church at home, but she
knew her father had little respect for the ''isms"
115
IIG
THE PROFESSORS STORY.
which separate Christians, and Dr. Ramsay, though
attached to the church in which his forefathers had
lived and died, had just as little respect for church-
ism as had Mr. Fleming. " If you don't love other
churches, you can't really love your own ; for you
haven't got your Master's spirit in you," he would say
to his " churchy " friends, both in his own communion
and others.
And Dr. Ramsay had friends in every denomina-
tion of faith. He met them at sick beds and in hos-
pitals, where they learned to know each other, and to
know, ♦^^oo, that there are times when all human hearts
must respond to the same touch — the gentlest yet
strongest touch of all.
It was pleasant to walk to church through the
throngs of church-going people that crossed one an-
other's path in every direction — people of all classes
and positions. Sometimes they met a little group of
long-robed ecclesiastics, and Marjorie would explain
which particular confraternity they belonged to ; or
some gray Sisters of Charity would be seen at the
head of a little band of children.
The service was very like the one she was accus-
tomed to, but the prayer for " Her Majesty the
Queen " reminded her that she was no longer under
her own country's flag. And yet she did not feel like
"a stranger and a foreigner," worshiping there with
those who spoke the same tongue, prayed to the same
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
117
le
God, loved the same Saviour and sang almost the
same dear old hymns that they used to sing at home.
Nor did the people look very different, except in their
warmer dress ; at least not the female portion of the
congregation. She thought the men did not look quite
so keen and anxious, and she noticed more stout and
comfortable-looking elderly gentlemen than she was
accustomed to see in church. And she thought there
were a great many pretty children.
Her observations rather distracted her attention
from the sermon, for Marjorie's tlioughts were very
apt to go off roaming in the direction of some passing
fancy, which was one reason why her father liked her
to bring him reports of the sermons she heard. But
she thought that her father would have liked this one,
which was her usual way of estimating things which
she did not feel herself competent to criticise, and her
father had never encouraged her in the slightest
attempt at criticising a sermon since he said, " if you
listen in such a spirit, you will lose all the good of it."
One thought slie carried away for her next letter to
her father — because it was so like his own words : that
the patient learner in Christ's school would find,
like the learner in every other school, tliat every
lesson well learned from the Master's teaching, is only
a stepping-stone to the next step of progress in the
upward line.
After dinner Marjorie went with Marion to her
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r
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THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
room, and they had a nice quiet talk over their favorite
Sunday books. Marjorie was much older in mind for
her years than was her cousin, so that they could talk
without any sense of inequality. Marion was not
specially poetical, but she loved Frances Havergal's
poems for their devotional sweetness, and she enjoyed
reading her favorites to Marjorie, to whom they were
new. And Marjorie in turn read to Marion some of
the poems from the Christian Year and her precious
copy of Whittier, which her father had taught her to
know and love by reading them to her on Sunday
evenings, in his expressive and musical voice.
Marion, however, went off at tlie usual hour to teach
her Sunday-school class, and Marjorie went with her
aunt to see the poor family. They lived in one of the
old, narrow, dingy streets that abound in the St.
Antoine suburb; and it was sad enough to see them,
the sick parents and the four little children, pent up
in one room not bigger than her uncle's dining-room.
Marjorie thought of the spacious magnificence of the
Wests' luxurious home, and wondered, as many a
young soul has wondered, how such differences can be.
But she noticed with surprise how brightly the man
spoke ; how gratefully he referred to Dj-. Ramsay as
the means, under God, of saving his life, and his
poor wife's life too ; and how they could never thank
Mrs. Ramsay and Miss Mostyn enough for all their
kindness ; and how they hoped, please God, to see
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
119
better days, for when lie got the wooden leg the doctor
had sent for, he should be able to work as well as ever.
And it made the tears come to Marjorie's eyes to see
the loving tenderness with which he looked at the
poor little baby when Mrs. Ramsay took it into her
arms, and with which he remarked that " the little
thing was welcome, though it did come in hard times."
" Well, Marjorie," said her aunt, as they left the
house, " you see there's always some light in the dark-
ness, after all, if people only open their eyes to see it."
The expression sent Marjorie's thoughts off to her
father and their talk. So when she had come in, and
had carried down her books to read by the drawing-
room fire, she re-read the story of the Northern
Lights which she had put into her Bible. And
when the four younger children came in from Sunday
school, and Norman and Efifie rushed to her demand-
ing a story, and Jack and Millie endorsed the request,
she thought she could not do better than tell them, in
the simplest rendering she could improvise, the story
of the Northern Lights.
They all listened attentivel}^ though Jack and Millie
appreciated the allegory more than the two little ones.
The wintry dusk was closing in and the firelight only
lighted up the room, so Marjorie did not notice that
Alan and Gerald had stolen quietly in just before she
had concluded.
"Where did you get that story, Marjorie? " asked
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THE PROFESSORS STORY.
|i ]■■
I
Alan ; " you'll have to tell it over again to us." Then
Gerald explained that he had come to ask if Marjorie
would go to the English Cathedral that evening with
Ada, and Mrs. Ramsay had said he might stay for tea
and take Marjorie to meet Ada at church, if she wished
to go. Marjorie was very willing to agree to this ar-
rangement, for she liked the Episcopal service very
much, and Alan told her she would hear both good
music and a good sermon.
" There's Professor Duncan I " exclaimed Millie, as
her ear caught his voice talking to her father in the
hall, and she and Jack ran to meet their favorite. He
came in with Dr. Ramsay, one of his arms resting on
the shoulder of each of the two children. His strong
face was lighted up with a most benignant smile in
which he included Marjorie, when she was formally
introduced by the eager Millie.
" Ah ! so this is the young lady I met in the book-
store yesterday. And so you are Mrs. Ramsay's niece,
my dear? Do you know, I was looking at you and
trying to think what the likeness was that was puzzling
me? I see it now, though. I once traveled to New
York with your father, and that is a face, and a man,
too, that one doesn't easily forget."
Marjorie colored deeply with pleasure at this men-
tion of her father. And then Millie exclaimed :
" O, Professor Duncan ! you must make her tell you
the story she has just been telling us. It's such a
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
121
rou
a
pretty one, and then it's a parable, and you like para-
bles. It's about the Northern Lights."
" I'll be delighted to hear it," said the professor,
settling himself comfortably in one easy-chair, while Dr.
Ramsay threw himself into another. " I'm just as
fond of stories as these folks here — and much fonder
of parables, I know, than I was at their age."
Marjorie had often been exhorted by her father to
do a thing — when she was asked to do it — as well as
she could, and without making any fuss about it, as
some girls were apt to do. So she overcame her shy-
ness of strangers, and only said that she would rather
read the story as her fatlier had sent it to her in print.
So a lamp was lighted, and Marjorie read it in a
very clear and expressive voice, trying to reproduce it
just as her father had first read it to her. IVIrs. Ram-
say and Marion had come in too. and all listened at-
tentively, but Professor Duncan never took his deep-
set eyes off the young reader till the last word had
been read.
" Do you know, I like that very much ? " he said,
"capital idea! It's just what I'm always telling these
children about in some form or other. We've had
just such solitary Northern Lights here in Camada,
shining in the darkness. And by the way, Ramsay,
what do you think about brave Gordon all alone
there ? Do you think Stewart will be able to manage
to reach him ? "
J:
4;
ill s;
.}, A
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THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
*' I wish they coukl do it a little quicker," said Dr.
Ramsay. " And I wish jioor Gordon could know how
many hearts are throbbing with eager desire to hear
of his relief. It would cheer him up a bit in that
terrible isolation."
"Not alone; his Father is with him," said Pro-
fessor Duncan solemnly. " We may be sure of that !
If ever a man lived as ' seeing the invisible,' you may
be sure he does."
" Kiglit, Duncan, right ! " exclaimed Dr. Ramsay ;
" would we were all like him in that."
But Millie was eager to make her request of Pro-
fessor Duncan. It was that he would tell them, for
Marjorie's benefit, her favorite story of Isaac Jogues.
" Well, I've told it so often that I should think you
would know it by heart. But I don't mind telling it
again if it won't bore your mother and father."
" Your stories never bore me, Duncan, you know
very well," said Dr. Ramsay.
" Do you know, Ramsay," said the professor, fixing
his deep, thoughtful eyes on the flame that was leap-
ing up from a lump of black coal, " it's pleasant to
set such a story as that of Isaac eTogues beside the
■prefvnt interest in our living, struggling Gordon - - liv-
lu -<tr*l. I trust at least ! It makes one realize the
r.nr.j e^ i,he Christian life and spirit ; one under all
^'f^^'f .ces of time and character and creed; the one
inextinguishable persistent power of divine love and
't.
THE PROFESSOR S STORY
123
sacrifice, leaping up even from our dark humanity, as
that flame leaps up from that black coal, the latent
power of the light and heat that have, somehow or
other, pervaded its very essence." And then he re-
})eated in a low, half-soliloquizing tone the lines Mar-
jorie had heard so often from her father :
" Wherever through the ages rise
The altars of self-sacritlce ;
Where Love its arms hatli opened wide,
And man for man hath calmly died,
I see the same white wings outspread
That hovered o'er the Master's head ! "
"Oh!" exclaimed Marjorie half -audibly, with an
involuntary expression of recognition.
"What is it?" asked Professor Duncan, glancing
at her with quick interest.
" Oh ! nothing ; only my father is so fond of that
poem. It seemed so strange to hear you repeating it,"
explained Marjorie.
" Yes ; I should quite imagine that would be one of
his favorites," said Professor Duncan. " Rut you
know you haven't got a monopoly of Whittier over
there any more than we have of Tennyson. We love
your Quaker poet, some of us, quite as much as any
of his countrymen can do.
" But now I see Millie is thinking I have forgotten
Jogues. Well, Miss Marjorie, as it is for your bene-
m
if]
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ll
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THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
fit I am to tell it, let me ask you first if you have
read Parkman's History of the Jesuits in North
America."
" No," Marjorie said ; " papa always said I must
read all Parkman's books by and by. But he said it
needed cour.age to read that one."
" So it does, my dear ; Christian courage, that is !
There are things in it too dreadful for tender-hearted
girls to read, unless indeed they can appreciate the
compensations, which all can't do ! If we could only
feel what is in a martyr's heart when he suffers, I fancy
we could bear to hear of his sufferings as calmly as he
takes them. We don't realize the truth of the promise,
' As thy day is, so shall thy strength be ! '
" Well, if you haven't read Parkman, you don't know,
perhaps, how, when the Christian church at large hadn't
yet waked up to its missionary duty, some earnest men,
zealous even to fanaticism, banded themselves together
to extend Christianity according to their lights, and
called themselves the ' Society of Jesus ; ' we call them
the Jesuits. And, after Jacques Cartier's discovery of
Canada, and the visits of other adventurers had opened
up a new continent to the ambition of France, as well
as other countries, an intense enthusiasm arose there,
led by the Jesuits, to convert the wild, roving, miser-
able Indians to the true faith. Queens and noble
ladies and knights and noblemen vied with each other
in their zeal and liberality to help in this great enter-
THE PROFESSORS STORY.
125
prise. And the Order of the Jesuits supplied one
brave hero after another, ready to devote himself for
life to this noble endeavor, and ready, too, to meet
with joy not only exile from all he held dear on earth
and from all the eonifor+s of the most civilized social
life in the world, but also cold, starvation, sufferings
of all kinds, and even death by the most horrible tor-
tures, always contemplated as a not remote possibility,
and with terrible examples constantly before their
eyes."
Professor Duncan raised himself a little in his chair,
and drew a long breath, as if himself oppressed by the
mental image he had conjured up. Then he went on
again :
" It seems almost wrong to exalt any one individual
above another, among so many brave, enthusiastic men,
all self-devoted to their object — from the brave soldier
Cham plain himself, who declared that the conversion
of a single soul was better than the discovery of a
continent, down to the humblest adonne^ or lay
brother, who because he had not learning nor riches to
give, was said more especially to have given himself!
But yet, to my mind, the story of Isaac Jogues is one
that for tender pathos and grand simplicity and un-
conscious humility and noble, self-forgetful devotion
is the most touching and beautiful of all the heroic
stories of these true-hearted Christian men.
" Well, you must know, Miss Marjorie," he con-
*\
; r :
4K!
jM,
THE I'KOFESSOK S STORY.
tinued, " that the conversion of the great Huron nation
or tribe was the special object of all these heroic mis-
sions. The Algoiiqiiins, and their rehitions, the Hurons,
were, from the time of Champlain, the fast friends of
the French, who liad always treated them kindly, and
who unfortunately took up arms to aid them in their
great and destructive feud with the Iroquois. This
was a great and fatal mistake of Chami)laiu's. The
white men should have used their influence to make
peace among these warring tribes, instead of taking
sides in their cruel warfare. But he thought that if
he could help the Hurons to conquer the ferocious
Iroquois, he would have no difficulty in establishing
the French ascendancy in North America. But un-
fortunately the Iroquois had white allies too. The
Dutch traders who had settled in New York, and the
English settlers of New England, were jealous of
the French, and willing enough to help the Iroquois
by supplying them with fire-arms for the " thunder-
bolts " they had first seen Champlain use, with such
terrible effect. In fact, it was their policy always to
use them as a breastwork against the advances of the
French.
" It was about 1640 that a terrible series of Iroquois
incursions began to harass the French colonists and the
Jesuit Missions. Here in Ville Marie, as Montreal
was then called, the few settlers were in constant peril
of their lives, and skirmishing bands of the Iroquois
THE I'KOFESSOK S STORY.
127
ll
s
e
ll
il
were perpetually hovering about the St. Lawrence and
the Ottawa to wayhiy and capture any passing canoes ;
for these were the great highways down which the
Hurons used to come, from their western towns and
villages, to trade with the French. The »Jcsuit mis-
sionaries had, with great peril and difficulty, established
a mission on the wihl sliores of Lake Huron. They
had a central mission-house, where lived some ten or
twelve of the devoted brethren, and from which they
went out, generally two and two, on preaching and
visiting tours among the Huron villages, healing the
sick, when they could, by their simple remedies, baptiz-
ing the Indians and their children, when permitted, and
certainly by degrees winning these savage hearts to
feel that this new religion they taught was a religion
of love and mercy.
" Among the pious brethren assembled at Sainte
Marie, then their central mission station, was Isaac
Jogues, who came to join the Canadian mission in
1636, as a young man still under thirty. He was deli-
cately moulded in face and figure, sensitively organized,
and, don't forget this by and by, constitutionally
timid. He was a scholar and a student, and doubtless
had had his own literary ambitions, but his deep re-
ligious nature and sensitive conscience had led him to
become a Jesuit, and to join this brave band in the wild
West. Though far from robust, either physically or
even perhaps mentally, he was light and active, a Heet
E-
l
:3
128
THE PROFESSORS STOUY.
vm>
runner, and, as you shall see in the end, his spirit was
simply unconquerable ! He was one of two men — the
other as delicately constituted as he — brave (iarnier,
who were sent on one of the most perilous missions
among these (ireat Lakes, that to a fierce tribe called
the Tobacco Nation. Starved, hooted, dreaded as con-
jurors, their lives ('onstantly menaced, they wandered
through the snow-blocked forest, from one miserable
cluster of bark cabins to another, seeking to gain a
hearing for their message of love. But as yet, all
hearts and homes were sullenly closed against them,
and they only escaped with their lives under cover of
darkness, from a band of young men who pursued
them with their tomahawks, intent on their destruction.
Another perilous pilgrimage he had, soon after that,
with another brother, Kaymbault, along the shore of
Lake Superior, preaching on one occasion to an
assembly of some two thousand Ojibways, a branch of
the Algonquins.
"But there was a still more perilous mission to be
undertaken, and Jogues was the man chosen for it.
This was to go down to Quebec, by the Iroquois-
infested St. Lawrence, with the canoes of some Huron
traders, to get the various supplies needed for the
mission, which were quite exhausted. The long voyage
du»»n the Ottawa and the St. Lawrence was accom-
plished safely ; and Jogues set out on his return, with
tlie prayers and blessings of his brethren at Quebec,
Iri %
THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY.
129
taking b;iek with him two young hiy brothers, who
were euger to take part in tlie Huron mission. They
had a convoy of twelve canoes, most of tliese being
filled with Huron traders, still heathen, while there
were also a few Christian Indians, one of them a
noted chief.
"The little fleet was quietly gliding through a long
stretch of bulrushes on Lake St. Peter, on their way
up here, when the Iroquois war-whoop, and the whistling
of bullets, announced the dreaded enemy, whose war
canoes bore down on them from their ambuscade.
The Hurons were panic-stricken. Tiie heathen Indians
leaped ashore and made for the woods. The Christian
Hurons rallied to the support of the French at first,
but the sight of another ajjproaching fleet of canoes
put them all to flight. Goupil, one of the young lay
brothers, was captured, and Jogues, who might have
escaped, would not desert his friend, and surrendered
himself to the astonished savages who were guarding
the prisoners.
"Forgetting himself, Jogues began to baptize the
poor captives. The other lay brother, a fine fellow
named Couture, also escaped at first, and also returned
to share the fate of his friends. Unhappily, in a
moment of excitement. Couture fired his gun and shot
an Indian who had presented his own weapon at him.
The Iroquois sprang upon him like savage beasi^},
and Jogues ran to try to shield Couture. But the
11
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IH ■ -t-M
130
THE riiOFESSOIt S STORY.
h J
enraged Iroquois beat and mutilated the three unfortu-
nate missionaries, even gnawing their hands like
savage dogs, as was their brutal custom with their
prisoners. Then they and the other captives were
carried off in the canoes of the marauders, up the
winding Richelieu and across the beautiful Lake
Champlain, to the charming solitudes of Lake George,
of which Jogues was thus the tirst discoverer, and
which should have borne his name. But he was
thinking little of discovery then ; indeed, it was a
wonder he was alive ! For on the way they reached
a large camp of the Irocpiois, and there they were
again brutally beaten, lacerated and tortured, till
Jogues, who, as chief man, fared the worst, was half-
dead.
" It would be too painful for me to tell, or for you
to hear, about all the sufferings of the blood-tracked
pilgrimage, across the primeval wilderness, through
which one now travels so swiftly, to the palisaded
Iroquois town on the Mohawk, where the same horrible
scenes of torture were rejieatcul with redoubled fury.
The Iroquois must have seemed like demons of hell to
the maimed and suffering missionaries. Yet even
when enduring the full force of their savage fury,
Jogues was thinking of the perishing souls about him,
and as, you know, these Jesuits esteemed baptism
of supreme importance, poor Jogues managed to bap-
tize two of the dying Huron captives with the rain-
i:
Ill
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
131
m 1
drops he found on an ear of Indian corn given to him
for food !
" Couture, whose bohhiess had gained the admiration
of the Indians, though he had made them so angry by
killing one of their braves, was saved from further
tortures by being adopted into an Iroquois family.
Goupil, to whom Jogues had sacrificed his liberty,
was murdered by his side, and so he also had his
release ; and flogues was left alone. lie was anxious
to give to Goupil's remains a Christian burial, but the
Iroquois hid the body from him, and he had to read the
service of the dead over the spot where it had lain.
When the snows were melting he found some pitiful
relics of the corpse, and gave them the only inte^'uient
he could, in a hollow tree.
" It seemed like a living death that poor Jogues
had to endure that winter among his pitiless foes.
They would not kill him outright, but made him their
slave, and dragged him with them through the wintry
forest on their hunting expeditions, when he almost
starved be(^ause he would not touch the food they
caught, devoted by them to their divinity of tliC chase,
or, as Jogues put it, to a demon. As he had no quiet
in their wigwams for meditation and j)rayer, he
arranged an oratory for himself in a lonely s])ot in the
forest. He cut out in the bark of a great tree a cross
— the symbol of his faith and of his present martyr-
dom — and there, amid snowdrifts and icicles, he would
It
lil }
'
•bH
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, ii
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132
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
kneel in his shaggy garment of furs, and pray to Him
who was as near to his suffering servant there as to
the exiled apostle in Patmos. If He had not been,
how could Jogues ever have lived through those days ?
" At last, however, his masters growing tired of their
patient slave, sent him back to the village, and there he
remained till spring, trying to teach the savages about
Him ; telling them something of the glories of the
sun and moon and stars, and something, too, of Him
who had made them. But there they would not follow
him, any more than the heathen Greeks at the
opposite pole of civilization would follow St. Paul.
" At last, after more adventures tnan I can tell you
now, he went about midsummer with a party of Iro-
quois to a fishing place on the Hudson, below Fort
Orange ; that is where Albany now stands."
Marjorie remembered the busy city and bustling
terminus she had so lately passed, and tried, with a
new interest, to recall the features of the surrounding
scenery.
" Fort Orange was just a little rude fort of logs and
palisades, after the fashion of those times, with a few
scattered homes of settlers about it, and close to it a
little Dutch church. I suppose this was the first
Protestant church that Jogues had ever seen. Its
pastor was a certain Dominie Megapolensis, who wrote
a little history of the Mohawks. It is pleasant to
know that these two good men met each other ; and I
THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY.
133
am sure, after his year's exile among heathen savages,
that Jogues was glad to find that the Protestants —
whom he had been taught to call ' heretics ' — were
fellow-Christians, after all.
" While Jogues was near Fort Orange, he heard
news that made him both desire and dread to return
to the Mohawk town. He heard first, that one of the
Iroquois war parties had come in from Canada with
prisoners, doomed to the usual fate, and he felt that
he ought to be there to baptize and absolve the
sufferers. But then, too, he heard that a party which
had gone to Three Rivers, carrying a letter from him
to the French commandant — which was really a warn-
ing letter, though they didn't know it — had been
repulsed by the French with heavy loss, and that his
death was certain from the enraged Iroquois if he
ventured back. Van Curler, a leading Dutch settler,
who, to his honor, had already tried to ransom Jogues,
now urged him to escape from this imminent peril, and
offered him a passage in a little Dutch vessel about to
sail for France. We can imagine how poor Jogues'
heart must have throbbed at the thought of seeing his
native land and his friends once more, after all his un-
speakable sufferings. But he was not sure whether
he ought to save his own life, or go back to try to save
the souls of the unhappy captives ; so to Van Curler's
amazement he asked to have a night for consideration
and prayer.
I ¥
II
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a, e h. SAfS
'9
I
134
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
" I am sure you will be glad to hear that he decided
that ' mercy was better than sacrifice,' even where he
himself was to be the sacrifice, and that it was his duty
to save his own life when so good an opportunity was
providentially offered, rather than expose himself to
certain tortures and death for the sake of trying to do
for others what he might never be permitted to do.
So he accepted Van Curler's offer with grateful thanks,
and a boat was left on the shore, to enable him to
reach the vessel. He had to steal away at night from
the large, barn-like house in which he and his Indian
companions slept, along with the settler's family. He
got away at last, but not without being severely bitten
in the leg by the settler's dog, and with much difficulty
succeeded in pushing off the heavy boat, left high and
dry by the tide, and in reaching the vessel. Even
then, however, his troubles were not over. The
Indians, furious at his escape, searched for him every-
where, and even came to look tor him in the vessel
where the sailors had hidden him as securely as they
could. Fearing lest he might be found there, the
captain of the vessel had him taken to the fort, where
he was lodged in the garret of a miserly old Dutch-
man, who kept goods for selling to th« Indians close
to Jogues' hiding-place, and separated from it by a
partition so thin that they could have seen him if he
had not hidden himself behind a pile of boards. He
was a prisoner here for six weeks, and the old Dutch-
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
135
man ate most of the food that was sent him, so he was
nearly starved, and his wounded leg was very painful,
too. The Dutch minister visited him, and did all he
could to cheer him in his solitude. They must have
talked a good deal together, for the good pastor writes
of him in his history, as a ' very learned scholar.' If
you stop in Albany on your way home, and pass the
Phoenix Hotel, remember that it stands on the very
site of this first ' Evangelical Alliance ' meeting in Amer-
ica, between a Dutch pastor and a Jesuit missionary.
" At last the settlers, who, of course, did not want
to quarrel with the Indians, succeeded in pacifying
them with a large ransom for their captive ; and the
Director-General of Manhattan — as you know New
York was called then — sent for Jogues to be brought
to him on a small vessel going down the Hudson. So
the poor fugitive missionary sailed down that beautiful
river, then in all its native wildness, and reached
the straggling village, clustered round a dila})idated
fort, where now stretches over so many miles, your
great city of New York. Yet even then, with its four
or five hundred colonists, it was almost as cosmopolitan
as now ; for thirteen languages were spoken there
at the time of Jogues' visit. A bloody Indian war
was raging just then, and he must have felt pursued
by the demon of carnage, for many of tlie settlers v/ere
killed during his visit. The Dutch Director-General
received him very kindly, and gave him a suit of fine
I
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P
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i
,]
136
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
cloth to replace his tattered, savage garments. They
paid him the honor, too, of giving his name to Jogu?s
Island in thv \ - -^'jr. Finally lie was taken on board a
small sailing vessel, which would at least carry him
across the sea to England.
" There was but little comfort even here for the
refined and cv ' • ' Frencli scholar. He had for a
bed a coil of ro}ic <leok, where the waves often
drenched hia clothing. C a Lis n.rrival in the English
port, new troiiblt, '^litec) - : for a gang of ruffians
boarded and robbed ill., ^u i while its crew were
carousing on shore ; and Jogues was left coatless and
hatless once more.
" At last, however, he got a passage across the
Channel in a coaling vessel, and was safely landed on
the coast of Brittany on Christmas Eve, in time for
midnight mass. Now he was at home ! He asked
shelter in a humble cottage, where he was hospitably
received, but where, at first, by reason of his uncon-
ventional attire, he was taken for a poor but pious
Irishman. But when his hosts found out something
of his history, and saw his scarred and mutilated,
hands, their simple hearts were overcome with love
and reverence. They gave him a woolen cap, or
tuque, for his hatless head, and the peasant's daughters
presented him with their own little treasure of hoarded
sous. And, mounted on a horse borrowed from a
trader of Rennes, he made his way, on Christmas
THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY.
137
morning, to the Jesuit College of the town, which he
reached just before mass. He sent word by the porter
to the rector, just putting on his vestments, that a
poor man just arrived from (>anada was waiting to see
him, and the rector, eager for news of the mission,
came at once to the vestibule, where stood this poorly-
dressed and weather-beaten stranger. The rector had
many questions to ask, but erelong came this : 'And
what of Jogues ? Is he dead ? Have the Indians
killed him ? '
" ' He is alive and well, and I am he I ' was the
reply. It is easier to imagine than to describe the
effect it produced. That must have been a joyful
Christmas Day in the Jesuit community, and their
morning mass must have been one of heartfelt gratitude
and praise."
There was a little pause. Marjorie drew a long
breath, and exclaimed :
" Oh ! I am so glad he got safely back," and Ger-
ald, who had also been listening with fascinated
attention, muttered to Alan : " Well, he was a plucky
fellow ! "
" Oh ! but that's not the end of it," explained
Millie eagerly.
" No," said Professor Duncan ; " I sometimes wish
it were I It would be pleasant to leave him to rest
and meditate in the quiet cloister for the remainder of
his life, feted and lionized as he could have been, had
138
THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY.
{ I
ii 4, _
he chosen, and telling wonderful stories of his adven-
tures to admiring- votaries. The French Queen sent
for him, and she and her ladies felt it an honor to
kneel and kiss the hands so mutilated by the Indians.
The Pope sent him a special dispensation to enable
him to say mass, which you know a priest who is
maimed in any way is debarred from doing. If any
man might have been justified for preferring to remain
at home in safety, and not again risking exposure to
those savage tormentors, Jogues was that man. But
when the spirit of self-sacrificing love has once taken
possession of a heart, it must go on in its divine mis-
sion. Jogues was a young man yet, and his indomi-
table spirit had not been vanquished by suffering.
He shrank from lionizing homage, and cared only to
follow his Master. So in the following spring he
returned to the Canadian mission, and surely it was
the nobler course.
" For the next two years he lived here in Montreal,
where he found plenty of work to do, and dangers
enough, too. At the end of that time a wonderful
event happened. His old enemies, the Mohawks, sent
a deputation to make a treaty of peace with the French,
and with them came the long lost C*^ uture, the young
Frenchman whose life had been saved by being
adopted by the Indians, and who now looked like an
Indian himself. This embassy of peace was partly
owing to his influence, and partly to the humanity
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
139
which had been shown by the French to two Iroquois
prisoners, brought to them by their Huron friends.
*' The French were anxious to make this treaty more
secure, and also to establish among the Iroquois a new
mission, to be called The Mission of the Martyrs.
Father Jogues was asked to be the leader of the
French embassy. Just at first he shrank from return-
ing to those scenes of suffering, and the dangers he
knew so well. But if the 'flesh was weak,' the spirit
was willing, and the hesitation was but momentary.
But he felt a strong presentiment of ill. He wrote
to a friend in Latin : ' Iho et non rediho ; ' ' I shall
go, and shall not return.'
*' But he took the precaution of following the advice
of an Algonquin convert, and wore a layman's doublet
and hose, instead of the long black cassock, a silent
preacher of a faith which, to the Indians, seemed, at
first, to destroy all that they cared for in life.
"Jogues had for his companions a French engineer,
two Algonquins, carrying gifts, and four Mohawk
guides. The little party followed the route that
Jogues had such reason to remember, and in re-cross-
ing Lake George he gave it its first name of Lac St.
Sacrament. On his way he visited Fort George, and
met again the Dutch friends who had so kindly be-
friended him. Then he went on to the Mohawk town,
which had been the scene of his torture and servitude,
and appeared before his former persecutors in his new
f
m
r
140
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
character, as the plenipotentiary of the great French
power they were seeking to propitiate.
" The meeting passed off most harmoniously, though
it was clear that the Mohawks still hated the Algon-
quins ; but Jogues and his companions were advised
to hasten home lest they should meet any of the four
still hostile ' nations ' of the Iroquois. Jogues, true
to his unselfish and devoted spirit, would not depart
until he had visited all the Indian homes, confessed
and instructed the still surviving Christian prisoners,
and baptized dying Mohawks. Then they crossed the
country to Lake George, where they made bark canoes
and descended the Richelieu in safety.
" One more journey lay before brave Father Jogues,
and then he was to enter into his rest. The Mission
of the Martyrs was still to be established ; and though
it was at first decided that Jogues should remain all
winter in Montreal, he was finally sent back to the
Mohawks, with a young French lay brother and some
Hurons. On the way they met some Indians, who
gave them information of a growing hostility among
the Mohawks, which frightened their Mohawks into
going back. But Jogues and his young brother
pushed on in faith and hope, on their labor of love.
" Brt alas ! what seemingly slight and trivial things
often seem to be the means of thwarting our noblest
designs. A harmless little bag which poor Jogues had
left in the care of the Mohawks till his return, and
THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY.
141
which contained, as he took care to show them, only a
few personal necessaries, excited the suspicions of
sorcery, never far from their superstitious minds.
These suspicions were basely fostered for selfish ends
by the cowardly Huron prisoners, and the prevalence
of sickness and of caterpillars increased their supersti-
tious dread. The Bear clan, one of the great Mo-
hawk clans, broke out violently against the French,
and took the war path in defiance of the treaty, to
which the clans of the Wolf and the Tortoise still
adhered.
" Unhappily, as we say, Jogues and his companions
fell in with one of their warrior-bands, and were seized
and carried off in triumph to the town of the savages,
where the old indignities and tortures began again.
And notwithstanding all the protests of the Indians of
the other clans, the death of the missionaries was loudly
demanded.
" The end was not long delayed. It was the middle
of October, when the forest was all glowing with the
rich autumn hues. The evening after the prisoners
had been brought into the Mohawk town, a •• brave '
entered the lodge where the bruised and lacerated mis-
sionaries were awaiting their fate, and invited Jogues
to a feast. The father rose and followed the Indian
to the lodge of the chief of the Bear clan. As he
stooped to enter, a blow from the tomahawk of a
savage concealed in the entrance pierced his brain and
m
142
THE riiOFESSOUS STORY.
I
gave him the martyr's death he had so often looked
for. A friendly Iroquois, one of the prisoners whose
humane treatment by the French had led to the propo-
sals for a treaty, Iield out his arm to shield the
missionary's head, but the tomahawk cleft its way
through it in its descent. Jogues' companion in a
few hours shared his fate, and the barbarians set up
the heads of the martyrs as trophies on their wall of
palisades.
" So you see. Miss Marjorie, that the story of Isaac
Jogues belongs equally to our country and to yours.
It was New York soil that was stained, and I think
hallowed by the brave martyr's blood, as it was also
the scene of his year of captivity among the savages.
And now, do you think there could be a braver man
or a truer hero and martyr than this simple, humble,
unpretending Isaac Jogues ? "
" No, indeed ! I had no idea there were such
Jesuits as that ! " exclaimed Marjorie, who, like the
others, had been absorbed in the long and pathetic
tale, told in Professor Duncan's low, earnest tones, as
if he were telling the story of an intimate friend to a
single auditor.
" I think he was the bravest man I ever heard of.
Just as brave as Regulus or any of those old fellows
in our Roman history," said Gerald, sotto voce^ to
Alan.
"I think he was braver, even," said Alan, "for he
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
143
did it for love to those wi'iftched savages, and Kegulus
did it for the sake of liis conn try."
"*The love of Cin-ist eonstraineth ns,' " said the
professor. " That was the secret of Jognes' conrage,
as it was of St. PanFs, a braver man even than Jognes,
for the Master he served was * despised and reje(;ted '
by the whole cultured world, when he staked all to fol-
low him. But it was the same sj)irit, and one hardly
eares to make comparisons when the faith and love are
the same."
Marjorie felt as if she had got a good deal to think
about, and she was not sorry wIilu Dr. Ramsay pro-
posed some music by way of relieving the dei)ressing
effect of the professor's story. Marion o})ened the
piano, and they all sang together some of their favorite
hymns, with great spirit and sweetness. It was a new
Sunday pleasure to Marjorie. As they sang, by Dr.
Ramsay's request, the beautiful hymn, '• When 1 sur-
vey the wondrous Cross," the tears came to Marjorie's
eyes as she thought how truly the story they had just
heard had illustrated its spirit. She wished she herself
could only feel it as fully.
After tea she went with Gerald to the Cathedral.
As they walked, they talked a little about the story of
Jogues, and Gerald seemed quite to drop the cynical
and sarcastic manner he wore at home. She could
not help thinking vaguely that he had aspirations for
something better than the low ideal of life that was
144
THE PROFESSOR S STORY.
presented to him there, and that he was dissatisfied
with that, without having as yet grasped anything
better. He seemed honestly puzzled to account for
the tenacity with which the heroic missionary had pur-
sued his mission to " such a wretched lot of savages."
Marjorie referred to the allegory of the Northern
Lights, but he said, "That was only poetry, and did
not explain it at all ! "
To Marjorie's surprise and delight, the evening ser-
mon was on the text her father had quoted in his
letter : "I am the light of the world ; he that folio w-
eth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the
light of life." It was an earnest appeal to walk by
that true and only Light, and it was followed by her
father's favorite hymn, exquisitely rendered :
" Lead, kindly light, amid tb' encircling gloom,
Lead then me on ;
The night is Jark, and I am far from home,
Lead thou me ou ! "
The tears rushed irrepressibly to her eyes as the
soft, sweet, pleading music carried her thoughts back
to her father's story of the experience of his own life ;
and her prayer went up to the Light that "• shineth in
darkness," to lead both of them — far from each other
and the earthly home — as only that Light can lead
any of us through the wilderness of this world.
CHAPTER VIII.
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
The next few clays seemed full of the stir of Christ-
mas preparations, both indoors and out. The coming
Christmas holidays were eagerly expected by the chil-
dren as times of unlimited out-door fun, and nearly
every member of the family had some important secret
of his or her own ; some urgent business to be trans-
acted in private, or at most with a single confidant.
Marjorie, as being a sort of neutral party, was in
everybody's confidence, and was appealed to half a
dozen times a day by Millie, Jack and Norman, as to
which of half a dozen possible gifts would be nicest for
each member of the family, from Dr. Ramsay down to
Effie. Mrs. Ramsay, too, had a number of Christmas
gifts and Christmas surprises on hand for several of
the poor families in which she took a motherly interest,
and Marion and Marjorie had plenty of occui)ation for
their mornings, ni making up various warm garments,
dressing some cheap dolls, and prei)aring candy-bags
to be ready before the more immediate Christmas
preparations claimed their attention.
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A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
H
I in
Mrs. Ramsay greatly approved of Ada's suggestion
about the photograph of Marjorie to be taken for her
father. She knew that no gift coukl possibly please
him as much, and as thex'e was no time to be lost, she
arranged for an early appointment for the sitting.
Marion went with Marjorie to the beautiful studio of
the photographer, where Ada met them by arrangement,
so that she might exercise her taste in suggesting posi-
tions which she considered effective. They amused
themselves while waiting for their turn, by inspecting
the winter photographs of all kinds and sizes ; tobog-
gan parties, snow-shoe clubs and skaters in masquerade.
Ada showed Marjorie a photograph of the last ice
palace, and the plan of the one in progress, which
they could now see beginning to rise like a fairy
palace from its foundations on Dominion Square.
At last the photographer was ready, and the import-
ant process began. Robin was to be in the picture —
Marjorie had quite decided on that — for the photo-
graph was to be to her father a real bit of home, and
Robin was part of that. This complicated matters a
little, for several of tlie fanciful positions Ada had
suggested would not suit Robin's presence at all. At
last Marjorie, tired of trying various positions, sub-
sided into her old favorite one, half-curled up in a
large easy-chair, where Robin sprang to his place at
her side, and the photographer, catching the happy
effect and the right moment, took the photograph
iig<.a/;iM.:^ttat^^
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
147
before either of the sitters realized that it was being-
tried. The result was so good that he declared there
was no use in trying again, as he was not likely to get
a better picture. Robin had not stirred, and Mar-
jorie's position was excellent, and the picture would be
all that could be desired.
Ada was rather disappointed, but consoled herself
by persuading Marjorie to try a sitting once more
along with herself, both in their out-door dress, and as
Marjorie had worn her new blanket ulster and tiiqiie^
which was very becoming to her clear, pale com})lex-
ion, gray eyes and dark curling locks, the two girls
made a pi-etty contrast. This picture was to be Ada's
property, but she generously offered Marjorie some
copies of it for Christmas presents. And Marjorie
thought it would be lovely to send a copy of it to
Nettie Lane and Rebecca — and to Aunt Millie, too,
and then her father would see both.
As they walked up Bleury Street, Ada proposed
that they sliould go in to look at the Jesuits" Church,
which Marjorie, remembering the story which had so
interested her, was very willing to do. This church
possesses no external beauty, being heavy and clumsy
in appearance ; but its interior is gorgeous with rich
tones of color, and its ceiling is charmingly painted in
frescoes of a soft tint of brown. Each compartm.it,
into which the ceiling is divided, contains a separate
subject, most of them being from the life of Christ.
! Ill
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A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
Marjorie was attracted at once by the pathetic picture
of the Good Shepherd ; but by and by Marion, who
had a very appreciative eye for art, drew her attention
to a quaint, realistic representation of Jesus as a boy,
employed in Joseph's workshop, while his mother with
her distaff, was close by. It was a very unconven-
tional " Holy Family," and it touched Marjorie witli its
simple sweetness ; the humble surroundings, the un-
conscious purity and earnestness of the face of the boy,
occupied with the work he had then to do, yet with the
presage in his eyes of other work beyond. It brought
back to her mind the " loving obedience," of which her
father had spoken. As she was standing absorbed in
contemplating it, she was startled by hearing Ada's
laugh, and tones, only very slightly subdued, of gay
chatter near the door. She looked round, rather
startled at this sudden intrusion on the solemn quiet
that had reigned in the church, where a few silent
worshipers were kneeling in prayer, and where the
stillness seemed to breathe the spirit of worship. She
saw that Ada's eldest brother had just come in, and
with him a young man somewhat older than himself,
whose appearance and expression distinctly repelled
her at first sight. They were talking to Ada, and
Dick was evidently anxious to talk to Marion, too, but
she distinctly let him see that she would not talk ^
there.
The spell of the beautiful quiet church was broken
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
149
for Marjorie, and she was quite ready to go, and as
her companions had been waiting for her, they all left
the church.
" I didn't know you were so ' high church,' Miss
Ramsay," said Dick, who kept his place beside Marion
and Marjorie, while his friend walked on with Ada,
who seemed to find him most entertaining, to judge by
the frequency of her merry laugh. " I thought you
were a, good Presbyterian, and didn't believe in paying
respect to Roman Catholic churches."
" I was brought up to respect all churches, Mr.
West," responded Marion, " not for the sake of the
church itself, but of its associations. And as for
Presbyterians, if you had ever learned the 'Shorter
Catechism,' you would know that we are well taught
to respect everything connected with the worship of
God."
" Well, I stand corrected," said Dick. "But you
see I didn't think you would allow that that was
worship."
" I'm sure I saw true worshipers in there,"
Marion replied. " And I think it's a great shame for
Protestants to disturb people who are worshiping in
their own way, and to think they may behave just as
they like, because it doesn't hajipen to be their
church ! "
"That's just what I've heard my father say so
often," exclaimed Marjorie. " He says he used often
150
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
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to feel ashamed of the way tourists behave in churches
abroad."
" Well, when I'm a tourist, as I hope to be soon,
I'll try to be on my good behavior," responded Dick,
good-naturedly. " But you know it was really Hay-
ward there who was the worst of us, and you see he
doesn't believe in anything, except " — and he laughed
— " well, yes, I do think he believes in himself."
" Is he an agnostic, then ? " asked Marjorie; with
great interest.
Dick stared, then laughed a little. " I beg your
pardon," he said. "But I don't think Hay ward's
anything so deep as that ! He just thinks it's no use
bothering about things that nobody can ever under-
stand, and he likes to have a jolly good time wherever
he is. That's why he's here this winter. He's Eng-
lish, you know, and he's just traveling about to
amuse himself. He's a first-rate fellow, though,
awfully entertaining."
That Ada found him so, there could be no doubt.
They were evidently on most friendly terms, and the
coquetry of Ada's manner was not lost on Marjorie, to
whom it was a new development in her friend. She
instinctively disliked the idea of Ada's intimacy with
a man of Mr. Hayward's too evident type, and
Marion strongly shared her feeling. Dick suggested
that they should all continue their walk along Sher-
brooke Street, to see how the new Lansdowne Slide
A SNOW-SHOE TRAxMP.
151
was progressing; but Marion decidedly declined, as
she had a great deal to do at home. So Ada walked
on with the two young men, while Marion and Mar-
jorie hastened home, agreeing as they did so, that it
was a great pity that Ada should see so much of her
brother's fast friends.
"And I know that young man is a very bad com-
panion for poor Dick," added Marion. " He used to
be quite a nice fellow — though he was always very
fond of pleasure — till he got so intimate with young
men who drink and gamble and all that. Because his
father's so rich, they do all they can to get round him
and make him like themselves. I fancy his mother
would be shocked if she could have seen him as my
father has seen him — and brought him home, too, at
night when he couldn't walk ! "
" O, Marion, how dreadful ! " exclaimed Marjorie.
" But doesn't she know at all, then ?"
" I fancy she must know something about it ; but
she has the idea that all young men of spirit are so,
some time or other, and she thinks he'll settle down
by and by. I believe his father is very much put out
about his extravagance and idleness, for I fancy he
doesn't do much in the office. But he is so en-
grossed with business himself, that he has hardly time
to see much of his family, or even think much about
them."
" Well, I'm glad my father's not like that, if it was
152
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
11 !
to get all the money In America I " exclaimed Mar-
jorie, and Marion warmly re-echoed the sentiment.
Wlien they reached the house, an unexpected mis-
fortune awaited them. From the study came sounds
of pitiful sobbing, and when the girls entered it they
found little Effie sitting on the floor in a tempest of
sobs and tears, and beside her the fragments of the
china cup which Marion had been so carefully paint-
ing for her mother, while Norman was trying to con-
sole the mourner, and endeavoring to fit together the
broken bits.
" O, Effie! how did you do it?" exclaimed Marlon;
but poor Effie could not speak for the sobs that shook
her little frame, and Norman had the magnanimity to
confess that it was partly his fault ; that they wanted
tj get a plaything that had been ])ut up on the same
high shelf, and he had been trying to hold Effie up to
get it, when, just as she was taking it down, it dis-
lodged the cup, and then Effie herself had fallen and
bruised her forehead.
It was a great vexation for Marion, but she con-
quered it bravely, and taking Effie up in her arms,
began to examine the bump on her brow, while Alan,
who had just come in too, went to get something to
bathe it with. But Effie only sobbed out :
" I don't mind the bump, Marion ; it's the cup.
Will it mend ? "
"No, dear," said Marion; "I must just try to get
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
153
another done yet. But you know you and Norman
have often been tokl not to try to get things down for
yourselves. And if you had been good, obedient
chihlren, the cup woukln't have been broken."
" O, Marion ! I won't ever, ever try again ! " she
exehiimed, and Norman, standing by silent and rueful,
looked as penitent as she did.
Marjorie thought she loved Marion twice as much
when she saw the motherly sweetness with which she
soothed the still sobbing child, telling her and Norman
that nothing was to be said about the cup to Mrs.
Ramsay, who was out, as of course she was to know
nothing about it till Christmas Day. And she prom-
ised to take five cents from Effie's and Norman's little
hoard of savings, towards the purchase of a new cup,
while Marjorie heroically offered — confidentially —
to take Marion's place in helping Millie to dress a doll
intended for a Christmas gift to Efiie, so that Marion
should have more time for her painting.
And finally, in order to cheer up the two downcast
children, Marjorie offered to do what they had been
daily teasing her to do ; go and take a ride on their little
toboggan, down the very moderate-sized slide the chil-
dren used, in a field close by. So she had her first
expei'ience there, under Alan's supervision, Norman
steering, while she, only a light weight, sat tucked
into the front, making herself as small as she could.
As we all know, it is generally, as the French say,
If ti
f "
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154
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
" le premier pas qui coute ; " and now that she had —
not " broken the ice," but — tried the snow-slide, she
felt as if she could venture another on a larger scale,
with less nervousness and more pleasure than she had
felt before, when looking at the sharp inclined planes
erected for the slippery descent.
" It looks a little dreadful at first," Millie admitted ;
" but every time you go down you like it better. And
when you know just what the toboggan's going to do,
you're no more afraid of it than of skating."
Marjorie had learned to skate a little at home by
her father's desire, and her cousins were going to take
her to the rink by and by ; but just at present there
were too many other things to do, and the skating was
not so much of a novelty as these.
When they got home, just as the tints of a soft
winter sunset were fading out of the pink and amber
sky, Norman ran to tell his mother, as usual, what
they had been doing. " And Effie had a fall and got
a bump," he added incautiously.
" What ! not off the toboggan ? " exclaimed Mrs.
Ramsay, who was always a little nervous about this
sport, though she knew her husband liked the children
to do, within reasonably safe limits, whatever developed
courage and muscle.
" O, no ! it was when the cup — oh, dear, I forgot !
That's a secret, you know, mamma, so you mustn't ask
about it."
A SNOW-SnOK TRAMP.
155
Mrs. Ramsay was quite accustomed to the little
ones' blundering attempts to keep their Christmas
secrets, and she was very careful always to respect
their innocent mysteries, and to avoid tempting them
to untruth by unnecessary questions ; jind indeed
deceit was a thing almost unknown in that household ;
for all knew that it was considered the gravest of
all offenses. So she only smiled a little as Norman
went on :
" It's only a secret, you know, because it's to be a
surprise for you " —
But Millie cut Norman short : " You stupid boy !
can't you be quiet ? It's nothing at all, mother, only
Effie and Norman were playing in the study, and Effie
fell and bumped her forehead."
" Well, never mind, dear, let me see the bump ; and
don't scold Norman. Little boys can only learn by
experience when 'silence is golden.' And I'd rather
have him make ever so many blunders by frankness,
than see him in the least sly."
Effie soon recovered from her fall, the new cup was
bought, and everybody tried to help Marion to get
time to finish it. Marjorie detested dressing dolls as
much as Marion liked it, but she would not let her
cousin touch the one that she and Millie wrestled over
for three whole evenings, after Effie was gone to bed,
till " their baby " became a joke with everybody. For
it was not a task that could be " cobbled up " in a
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A SNOW-SHOK Tit A Ml'.
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hurry. Elitie liad very decided views on the subject of
dolls, and would scarcely have felt jijrateful, even at
Christmas time, for the most beautiful doll whose
clothes were sewed on, since the duty of dressing- and
undressing her doll was one of its «^reatest pleasures
to her motherly little heart. Happily Marjorie had not
any Christmas work of her own to do ; for her father,
who had, even in the hurry of his own departure, pro-
cured appropriate gifts for each member of his sister's
family, had considerately counseled Marjorie to re-
serve them till Christmas, knowing that she would
naturally like to have her share in the general inter-
change of gifts, and that she might be puzzled as to
the selection. So she had these safely stowed away in
her trunk, each in its neat paper packet, inscribed with
the name of its owner, all ready for the Christmas-
tree.
For they were to have a Christmas-tree. Dr. Ram-
say, though he often objected to what he would humor-
ously style "the monstrous regimen of children,"
declaring that everything nowadays was being made
subservient to them and their enjoyment, always felt
that Christmas was more especially the " childrenV
festival," and endeavored to make it a time of real
happiness to his own family. And as he knew that
one of the truest means of happiness is to help to make
others happy, he tried to make this an especial element
of the Christmas pleasures.
A SNOW-SHOE TUAMr.
157
On Christmas Eve, for two or three Christmases
past, he liad given up his surgery for the evening, to
the celebration of the festival and of the Christmas
tree. The boys made a pilgrimage to a place on the
Laehine road, where they had permission to select a
suitable young spruce, which was tastefully decorated
with tapers, bright-tinted ornaments and bonbons.
The childi'en were allowed to invite some of their
young friends, and the doctor invited his young friends
— the children of a number of poor patients, who had
little chance of Christmas presents otherwise, and for
whom small inexpensive, but welcome gifts were pro-
vided by Mrs. Kamsay and Marion. In this way the
little assemblage soon grew to some thirty or forty
children. And besides the Christmas-tree itself, Dr.
Ramsay, with the invaluable assistance of Professor
Duncan, always prepared a little exhibition for their
entertainment. The professor had a large magic lan-
tern or stereopticon for which he had, each year, some
new and original dissolving views prepared. This he
always exhibited for the first time at the Christmas-
tree, interpreting them as he went along, with what
were as good as stories to the children. The year be-
fore he had given them a series of views from Dickens'
Christmas Carol, which had been exceedingly popular,
but ♦^he subject was always a secret from every one but
Dr liamsay, till the evening arrived. The little ex-
fa tion was frequently repeated during the winter for
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A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
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larger audiences at Sunday-school festivals and simi-
lar celebrations ; but it never came off with more zest
and enjoyment — both to entertainers and entertained
— than it did at the Kamsay's Ci ristmas-tree.
As soon as the growing moonlight made it practi-
cable to enjoy going out after tea, Alan and Jack
insisted on giving Marjorie her first lesson in snow-
shoeing, when there would be no spectators — to speak
of — to laugh at her first attempts. They had to walk
some distance to reach a suitable open space at the
eastern base of the mountain, and then Marion's snow-
shoes, borrowed for the time, were carefully strapped
to Marjorie's moccasined feet by the long thongs of
buckskin that tied the network to the fiont part of the
sole, by being interlaced across the instep. Marjorie
was shown how her toes were to rest on the snow itself
through the opening in the snow-shoe, so as to have
the necessary spring for walking, while she was to
take as long steps as possible, putting the foremost
foot well in advance of the other and keeping the snow-
shoes exactly parallel with each other so as not to
overlap, or "interfere," as Alan preferred to call it.
As the snow-shoes she wore were very narrow ones,
she did not find this very difficult after a little practice,
though just at first she got the long narrow points be-
hind interlocked two or three times, the result being
a plunge into the snow, out of which she was pulled
by her cousins, amid much merriment. After two or
i I
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
159
. I
three lessons, however, she could walk quite easily and
lightly over the surface of the deep snow, and Alan
declared that before long she would be able to run as
he did, on her snow-shoes, a feat which appeared to
her almost an impossible one.
Both the boys were quite eager that Marjorie
and Millie should accompany them on their moonlight
tramp in search of the Christmas spruce, an expedition
in which Gerald was to join them. But Mrs. Ramsay
thought an eight mile tramp quite too much for Mar-
jorie in her present state of " training." The boys
were very unwilling to give up the plan, however, and
Professor Duncan, hearing the discussion, declared
that he should like tremenilously to accompany them
part of the way at least, and suggested that the girls
should go just as far as they felt able to manage, and
he would escort them back. And so it was accordingly
arranged. Professor Duncan came to tea, and shortly
after seven the little party set out, carrying their snow-
shoes till they had got into somewhat open ground,
where the snow afforded them a convenient surface on
which to use them.
It was a gloiious night. The moon, more than half-
full, had the biilliancy which only a winter moon can
have — shining from an unclouded sky over a landscape
of dazzling white. Yet the brighter stars, at any rate,
were not obscured, but shone with diamond-like clear-
ness against the deep gray-blue sky. The shadows of
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A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
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the leafless boughs were defined on the pure white snow
as clearly as if penciled on its surface, and the feathery
points of the pines and spruces were more distinct in
the silhouette than in the reality. The air was keenly
cold, but to the snow-shoers it was only bracing and ex-
hilarating. Marjorie felt its subtle influence, and did
not wonder at the high spirits of the boys, as they
sometimes ran races or made little detours across
fences into fields, and sometimes dropped into line and
made little jokes with Professor Duncan. He was in
his most genial mood, too, and entered with spirit into
the " quips and cranks " of the boys, occasionally giv-
ing them an original conundrum suggested by the im-
pressions of the moment, and creating much amusement
when the answer was either guessed or revealed —
generally the latter. By degrees, however, no one
knew how, the solemn beauty of the moonlight land-
scape sobered them into a quieter mood. And in a
similar way, as it often hai)])ened, without any par-
ticular intention, Professor Duncan had got on his
favorite subject : the old days of the French pioneers,
and incidents of the guerilla warfare of those days
which had taken place in that vicinity.
" Well," said Gerald, "I shouldn't have objected to
some of those adventures. The excitement must have
been something to make up for the hardship."
" And what grand times they must have had," said
Alan, ••' when they had the country all to themselves,
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
161
and could go on their snow-shoes all over the woods,
with lots of game everywhere, and nothing to do in
winter but shoot it and keep themselves warm I "
" Yes," said the professor ; " but it wasn't such a
fine thing to come across an ambuscade of Indians
with their guns or tomahawks, and know that at any
moment you might be scalped or carried off to a fate
a thousand times worse."
" No," replied Gerald. " That was the other
side."
" Yes, my boy," the proiessor went on, *' it's very nice
for us to be enjoying ourselves here tramping on light-
heartedly, with a fine clear landscape all about us, and
nothing and no one to make us afraid. But it was
quite another matter to have to stumble along among
the shadows of the great trees and fallen logs, never
knowing when you might hear the crack of an arque-
buse or the heart-chilling war-whoop, or be picked off
without warning by an invisible foe ! Why, do you
know, the colonists at Ville Marie were often practi-
cally prisoners within their palisades, not daring to go
out to shoot game or cut firewood, except in armed
parties as though in an enemy's country, and then pur-
sued back often with heavy loss. And the men got
sick of staying mewed up in their fortifications, and
no wonder, though they got a good lesson when Mais-
<mneuve let them have their way, and then made such
a plucky retreat."
1
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A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
" Was that the one Uncle Norman told me about
in the Place d'Armes?" asked Marjorie.
" Yes. He was a splendid fellow — that Maison-
neuve ; true Christian knight and gallant soldier ! "
" Well, it beats me," said Alan, " to understand
how those people could give up everything else, and
go on suffering all they did, for such a set of stupid,
miserable savages as those Indians were I "
" Ah, my boy ! " the professor replied, " that's one
of the lessons we can learn from only one Master I
We can't understand it till we get some of the spirit
of Him who came to ' seek and save the lost.' Did
you ever realize what the first Christmas meant ? It
was the same spirit, caught from the same source, that
sent Paul to ' fight with wild beasts at Ephesus ' ; the
same that has sent men like fJohn Williams and Cole-
ridge Patteson to give their lives for murderous can-
nibals ; it is just the same spirit that is keeping our
brave Gordon even now, in what might seem to us
little better than a living grave. But men can do
such things only when they intensely believe and
implicitly obey —
' Theirs not to i .sou why,
Theirs but to do or die.' "
"It's strange," said Gerald thoughtfully.
" ' I can do all things through Christ strengthening
me ' said St. Paul. And look at his own roll of heroes
A SNOW-SUOE TRAMP.
163
' of whom the world was not worthy.' ' By faith '
they did these noble deeds. A noble ideal, a grand
cause, and a leader who never fails us — with these
three powers to inspire, men can do anything."
" Fiut the 'grand cause ' ? " said Gerald.
" To follow Him who thought none too low to care
for. 'They that turn many to righteousness shall
shine as the stars forever and ever ! ' Look, Marjorie,
there are some of your Northern Lights." And he
pointed where in the sky to their right, some scintillat-
ing shafts of light were quivering and reaching up
nearly to the zenith.
" They don't show so much in the moonlight," he
said; "but they're there all the same."
Marjorie's thoughts went straight off Southward, and
she wondered whether her father were looking at that
same moon through the boughs of the orange-trees.
No one spoke for a while. Presently Millie re-
marked, falling back a little as she was vigorously
keeping up with Jack : " I want to read all about
those things for myself, can't I, Professor Duncan ? "
" You can and you ought, my dear. It's a shame
they're not far more read among us. Marjorie, we
Canadians owe your Parkman a debt of gratitude for
giving us his graphic pictures of our early past. It
was his volumes that first set me on that track ; and
I've got so enthusiastic that I've been ever since read-
ing up everything I could find on the subject, till now
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A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
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the life of those old times is almost as real to me when
I am walking about here, as is the life I see about me
with my bodily eyes.
" But now I think you two girls have walked about
half as far as you are fit for. Suppose we turn back."
This was of course equivalent to a military order
to turn "right about," for the professor always had
his way when he made up his mind ; so the party
divided ; the three boys proceeding along the quiet
country road, and the professor and the girls taking
their way back to town.
" He's a thoughtful boy, that Gerald," said Pro-
fessor Duncan, as if thinking aloud. " I hope he
won't be spoiled by the temptations of riches, like his
eldest brother and too many of our Montreal boys !
I'm thankful many a time that 1 hadn't a rich father.
It's something sad to see a father toiling away at mak-
ing money, wearing out heart and life in heaping up a
fortune, just to throw his family into the embrace of
the demon of self-indulgence, that I often seem to see,
like a great boa-constrictor, strangling out all that is
noble and manly and self-denying, and making limp,
soft pleasure-seekers, instead of men strong with the
bone and sinew of noble manhood. But I don't de-
spair of Gerald, especially since he has made Alan his
special friend, and sees something better at Dr. Ram-
say's in the way of an ideal of life, than he sees at
home."
A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP.
165
hi
This was so much like her father's way of talking,
that Marjorie felt quite at home and was glad to let
Professor Duncan run on in what was evidently half
a soliloquy, without any attempt to interpose any re-
marks of her own. Millie, too. was unusually silent,
and perhaps both were getting a little tired, when the
sound of sleigh jells was heard approaching them.
As this was of course a common occurrence on that
frequented road, they did not remark it particularly,
till a familiar voice liailed them. Dr. Kamsay had
thoughtfully driven to meet tlieni on coming in from
his evening rounds, suspecting that the girls would not
be sorry to take off their snow-shoes and squeeze them-
selves into his cutter. Marjorie was by no means
unwilling to avail herself of the comfortable sleigh,
and both were soon tucked in among the warm robes.
" Sorry I can't get you in too, Duncan," said Dr.
Ramsay, laughing.
"You know that next to good company, there's
nothing I enjoy more than a solitary tramp, especially
on a glorious night like this. So good-night ! "
And leaving the professor to his own meditations
and the boys to bring home their tree in trium})h, the
girls were soon safely at home, and both so sleepy after
their long walk in the frosty air, that they were quite
ready to follow Mrs. Ramsay's suggestion, and go off
to bed, to sleep soundly till morning.
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CHAPTER IX.
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
Christmas Eve came in apace, and every one grew
busier still as it drew nearer. By dint of great in-
dustry Marion managed to get the second cup finished,
along with all the other things she had on hand, before
the final preparations of cake and pudding making
came on. Marjorie's photograph turned out a very
good likeness indeed, both of herself and Robin ; and
she was in danger of feeling a little more vanity than
she had ever done before when she saw the artistic
and carefully touched picture that had a decided re-
semblance to the portrait of her mother which she
had always admired so much. Robin's photograph,
too, was considered a " speaking likeness," and the
packet was at once put up and addressed to Mr.
Fleming, just in time to reach him, if all went well,
by Christmas Day.
The tree was duly set up, and the children found a
day's pleasant occupation in decorating it with all the
resources at their command.
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SEVEN SCENES FROM CUKISTAIAS TAST.
167
Meantime Dr. Ramsay's poor patients — the Browns
— had not been forgotten. Marion and Marjorie, as
well as Mrs. Ramsay, visited them frequently, taking
little comforts as they were needed. They met Miss
Mostyn there one day, and by her request walked
home with her, and were introduced to her orderly
little house, and to the invalid sister, even sweeter and
sunnier than herself, Marjorie thought, as she reclined
in her invalid chair, her Bible on a little table by her
side, and beside it a basket full of knitted socks, mit-
tens and other warm things that were her own handi-
work. She always sent Mrs. Ramsay a donation for
her tree, and many little hands and feet were warmly
clothed every winter by her busy knitting needles.
She was a kind, quiet counselor, too, for many
troubled hearts ; and Marjorie was so taken captive
by her sweet, tranquil face, full of the peace that
" passeth understanding," that she gladly promised to
go to spend an afternoon with the sisters as soon as
the Christmas hurry should be over.
Gerald was told about the needs of the poor Browns,
and not only gave a liberal donation out of his pocket-
money, but talked to his father about them, till he got
from him a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, which he brought
in triumph to Mrs. Ramsay.
"My father was quite shocked when I told him the
state they were in. He isn't really stingy at all ;
but he's so busy all the time that he hasn't time
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SEVEN SCENES FROM ClllUSTMAS I'AST.
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to think mueli about suuli things," said Gerald apolo-
getically.
" Oh ! I know that very well," Mrs. Kamsay said
kindly. " And it's only when we see what misery is
that we feel as if we must do something to relieve it.
That's why doctors learn to be so charitable," she
added, smiling.
Christmas Eve arrived at last. Gerald and Ada,
who were to be among the guests, came early to lielp
in the lighting up, after the boys liad seen that all the
tapers were securely fixed in their places. They
helped Professor Duncan, too, to get his apparatus in
place ; and Alan told Marjorie and Millie that he
knew what the pictures were to be about this time, as
he had seen some of the slides ; but he wouldn't tell
them beforeliand ; and indeed they were too busy to
mind. For a small regiment of poor children, includ-
ing two of the little Browns, came very early, and the
girls had enough to do in removing the wrappings
with which the mothers had done their best to send
them out warm and decent to " the Doctor's tree."
Then thev had to be amused in the ante- room till the
arrangements were complete, and a little bell rang to
announce that all might enter.
It was a very pretty sight, with its lighted tapers
and brightly gleaming fruits. The children were
seated on little benches, to contemplate it at leisure,
while Marion played and sang some Christmas carols,
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 109
and all joined who conld. Then Alan and Gerald
handed down the little gifts to Mrs. Ramsay and the
girls to distribute, Professor Duncan looking approv-
ingly on, with a kind word or two to each of the chil-
dren. The family gifts were all laid on a little table
in a corner, covered with a cloth, and were not to be
looked at till afterward ; but there was a bag or pack-
age of bonbons for each of the guests, rich or poor,
not forgetting Professor Duncan, who received his
chocolate creams with much gratitude. There was a
little interval for the enjoyment of these, and the in-
spection of the mittens and comforters and dolls,
which last afforded special satisfaction to some little
girls who had never had a new doll before. There
was more music, and then some of the younger ones
were sent home in the doctor's sieigli, made still happier
by buns and cake. And then the more formal enter-
tainment of the evening began.
The lights were all put out except those which
illuminated the large white screen on which the
pictures were to be thrown. When all was ready.
Professor Duncan took his stand in front with his
long wand, while Alan acted as his assistant, and Dr.
Ramsay sat down in front with the rest, to enjoy the
exhibition.
" Now," said Professor Duncan, '*• we are going to
invoke the spirit of Christmas Past, our Canadian
Christmas past, and see something of the heroism and
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170 SEVEN 8CENP:8 KKOM CHRISTMAS PAST.
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endurance which nursed Canada into being. And
first we have Christmas, 1535."
The first scene looked like a view of the Arctic
regions. A deep blue sky threw into bold relief a
landsca})e of snow and ice. A bold, rocky, snow-clad
blutf rose abruptly to the left, while in the distance
ranges of snowy hills loomed as a background behind
gloomy forests of pine. A winding white riband of
ice showed a river channel in which lay three small
antique-looking barks, witli masts, spars and cordage
sheeted with ice and fringed with icicles. Out of
great snow-drifts that half-concealed the barks, rose the
top of a rude fortification of palisades on the shore ;
and from the port-holes in the ice-encrusted hulls (rf
the ships, came gleams of yellow light, the only token
of human presence in all that frozen wilderness. It
was a picture of Nature's desolation, yet relieved by
the signs of human courage and energy and endurance,
giving it a new and pathetic interest.
" Now, who can tell what this scene is ? " inquired
Professor Duncan.
" I know," exclaimed Millie eagerly. " It's Jacques
Cartier's ships at Quebec."
" Right," said the professor. " This picture is in-
tended to give you an idea of the first Christmas
Eve ever spent by Europeans in Canada ; unless, in-
deed, the Norsemen came here when they were in
America in the tenth century, but that point is doubt-
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SEVEM »(JEME8 FUOM (JlliUbTMAS rA8T,
171
ful. But, as I hope you all know, Jacques Carticr
reached Quebec on his second voyage up the St.
Lawrence, on September, 1535, and after visiting
Hochelaga, the Indian village here, he made his winter
(juarters on the St. Charles at Quebec, close to the
village of Stadacona. Well, most of you know what
a miserable winter the poor fellows spent there, shut
up in cheir ice-bound ships, and exposed to cold such
as they had hardly dreamed of before. And then, you
know, to add to their troubles, they were tortured by
that horrible disease, the scurvy, which swelled their
limbs till they became useless, and their throats and
mouths till they nearly choked, and their teeth
dropped out. During that dreary December it began,
and made such havoc that twenty-six died before April,
and only three or four healthy men were left to attend
to the sick and bury the dead in the snow-drifts, the
only way in which they could bury them at all. Dur-
ing that December, too, even the Indians who had
been before so friendly, ceased to visit them, and they
were left in dread lest their friendship should have
turned to hostility. We can fancy, then, how sadly
the thoughts of home and Christmas gatherings must
have haunted their minds and their homesick hearts.
No doubt they made such sorry attempts at Christmas-
keeping as they could, and toasted King Francis and
' La Belle France.^ After a while, however, things
brightened a little. Cartier learned from an Indian that
172
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS TAST.
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a certain kind of spruce contained a cure for scurvy,
and by the time that spring came back to loosen
the ice-h(,un(l streams and gladden the weary hearts,
the survivors began to feel health and hope returning
to their own veins. One thing only T am sorry for
when I think of those brave men and their hard win-
ter: that such a gallant leader as Cartier should have
clouded his fair fame by treacherously carrying off
with him the kind chief Donnacona and some of his
braves, ti » tro])hies to France. That was the darkness
that mingles with the light of his heroism, and it led
the way to sub?^ci|uent failure and disaster.
" And now for the second Christmas. This is
Christmas, 1598."
The rjecond scene represented a moonlight night ;
the sky flecked with wintry clouds, through which the
silver radiance of the moon showed a long, low, sandy
island sprinkled with snow. On its flat and treeless
shores rolled the long, foaming surge of the Atlantic.
In the foreground was a gleam of frozen lake and a
group of rounded sandhills, in the shelter of which
stood an uncouth, clumsy cabin, built of strangely as-
sorted timbers, and banked u}) with bastions of snow-
covered turf. There was no cheerful gleam of fire or
lampliglit in tiiis picture, but a few strange and shaggy
figures, with long beards and furry garments, making
them look very much like bears erect, were scattered
about the foreground ; some watching the distance
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SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
173
from a sand-hill, others strolHng- listless by the shore
of the lake. It was a weird picture, oppressive in its
wildness.
" This is Sable Island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence,"
said the professor, " and these were, so far as we know,
its first human inhabitants, certainly the first European
ones. The aecontl Viceroy of Canada, and the third,
including Cartier, who tried to colonize it, brought
out, for this purpose, a shi})load of convicts ; and as
a precautionary measure, he thought, as he passed
this Sable Island, that he would land there his '' Forty
Thieves," and come back for them when h? had estab-
lished himself safely on the mainland. The forty con-
victs were by no means sorry, at first, to be left for a
time where they were, monarchs of all they surveyed,
and could do just as they pleased. Ther* were cattle
on the island, left there by a French ])aron years
before, and there were seals and svalrus and otter
besides, so that there was no lack of food. There
were plenty of blueberries, too, and acres of cran-
berries in the grassy valley th;it surrounded the
shallow lake in the center. So, for a time, they
enjoyed their freedom, and were very well content.
"• But the months ])assed away one by one, and no
jleam of a distant sail met their watching eyes. They
did not know why, and began to think they were
basely deserted. But the truth was, that when De la
Roche, having chosen a site in Acadia — that i$
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SEVEN SCENES FKO.M CHRISTMAS PAST.
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Nova Scotia — was on his way back to pick up his
' Forty Thieves,' a great storm blew him across the
Atlantic to France instead, and there a duke., who was
his enemy and a rebel against his king, shut him up
in prison, and kept him in it for five years. So
winter came on with its heavy gales and bitter cold,
and the men had to provide themselves with the best
shelter they could. They built a cabin out of the
timbers of the wrecks on it, for this island is called
•• the graveyard of the sea.' But soon they had no
wood to light fires with, and they had to eat raw flesh,
and after a time learned to like it. They replaced
their worn-out clothing with the skins of the creatures
they killed, and collected a great store of furs, which
might be valuable some day. But there was no law
and order among them, and every man did what was
right in his own eyes. So (juarrels arose and murders
followed, and by and by there were only twelve left
out of the forty ; men clothed in fox and seal-skins,
with beards grow.i to their waists, and hair that huag
in a matted tangle down their backs.
" At last De la Roche found means to let King
Henry know of their desertion, and the king sent a
ship to seek them. When tliey saw it outside their
shoals, they shouted and danced like madmen or wild
animals. They were taken back to France with their
store of furs which the greedy sailors at first seized as
plunder. But when they were brought before Henry,
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SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
175
M
m
in their strange grotesque garb, he found out this
robbery, and made the pKmderers restore their treas-
ures. Some of them eventually went ba^.^k to their
island to spend the rest of their lives as trappers in
that wilderness. There is no heroism to speak of in
this story ; but thei-e -is a lesson in it, and that is, that
men, to be truly free, must be free from bondage to
their own passions.
" And now, the third scene is on the coast of — well,
it is so close to the boundary between New Bruns-
wick and Maine, that it is difficult to tell which to call
it, but then it was Acadia. This takes us to a new
century. Tt is Christmas, 1604."
The wild moonlight scene faded off the canvas, and
another, lighted by the last glow of thy j)ast sunset,
took its place. It represented a rock-bound shore, just
wheie a brojid river flowed quietly out into a wide,
curving bay. A long, narrow, snow-clad island, which
divided this river at its mouth, occupied the foreground
of the picture. A thick fringe of cedars surrounded
the island, and at its upper end was a rude fort and
a little surrounding cluster of buildings, rudely fash-
ioned of logs, and built in the foi-m of a square. One
of these was a house of rather im])osing dimensions,
surmounted by an enormous roof. There were other
houses, storehouses, barracks, a long, low, covered gal-
lery and a great baking oven, as also a small rude
chapel, a little apart on a projecting point of rock.
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176
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
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Figures of men in French doublet and hose were
scattered about the vicinity, some hauling up boats
filled with driftwood, others carrying" casks of water
from the boats to the settlement, which was surrounded
with the usual wall of palisades. Here and there
gleams o^ firelight came from the windows that the re-
ceding daylight had left in dusky shadow ; and the
gate of the palisaded fortification was wreathed with
cedar boughs. Beside it stood a graceful athletic fig-
ure, in doublet and hose, api)arently contemplating the
scene, the naturally harsh outlines of which were soft-
ened by the rich tones of the afterglow of the sunset.
" This," said Professor Duncan, " is the ' Ilahitatlon
de St. Crob\'' the first real settlement in Canada, and
if we except the visit of the Norsemen, the first settle-
ment in North America. The figure at the gate is the
noble Samuel de Champlain, true knight and gallant
soldier, who may truly be called the founder and father
of Canada. He had come out in the preceding spring,
with De Monts the new viceroy of what was as yet
only a wilderness, and with the Baron de Poutrincourt,
the first Acadian seigneur. Instead of following Car-
tier and De la Roche up the gulf to Quebec, they
coasted along the Bay of Fundy, and, proceeding
southward, came upon this bay and the island which
you see at the mouth of the river, called by them the
St. Croix. On this bleak, isolated spot they finally
resolved to begin their settlement, probably attracted
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SEVEN SCENES FROM CUKISTMAP PAST.
177
to it by its capabilities for defense in the face of un-
known dangers. Here tliey built the houses you see,
and Chaniplain, always passionately fond of garden-
ing, tried to cultivate a garden in the sandy soil,
but in vain, for nothing would grow. There was
plenty of fish in the sea and river, and the islands in
the bay were alive with' birds. So long as summer
lasted they got on very we\l. Tliey built a mill on
the mainland close by, and sowed there, late in the
season as it was, crops of rye and barley. But when
the summer had passed away, and the rich glow of
autumn had faded out in the dreary gray of winter,
and the biting winds made their way through the crev-
ices of their rude walls, chilling their blood and
benumbing their energies, the wilderness life became a
very different thing. They were thankful for the
fringe of cedars that helped to screen them from the
full force of the eastern blasts, but they had to go to
the mainland, even in the wildest weather, for fuel and
water. Indians, too, came to camp on the island, and
anxiety as to the dispositipn of these* uncanny neigh-
bors compelled them to be always on the watch.
Champlain was the life and mainstay of the exposed
little colon3^ Nothing could daunt his courage or
permanently depress his hopeful, cheerful spirit.
" But a worse enemy than the Indians could have
been stole in among them witjj unseen but fatal
approach. The same terrible disease which had at-
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SEVEN SCENES FJIUM CHRISTMAS PAST.
til
tacked Cartier's party now prostrated the colony at St.
Croix. The little graveyard soon had nearly half of
the band of about fourscore, for its silent tenants ; and
those who recovered were sick with longing to leave
this fatal shore. Chanij)lain alone was undismayed.
But when the balmy aiis of spring returned, and the
snow and ice melted in the warm sunshine, and the
grass grew green at their feet, the weary colonists,
while they sowed the island with grain they were never
to reap, watched the horizon for the returning sail of
Poutrincourt, who had gone to France in the autumn.
At last, one June morning they caught sight of the
welcome white wings in the distance, and hailed with
delight the Breton merchant Pontgrave, with his
jDarty of new colonists, with whom they might now go
to seek a hapjjier settlement.
" And now/' he continued, '* we are going to make a
jump of two yeitrs, and show you a more cheerful Christ-
mas Eve in that happier settlement, Christmas Eve,
160G. You are to suppose yourself in another rude
fortification, of quadianoul^r form, very umch after
the pattern, externally, of the one which is now disap-
pearing ; rather larger, more complete, and fortified
with four bastions, mounted with cannon. The scene
you are to look at now, is the interior of the dining-
hall of the Baron de Poutrincourt, Seigneur of Port
Royal, as this new and flourishing settlement in
Annapolis Basin, Nova Scotia, was then called."
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SEVEN SCENES FKOM CHRISTMAS PAST.
179
The outlines of the landscape faded away into a
bright interior scene, where the mingled glow of blaz-
ing firelight and torches fell on a merry company of
Frenchmen assembled in a large, heavy-raftered dining-
hall, with walls and ceiling of dark wood, throwing
out into relief the faces and figures of the party.
Conspicuous in the group was the noble bearing and
expressive face of the figure they had seen at the gate-
way in the preceding scene ; the figure of the daunt-
less Champlain. He was here under a new aspect,
however. With a gaily-decorated collar surrounding
his shoulders, and a long white napkin hanging down
the front of his doublet, he was advancing at the head
of a procession of fifteen French gentlemen, each
bearing a smoking dish. That carried by Champlain
was a boar's head, profusely decorated with cedar
sprigs. Below the fifteen empty places at the long
dining-table sat an aged Indian chief, with strongly
marked features and a long, snowy beard, Jind with
him several minor chiefs, their heads adorned with
eagles' feathers, who were watching with eager inter-
est the bearers of the smoking and savory viands.
Around the great wide-throated fireplace, in which huge
logs of wood were blazing merrily, sat a motley group
of dusky warriors, squaws and children, wntching, too,
the advent of the feast, with hungry eagerness on their
dark faces. A few dogs crouched beside them, all
evidently deeply interested in the feast about to begin.
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SEVEN SCENES FROM CHUISTMAS PAST.
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''Now," said the professor, "this is Poutrincourt's
(lining-hall at Port Royal, in the days of the knightly
order there instituted by Chaniplain, and called
' //' Ordre de Bon Temps' You know you children
sometimes talk about having ' a good time ' ; perhaps
this is where the expression came from. When the
colonists were happily settled in the beautiful harbor
of Port Royal, begirt with fair wooded hills and flash-
ing waterfalls, Champlain, in order to beguile the
tedium of the long winter, organized this Ordre de
Bon Tempi^^ composed of fifteen knights. Each took
in turn the place of Grand Master, or Steward, signi-
fied by the decorated collar which he retained for one
day, and resigned in the evening, with great pomp and
ceremony, to his successor. His duty was to superin-
tend and provide for the meals of the day, seeing not
only to stocking the larder, but to cooking the viands.
And a goodly supply of viands the}' managed to get,
between their stored previsions and dried fruits from
France, and the game and fish that abounded in the
surrounding country, \enison, moose meat, the flesh
of the beaver, otter, bear, wild cat, and hare, wild
geese, ducks, grouse, and plover, trout and sturgeon and
other fish, caught at sea, or through the ice of a neigh-
boring river, made a variety from which tliey were
expected to have a new bill of fare every day. They
often invited to their table some of the Indian chiefs,
in particular their trusty old friend, the famous
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
181
Micmac chief. Membertou, tlit' aged, bearded man yoii
see heie ; and a beard, yon know, is as uneonnnon on
an Indian as on a priest. Membertou became a pro-
fessed Christian, nnder the teachings of the Jesnits,
when they came later ; and was always a true and
stanch friend to the French. The history of this
settlement of Port Royal, with its vicissitudes of pros-
perity and misfo't'jue, and its tragic ending, is one of
the most fascin;jting episodes of colonial history; but
T must not dwell longer on it now. In the next scene
we follow the fortunes of Champlain, who soon after
had to leave Port Royal, abandoned for a time, to
the rock of Quebec, where, you know, under his an-
spices, two years later began the permanent settlement
of Canada.
" And so we come to Christmas Eve, 1608."'
This scene was again a moonlight one. In its clear
luster, the great precipitous cliff of Cape Diamond
stood out clearly against the dark blue sky, towering
above the strip of beach below, along which ran a
straggling row of wooden buildings. The most prom-
inent was what looked like a cluster of three log-
houses, two-storied, crowded close together with an
added " block house," or rude fortress, surmounted bv
a square tower with })oint('d roof — apparently a dove-
cote, though available for more warlike purposes, the
whole surrounded by a \\A\ of palisades, round which,
again, ran a moat, while cannon were mounted on
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182
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
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platforms commanding the river. Along the shore
boats were drawn uj), some of them evidently Indian
canoes. Through the narrow-paned casements glowed
warm firelight contrasting with tlie cold luster of the
moonli 'ht and the dead whiteness of the snow which
was piled in drifts along the shore, and covered the
frozen river and the distant hills that showed spectral
in the distance. At the open doorway was visible
again the figure of Champlain, who seemed to be en-
gaged in conversation with a group of long-haired
Indians in shaggy robes of fur.
" I don't think this picture requires much explana-
tion," said the professor. " You all know how Cham-
plain, seized with admiration for the commanding
aspect of Cape Diamond, founded Quebec there in
1608. He and his men felled the great trees that
grew along the shore and built the ' iTahitatlon de
Chainplain.,'' which you see there and of which we have
the outlines preserved by his own pencil. And there
he, too, with his men went through the stern experience
of a Quebec winter, more bitter by far than that of
St. Croix or Port Royal. Here, too, he was compara-
tively alone ; for his mercantile companion, Pontgrave,
had sailed for France in Sejitember, and Champlain
was left with his axe-men and artisans. There was
no Ordre de Bon Temps this winter, no gay and
clever Marc Lescarbot, no courtly Poutrincourt with
whom to while away in talk and pleasant reminiscence
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SPA'LN SCENKS FROM CIIHIST.MA8 PAST.
183
the long winter evenings. If the Order of the Good
Time hud existed, its steward woidd have been sorely
put to it to produce any ereditahle dinners, for here
there was little game at hand, and even the Indians,
who depended on their hunting, were often almost
famished. These poor wandering Montjignais laid in
for their winter stores a large supply of smoked eels,
which they left in the keeping of Champlain till they
wanted them. When all else failed, they would come
to the Habitation to reclaim them. One picture gives,
you see, a group of these Indians who have come to
Champlain i)robably to get some of their eels ; and I
fancy that he, always benignant and devout, would sup-
plement this with some more generous Christmas fare
from his own stores. And though they, poor creatures,
understood nothing about Christmas and its sacred
meanings, yet the gospel of human kindness practically
preached, was something they could understand. They
were very much like children, and in Champlain
they always found a fatherly friend. When panic-
stricken by vivid dreams of the fierce Iroquois raids,
they would come in a body and beg shelter within
Champlain's fort ; and he would at least admit the
squaws and the children, while the men kept watch
through the darkness without. At one time, when the
ice in the river was drifting loosely about, a band of
starving Indians tried to cross in their canoes to beg
for food. But the frail canoes were soon ground to
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184
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
If
bits by the floating cakes of ice, to which the Indians,
squaws, chiltb'f^n arcl all, had to take at last and cross
on this precarious raft, which was driven to shore be-
fore the moving masses behind. The poor emaciated
creatures, reduced almost to skeletons, excited Cham-
plain's deepest compassion, especially when he saw
them, after finishing all that the French could give
them, seize and devour the carcass of a dog that had
been lying for months on the snow.
" Besides the visits of these Indians and his writing
and drawing, Champlain had little to break the
monotony of tiie dreary winter life. Trapping foxes
and watching the attempts of the hungry martens to
reach a dead 'log hanging from a tree, seem to have
been the only amusements within his reach, and they
were rather beneath the dignity of Champlain — and
beneath his humanity, too, I think ! But even men
like him are hardly ever quite beyond the spirit of
their times." Professor Duncan stopped for a mo-
ment. Then as if a thought had just struck him and
demanded expression, he went on :
" Only One of all the sons of men ever stood out in
the bold relief of his own pure individuality from
that web of surrounding influences which people now
call ' Environment,' and that was He whose birth we
are commemorating to-night. All other lights not
only shine * in the darkness,' but have their light
mingled with the surrounding darkness.
n
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
185
" And now we are goings to make a leap of more
than a quarter of a century, and visit Quebec again
on Christmas Eve, 1G35. And this scene will be a
sorrowful one."
The picture faded out, but as it did so the outlines
seemed to revive for a few moments, and a change
came over the details. The old Ifahitation gave place
to a straggling village of cabins and huts. Ships were
anchored in the stream, and on the ascending ridge
above the village where now is seen a spacious terrace,
there stood a wooden fort and church with distinct
guns and other fortifications, which Professor Duncan
pointed out as the old Castle of St. Louis. Above,
the stern old cliff still rose in the primitive simplicity
of nature, uncrowned as yet with its martial tiara.
But soon the outlines of this picture faded altogether
and were replaced by another interior jiicture. It
showed a bare and by no means s]>acious chand)er — a
chamber in the fort of St. Louis. On the wall hung
two or three pictures, one of them a portrait of the
murdered King Ilenry the Fourth of Fi ance, the victim
of Ravaillac. Another represented a fair and grace-
ful young lady with much sweetness of expression, in
an almost conventual dress. A tliird was a ])icture of
the Madonna and Child, by an early French or Flem-
ish artist ; while a large carved crucifix hung opposite
the plain camp bedstead. On this lay the prostrate
figure of a dying man surrounded by a group of figures
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186
8EVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
with sorrow in tlieir faces and their attitudes. A tall,
athletic man in the long black cassock, and with the
looped-up hat of a Jesuit, stood close beside the head
of the sufferer, evidently reading the service for the
dying. Officers in the French uniform stood around
the couch. It was obviously the moment of watching
for the last breath of the ebbing life, or shall we not
rather say, for the i)assing forevermore out of death
into life. The effect of the picture, with the subdued
light falling softly on the mournful figures and bowed
heads and pale, unconscious form, was very solemniz-
ing. Professor Duncan allowed his audience to look
at it for a few moments before he began, in a low and
earnest tone, his explanatory remarks :
" Well, I don't think I need say very much about
this picture. It dates just a century after the first
scene. With Christmas Eve, 1635, closed the earthly
life of brave Champlain, who for nearly thirty yearti
had been successively the explorer, the colonizer, the
father of New France, as Canada was then called,
lie had begun by taking possession of it for his master,
the brave King Henry, and he went on for the sake
of old France and New France, too, and with the
nobler desire, growing stronger and stronger, to win
this vast country as the possession of a greater Master
still. In the twenty-seven years that intervened be-
tween this Christmas Eve and the last, he had crossed
and recrossed the ocean many times, and had seen
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHUISTMAS PAST.
187
many changes in the great wiklerness around him.
New France had grown from one or two little settle-
ments in the wilderness, into a colony. Quebec had
grown into a village of nearly two hundred inhabitants,
and its Fort St. Louis sheltered a garrison ; while there
were tradiug-})osts at Tadousac, Three Rivers and the
Lachine Rapids. Champlain had already pointed out
the site of Montreal. He had laid great plans, in
pursuance of which he had made long journeys, and
had, unhappily, embarked in Indian wars. lie had
stood a siege at Quebec with his little garrison, had been
forced to capitulate to the English, but had eventually
received back, for France, the post he had founded and
cherished with so much care and toil. He had brought
out his fair young wife, Hclene de Champlain, the
original of that portrait ; but she, never probably
having really loved the husband provided for her in
childhood, soon grew tired of the exile, even with the
adoration of the Indians, and finally went back to
France to take up the life of a 7'cllr/lcusr, long her
especial desire. But Champlain was devoted to his
life work, and was faithful to it to the last. And now
he was quietly passing away, watclied over by the com-
rades and ecclesiastics with whom ho had worked, half-
soldier, half-missionary, and lia])pily unconscious that
the English colony already growing u]) on the eastern
coast of the continent, re-enforced by the Dutch traders
of Manhattan, was eventually to wrest from France the
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188
SEVEN SCENES FRO>I CHRISTMAS PAST.
rich possessions he had devoted his life to secure to
her sway. And yet, tliough nominally the property of
another power, French Canada, remaining French in
character, in language, in traditions, is even to-day
a monument to the dauntless courage and energy of
the noble Champlain.
"And now," added Professor Duncan, "ycu have
all been very quiet through this long lecture, and I
am getting tired as well as you. You know /hen
I get started on this subject, I never know when to
stop. But we have only one scene now to look at,
and about that I must not stop to tell you much, or
you will all be going to sleep. I will just show it to
you and tell you what it is. And then those of you
who want to hear the story that belongs to it, can ask
me for it at another time.
" Now for tlie seventh and last Christmas Eve from
the Past."
The sorrowful deathbed scene faded away, and in
its stead rose the great trunks and branches of a wintry
forest. Through the leafless boughs an orange sunset
could be seen, the light of which still rested here and
there on the trees and snow. A party of Indians,
principally women and children, were busy setting up
the poles of a wigwam, and covering them with sheets
of birch bark. Some of the men were visible in the
distance, with bows and arrows, and in tlie foreground,
helping in the work of preparing the wigwam, stood
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
189
the same black-frocked figure who had stood in the
last scene by tlie bed of the dying leader. He seemed
to be carrying a large bundle of fagots for the fire to
be lighted in the center of the wigwam. It was a
strange, savage picture, the shaggy skins in which most
of the Indians were attired, and their uncovered heads,
giving a peculiarly wild aspect to the forest see. <e;
while the ecclesiastical dress of the Jesuit made a curi-
ous contrast with the surroundings of the primitive
wilderness.
" The other scenes I showed you," said Professor
Duncan, " have all been connected with tha discovery
and colonizing of our country ; but, heroic as these
memories are, ' they should have, on Christmas Eve
especially, only a secondary place in our hearts. This
picture is one of pure Christian self-sacrifice, endeavor-
ing, in the spirit of its Master, to carry the light of
life into the very midst of the uncomprehending
darkness.
"You remember, some of you at least, that I have
told you of the intense zeal and devotion with which
the Jesuits, and noble ladies and laymen too, under-
took the work of converting the Indians. Pere Le
Jeune, the Jesuit you see here, was one of the first
of these noble and devoted men, who, whatever mis-
takes they made, certainly made none in believing that
their Master's presence would be ' with them alway '
in this labor of loving obedience. He and some of
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190
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
his brethren built a little log cabin on the bank of
the St. Charles, near where Cartier first moored his
ships, which they called * Notre Dame des Anges.^
Here they tried to labor among the wandering bands
of Indians who came their way, and gladly taught all
the children they could collect. But P^re Le Jeune
felt that he got on very slowly in this way, even in the
preliminary work of learning the language. And so
he bethought himself of going to live for a time among
them, as one of themselves, in order to gain a hearing
for the good tidings he had to tell them. He accepted
the invitation of a party of Algonquins to spend the
winter with them, wandering about the frozen wilder-
ness in the search for the game which formed their
only subsistence. What this meant for poor Pere
Le Jeune, what suffering from cold, hunger, smoky
wigwams, and the low savagery of his companions,
you can scarcely realize unless you read his own
graphic and simple account of them in the ' delations
des Jesuitcs.^ If any of you care to hear the story
of this particular Christmas, which he gives there in
full detail, I can give it to you on Sunday evening.
But here is the scene of that Christmas Eve, as he
himself has described it ; the encampment in the even-
ing, after the long day's tramp through the snow,
and little indeed to hope for in the way of Christmas
cheer ! They had started without breakfast, and all
that their hunters could find for supper for the party
SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST.
191
of twenty was — a hare and a small porcupine. * It
wasn't much for so many of us,' niiklly remarks
the good Father, ' but the holy Virgin and her husband
Joseph were not so well treated on Christmas Eve, in
the stable of Bethlehem.'
" And there we must li3ave Pfere Le Jeune for the
present. As I have said, I can tell you the whole
story of his Christmas at another time, and a very
touching story it is ! And now, I think, Marjorie,"
paid the professor, turning to look at her intently
listening face, " that, leaving out of course the wholly
dark picture of the ' Forty Thieves ' on Sable Island,
we might call these scenes of heroic endurance or
heroic effort from our Canadian Christmas Past, a little
cluster of Northern Liglits shining amid the Northern
darkness."
Marjorie smiled back at Professor Duncan, partly
with pleasure at the thought itself, partly at the
memories that the thought calh'd u\).
Dr. Ramsay rose, as he said, to '• move a vote of
thanks," not as a mere form, but from his veiy heart.
" I venture to say," said he, " tliat there isn't one here
who will not hereafter remember something of when,
where and how our Canadian history began. Why
don't people make a greater effort to bring our modem
improvements more fully into the service of education ?
The stage shouldn't monoj)olize all that the age can do
to instruct the mind. And teaching needn't always
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192
SEVEN SCENES FltOM CHRISTMAS PAST.
go on just in the old ruts of dry recitations and mere
mental cram! But \vc all thank you most heartily,
Duncan, for all the trouble you have taken, and 1 hope
these most interesting views will please and instruct
many another audience."
Gerald took the hint from a sign of Dr. Ramsay's,
and rose to say that he had much pleasure in seconding
the motion ; and the vote of thanks was passed accord-
ingly, with great unanimity and much applause.
Then the children from without had all to be bundled
up and sent home, some of those who lived farthest
off, in the doctor's sleigh. Gerald and Ada went too ;
and only when all were gone but Professor Dunc^an,
did the Kamsay family begin to look at their own
Christmas presents. It is scarcely necessary to say
that this part of the progrannne gave general satisfac-
tion, though perhaps, as is usually the case, the presents
given were even more enjoyed than the presents re-
ceived. One of the things that gave most pleasure
all round, was the acceptable gift provided for Dr.
Ramsay by tlw mother and children — a new medical
book that he wanted, and which they had all sub-
scribed to buy. Mrs. Ramsay's fur-lined cloak — also
^ joint stock present — was no less enjoyed by every
body. Professor Duncan was not forgotten, either,
but rejoiced in the possession of a new book of Folk-
lore. And the gifts from New York were much
appreciated by all the recipients.
SEVEN SCENES FKOM ClIltlSTMAS PAST. 11)3
As for Marjorie, she found herself tha possessor of
an ex(!ellent pair of snow-shoes, and dainty Indian
moeeasins to wear with tlieni ; besides other little pres-
ents from eaeli of her eousins, down to a Christmas
card from Norman and a sugar cat from Effie, self-
denyingly saved for the purpose of presentation. But
the most precious gift of all was, by what she thought
a curious coincidence, of which her aunt might have
given some exi)lanation, an admirable photograph of
her dear father, on the back of which was written
below his signature, the text she already loved so well :
" He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness, but
shall have the light of life."
And so this long expected Christmas Eve also
banished into Christmas Past, to the regret of all,
even Effie, though her eyes were almost closing with
weariness. But she declared she would rather "stay
up and be tired, than be sorry afterwards that she had
not staid up." And her only regret was — that inevi-
table one about most of our pleasant things here below,
— that " it was so soon over."
I SI
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CHAPTER X.
1'
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
Christmas Day was a bright pleasant day, not
very cold, tlie sleighing- excellent, and the streets full
of people, driving or afoot, enjoying their holiday.
Marjorie and Marion went to the Cathedral service in
the morning, where they met Ada, her mother and
Gerald, the only occupants of the Wests' pew. Mar-
jorie enjoyed the beautiful service very much, and also
the earnest and appropriate Christmas sermon that
followed, in the true spirit of Christmas keeping. She
involuntarily glanced at Mrs. West and Ada once or
twice, to see how tliey took the preacher's exhortation
to keep the feast in the spirit of love to others, as the
fitting commemoration of the infinite love of God to
men. But neither Mrs. West nov Ada seemed in the
least impressed by it. The mother was wrapped up
in the complacent self-gratulation of her luxurious
surroundings, which seemed to her the chief good in
life, as much as she was wrapped up from the cold
in her rich velvets and furs. And Ada, poor child,
19i
CHKI8TMAH I'KESENT.
195
had never been taught to Iwok on going to church
as anything else than a desirable form — a duty
which ought to be attended to, and never thought
of listening while there, for anything that could
enter as an influence into her daily life. Gerald only
seemed to be really listening, and once or twice
his eyes met Marjorie's significantly, as some of the
preacher's words recalled Professor Duncan's little
homilies.
Ada wished the two cousins to come home with her
to luncheon, but Marion would not leave her brothers
and sisters on Christmas Day, and Marjorie j)referred
to accompany Marion. They walked on together,
however, as far as they could, Mrs. West driving
home alone, as both Gerald and Ada i)referred to
walk. Ada had a great deal to tell them about her
presents — bracelets, books, trinkets, and, most deliglit-
ful of all, the pretty little Swiss watch which she
exhibited to Marjorie with great pride and satisfaction,
and which excited in Marjorie just a little i)angof envy.
A watch was a thing she had so often wanted to have.
But then she remembered that her father had once
told her that by and by, when she was old enough to be
trusted with it, she .'•hould have the precious watch her
mother had once worn, and that would be ever so
much better than any new watch I
But Ada had something besides her own presents to
think of. She drew Marjorie apart as they walked
196
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
;i::
on, and put into her hand a little square paper packet
neatly done up and sealed at the ends.
" There's a little Christmas box from me, Marjorie !
You must wear it for my sake, and keep it to remem-
ber your Montreal Christmas by."
Marjorie was greatly surprised. She had never
thought of Ada's giving her a Christmas gift, and wus
inclined to feel vexed that she had none to offer her.
But she thanked her warmly for the little unknown
present which she put into her pocket till she should
get home. As they walked on together, they encoun-
tered Di(;k West and Mr. Hayward strolling up from
a tour of the French churches, where they had been
looking at the gay Christmas decorations. As before,
Mr. Hayward speedily monopolized Ada, who was very
willing to be monopolized, and Dick West seemed no
less willing to walk by Marion's side, while Gerald
and Marjorie broughl up the rear.
" You ought to go down to see Notre Dame Ca-
tliedral, this afternoon," said Gerald. " You haven't
been in it yet, and the Christmas decorations are always
very elaborate ; they have a representation of the
manger, you know."
" Have they ? " said Marjorie.
"Yes. Won't you go down with Alan and me
this afternoon ? 1 know Ada will like to come, too.
You know you've got to sec the church some time."
. Marjorie thought that if it was anything like the
IB
CHRISTMAS I'KESKNT.
197
Jesuits' cIiiiitIi, slio should like to see it very much, so
the little exp«Mlitiou was iii^reed on before they jnirted.
When sh(^ and Marion got home, she found anotlier
Christmas pleasure awaiting- her ; a letter from her
father and another from Nettie Lane, giving her all
the news from home and full of kind messages from
her old teaeher and all her sehool friends, with Christ-
mas cards from several of them, and, not least accept-
able, from Rebecca, " with love and best wishes for
Miss Marjorie." Her father's letter gave her a de-
lightful account of all he was seeing and enjoying in
her Aunt Millie's Southern honu', where his descriptions
of the warm sunsliine and the flowers were such a con-
trast to her Northern expeiiences. Best of all, his
health had already inn)roved so nuicli under the in-
fluence of the warm climate and the rest and change,
that he declared Marjorie would hardly know him if she
saw him now, for he was really getting fat. There
were a few bright lines from her Aunt Millie, too,
with messages for everybody at Dr. Kamsay's, and a
double portion for Mrs. Ramsay, who had a note from
Mr. Fleming also. It was only when these letters had
been read and re-read that Marjorie remembered Ada's
little packet and opened it. What was her surprise to
find in a neat little box, a beautiful gold locket with
her initials engraved on the back. It was very kind
in Ada to think of it, Marjorie felt, and she had never
<lreamed of her doing so. But though Ada was gen-
11
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198
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
erous enough when she was fond of any one, and
though the presentation had given her no little pleasure,
the idea had been Gerald's and he had volunteered a
contribution towards the purchase as well as superin-
tended the engraving of the initials, but under strict
injunctions that his share in the gift was to be a secret.
Gerald and Ada called for Marjorie, according to
arrangement, and Alan was delighted to go, too.
Near the church they met Professor Duncan, who
undertook to act as cicerone on Marjorie's account.
" You see, you've got to know all about our Mont-
real antiquities," he said good-humoredly ; " and I
know these youngsters don't know half of what they
ought to know about them, so I'll take pity on your
Ignorance.
As they entered the great church — said to be the
largest in North America — Marjorie could not but
gaze in astonished admiration at the long vista of
stately nave with its lofty Gothic arches, the rich
coloring tliat outlined the gallery, the white and gold
that alternated with deep tones of crimson and blue,
the richly carved pulpit, the gorgeous altars, the cruci-
fixes and the large imposing paintings that attracted
the eye. But after the first sensation of magnificence
was past, she felt that what Marion said was true, and
this church, with all its grandeur, wanted the harmoni-
ous beauty that had impressed her in the church of
the Jesuits.
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
199
After they had looked at all the objects of interest,
and the representations of the Nativity, the professor
began to give them his historical reminders.
" You know, Marjorie, that not far from here is the
spot where Maisonneuve, with his friends and Ma-
dame de la Peltrie, about whom you must hear some
other time, first founded Ville Marie. The place was
called Pointe a CaUilre^ and their first place of
worship was a little chapel of bark which was after-
wards rebuilt in wood. But as Ville Marie grew
larger, the church grew too small ; and first Maison-
neuve founded another church on St. Paul Street.
Finally, about forty years after Champlain's death,
they built a much larger one here, and this is its suc-
cessor ; not much more than half a century old. So,
with all 'cs size and beauty, it isn't so interesting to me
as some much smaller and plainer churches. But we
may as well go up to the top of the tower and have a
view of the city from it."
They clambered up the long winding stair, and at
last stood on the loft}' platform, with the city spread
at their feet in the afternoon suni.hine, the mass of
walls and roofs strongly revealed against the white
ground, while on one side rose the snow-clad, pine-
crested " mountain," and on the other stretched the wide,
winding white sheet of river, studded with masts and
hulls and flanked by the distant snowy mountains that
stood out in dazzling purity against the clear azure sky.
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200
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
" There ! isn't that a glorious panorama ? " exclaimed
the professor, when they had taken breath.
"But O, Marjorie ! " said Ada, "it doesn't begin
to be so beautiful as it is in summer ! You mustn't
go up to the top of the mountain till it is quite spring,
and then you will see how lovely it is. It's prettier
than any of the views I saw last summer when I was
away."
But it was pretty cold up there, and though Mar-
jorie was delighted with the view and much interested
in picking out all the streets and buildings she had
already learned to know, they did not prolong their
stay on their airy perch. As they descended, vespers
were beginning and they waited a little to enjoy the
rich deep strains of the organ and the chanting of the
choristers.
To Marjorie, the music seemed heavenly, and she
was divided between the desire to stay to hear more
and the strangeness of being a spectator in a church
instead of joining in the service. They left the
church very quietly, and as they came out on the
Place d'Armes, Professor Duncan told Marjorie that
the great bell, called the "Gros Bourdon " — only rung
at certain times — is one of the five heaviest bells in
the world. The charming chime of eleven bells she
had already heard rei)eatedly, for it is one of the
"features " of Montreal Sundays and holidays, and is
considered the finest on the American continent.
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
201
And now Professor Duncan proposed that they
should junii3 on one of the street cars and go as far
down as the okl Bonsecours Church, since they were
on a sightseeing expedition. They were soon at the
Bonsecours market, and in front of the alley leading to
the old-fashioned little church standing on the old St.
Paul Street — the street of Ville Marie. Then they
walked up to the modern front of the ancient church
with the quaint inscription over the arched doorway,
which none of the younger members of the party found
their French quite equal to deciphering. It runs as
follows :
" Si L' Amour de Marie
En passant Ne T' hnhlie,
Si ton ca"nr est Grave
De Lni Dire nn Ave."
Professor Duncan told them that it meant that the
passer-by was not to forget the love of Mary, but was
to say an Ave to the Lady of Gracious Help.
They passed into the solemn, quiet-toned church, a
complete contrast to the one they had left. The dark
walls, relieved by tablets containing appropriate texts,
beautiful frescoes of the ceiling, the odd, conical
pulpit — all gave the impression of quaintness and
antiquity and solemn repose. A tablet on the wall
near the main entrance coinmemor«ates in French the
name of " Paul Chomedey de Maisonneuve, founder of
202
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
Montreal, and donor of the site of this church." The
name, the spirit of the place, and the sailors' votive
offerings on the walls, seemed to carry the mind back
to those old heroic days of the troubles and the glories
of New France, about which they had all been hearing
so much from Professor Duncan.
"What a pity," he remarked, "that those tablets
are in Latin, instead of being in French, the tongue
' understanded of the people ' here ! Now, boys, here's
a chance for showing what you can do in translating
some of these texts for us."
Gerald and Alan simultaneously translated the text :
" Christ washed us from our sins in his own blood,"
while Marjorie, who was nearest to another one, half-
shyly read, " We have redemption through His
blood."
" Well done, Marjorie," said the professor, " I
didn't know you were a Latin scholar I "
" Oh ! that's very easy ; I only know a little Latin.
My father wished me to learn it."
" That's right ; I wish more girls did."
They went round to the back of the old church and
looked at the weather-beaten stones that had stood so
many years, and been consecrated by so many prayers,
weighted with the burden of many a troubled, sorrow-
laden heart, for is not human nature the same in all
ages and under all outward forms ? And then, having
done due honor to the old church which had seen a
•
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
203
young country grow up around it, they turned their
steps homeward.
When Marjorie and Alan, with Professor Duncan,
reached Dr. Ramsay's dooi, they found Mrs. Ramsay
just setting out in the doctor's sleigh to go down with
some little comforts for the Browns.
" Here, Marjorie," said her aunt, smiling, " I think
you would like to go with me. Alan can drive us, and
then your uncle can stay at home to rest and talk to
Professor Duncan, as I'm sure he will be glad to do,
for he has been out most of the day. You see doctors
can't have a holiday even on Christmas Day ! "
Marjorie willingly squeezed in beside her aunt, and
Alan, perched half on the side of the cutter, soon
drove them down to the narrow street where the Browns
lived, and then drove on to leave a parcel for some
other poor patient, while Mrs. Ramsay and Marjorie
went in.
It was a m'^ch brighter scene, already, than on
Marjorie's first visit. The mother was able to be
about, and the table was comfortably laid for the
evening meal. The father was sitting up in bed, sup-
ported by pillows, watching with an expression of
affectionate pleasure, the baby laid beside him, gently
cooing to itself. The other children were amusing
themselves happily with the toys they had received
the evening before ; the boys with a little Noah's
Ark, the girl putting her doll to sleep, as she had
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CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
seen her mother hush the baby. The poor man
smiled grat(*fully as Mrs. liamsay wished him a
happy Christmas.
" Indeed, mem, it's been that, an' I never would ha'
thought I could have been so content lyin' here. But
you an' the doctor's been that good to us, I'm sure
we've much reason to thank the Lord for his mercies.
You see I've got my doll liere," he added. " I was
tellin' Jenny there I wouldn't give it for hers, that
she's hardly had out o' her hands since she came back
last night, so full of the Christmas-tree an' all the
things she saw, that she could hardly stop talkin' about
them, even in her sV^ep."
The poor man was evidently glad to get an oppor-
tunity of pouring out the pent-up gratitude he had
been feeling all day ; and his wife, though ' quieter,
seemed no less cheered and strengthened by the kind-
ness and symi)athy that had been shown to them. It
was a pleasant little bit of Christmas brightness, even
for Mrs. Ramsay and Marjorie, to see how much
Christian love had gladdened that poor home and its
inmates.
The rest of the Christmas day passed swiftly and
pleasantly enough for Marjorie. When she and Mrs.
Ramsay drove home in the gathering dusk, it was a
picture of Christmas comfort to see the family group
in the drawing-room gathered about the bright coal
fire. They had dinner late — an unusual luxury ; for
CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
205
Dr. Ramsay thought an early dinner best for his chil-
dren, whom he liked to have about him when he was
at home. Besides Professor Duncan, there were one
or two young- men, away from home, and one lonely
school friend of Marion's ; for both Dr. and Mrs.
Ramsay liked to gather the homeless about them at
Christmas time.
Before dinner there was both merry and sober talk,
and a little music. After dinner, which was a plain,
good, substantial Christmas dinner — including, of
course, an orthodox pudding, brought in blazing with
the traditional blue flame, to the unbounded delight of
Norman and Effie — there was more music and a merry
round game. And then the professor was asked by
Dr. Ramsay to give them a reading of Dickens' Christ-
mas Carol. This, as it happened, Marjorie had never
read, and it was a rare treat, not to be forgotten, to
hear its humor and its pathos both so sympathetically
rendered, as Professor Duncan gave it to them.
He did not of course read the whole, but his selections
gave them at least the cream of that most charming of
Christmas stories. Jack and Millie went into fits of
laughter over the Cratchits' Christmas dinner, and
especially over the " two young Cratchits," who, every
one said, exactly corresponded to themselves. Tiny
Tim — well, who that ever hears or reads the story
does not love Tiny Tim, and pray that he might live ?
It seemed as if the little family picture Marjorie had
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206
CHKI8TMA8 PRESENT.
seen that afternoon made her more able to enter into
the spirit of the " Carol." And when Professor Duncan
ended with the concluding words, " And so, as Tiny
Tim observed, God bless us — every one ! " it seemed
to her a most appropriate ending for a wonderfully
happy Christmas Day.
CHAPTER XL
:.'i
PERE LE JEUNE8 CHRISTMAS.
When Professor Duncan arrived at Dr. Ramsay's
on Sunday afternoon, he found an expectant little
audience awaiting- him there. Gerald had specially
requested that the professor should not be asked to
tell the story until Sunday, in ovCx^v that lie might be
there to hear it ; and Ada, who was always glad to
avail herself of any o})portunity of being with Mar-
jorie, had willingly accepted the invitation to come to
hear it, too. Millie was delighted at the prospect of
a " quite new " story, and Norman and Effie were re-
joicing in the hope of bears and other wild beasts
being in a story that was " all out in the woods." So
the professor did not get any peace to talk, even about
General Gordon and the slow progress of that relief
expedition, on which the eyes of the civilized world
were just then earnestly fixed ; so many reminders did
he get about the tale he had promised to tell.
" Well," he said, " my heart seems full of Gordon,
and I think a good many of our hearts are heavy
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PEKE LE .TEUNE 8 CHRISTMAS.
enough about him just now ! But it oughtn't to be a
long stop from (ioitlon to Pere Le »Ieune ; for the
cauHe was tlio same, and tlu; two men were actuated by
the same spirit: the spirit that makes East and West,
Frenehman and Englishman, I'rotestant and Jesuit
one in serving the same Master ami doing his work I "
"Yes, indeed," said Dr. Kamsay ; ''-the hmger I live
the more 1 am persuaded that that is the only center
of unity, the only true uniting force."
'•" But we nuistn't keep these young folks waiting
for the story. 1 know, when I was their age, I wasn't
so fond of morals as 1 am now, and it's rather hard to
have it put at the very beginning instead of coming
orthodoxically at the end," said the professor, with a
smile at the expectant faces about him. And then he
stretched himself out in his easy-chair, with one arm
about Effie, who had perched herself on the side of it,
and began his story, looking into the fire in a dreamy
way, as if he were looking at the shadows of the things
he had to tell.
" I told you then," he went on, " how this Pere Le
Jeune and the brethren who were with him, had estab-
lished themselves at their rude little mission-house of
Notre Dame des Anges, where in winter the intense
cold so penetrated the crevices of their log-built walls,
that even the great blazing fires they kept up in their
wide fireplaces would not keep their ink from freezing
unless it was kept close to the fire ! It was well for
rEUE LE JEUNE 8 CIIKI8TMA8,
209
I
Pt-re Le Jeune that he had this preparatory tiaiiiin;;'
for his next winter.
" Jle and his comrades were working away, trying
to get some knowh'dge of tlie Indian hmgnage from a
ras(5ally Indian wiio had been taken over to France,
where he had been baptized and liad got a little sur-
face scratching of Christian instruction, with probably
a good deal more inoculation of civilized vices — an
awful misnomer that, by the way ! This Indian's
name was Pierre, and you may as well remember it,
as he is a prominent figure in the story.
" Besides learning all he could from Pierre, whom
he used to bribe with tobacco when he began to get
tired of his task of instructor, Pere Le fleune got
two little children to teach, and was so happy in
teaching them the catechism and the Pater JVoster in
Latin, that he declared he would not exchange them
for the most cultivated audience in France. And when
the wandering Indians would come to encamp in the
neighborhood, he would stand at his doorway, ringing
a bell, as his brother St. Francis Xavier did at Goa,
till he had gathered about him a little assembly whom
he would teach as best he could, giving them a porrin-
ger full of peas when they had said their lessons well,
to make them want to come again. As soon as he was
able, he translated the Catecliism and the Lord's
Prayer into Indian rhjnies, for you know he had no
hymns for them, and it used to give him the greatest
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PERE LE JP:UNE S CHRISTMAS.
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pleasure to hear the little redskins singing through
the woods, tliesc; rhymes that he had taught them.
" But he got on so slowly, in spite of all his efforts,
that he thought lie must try another plan to get
nearer to these Lidians whom he wanted so much to
persuade to become servants of Christ. And for this
end he determined to cast in his lot for a whole winter
with one of the wandering band of Algonquins who
used to roam about in search of prey on the shores of
the Lower St. Lawrence and through tlie rocky wil-
derness around tlie sources of the St. John. Another
Jesuit Father — a good man named Pere De None, of
whom T may tell you another time a very touching
story — had gone to stay for a few weeks with such a
hunting party, some distance below Quebec, and had
come back half-dead with cold and semi-starvation,
which was not encouraging for Pere Le Jeune ; but he
was a stronger man, and thought he could stand it.
" So one lovely day in October when the soft Indian
summer sun was lighting up the glowing woods, Pere
Le Jeune embarked in one of the Indian canoes and
bade farewell to his anxious comrades and to his friend
Champlain. He took with him a little store of bis-
cuits, beans and otlier things of the same kind ; and
his friends, being of St. Paul's mind, made him take a
little keg of wine, in case of need. This wine, how-
ever, proved rather a troublesome gift at the very out-
set ; for at their first camping-place on a beautiful
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PERE LE JEUNE S CHRISTMAS.
211
im
island in the St. Lawrence, Pierre managed to get
hold of it, and drink enough to make him a raving
madman. That night })oor Pere Le Jeune had to
spend, hidden from this vvreteh, in the woods, on a few
leaves spread on the ground — ' a bed,' he quaintly
remarks, ' whieh had not been made up since the crea-
tion of the world.' "
" I think that would be jolly,'' broke in Norman,
with sparkling eyes.
" Wait till you try it, my boy ! " said his father.
" It's well Pere Le Jenne doesn't seem to have been a
rheumatic subject. I hope he had ii blanket ! "
" He had his cassock," replied the professor ; "■ and
a kind squaw covered him with a sheet of birch bark.
" Well, that was the beginning, and things went on
in much the same way. Pierre was the only interpre-
ter that the poor father had, and as yet he knew but
little Algonquin. Pierre's brother, who was called
Mestigoit, was the chief of the party, and very
friendly to Pere Le Jeune. There was a third brother
who was an Indian sorcerer, and who, being jealous
lest his own influence should suffer, did all he could to
oppose and annoy the Jesuit, while Pierre, as might
have been expected, was but a broken reed.
" The party traveled in their canoes from one
point to another, so long as the weather continued
mild, seeking fish, birds and other game. Sometimes
a storm threatened their frail barks, and sometimes
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PERE LE JEUNE S CHRISTMAS.
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It '/
they would be half-starved while weather-bound on
an island. At last they had to lay up their canoes,
and take to tramping on foot through the savage wil-
derness, over swamps, through streams, across rocks
and morasses and fallen trees, encamping for a time
where game could be found, and then marching on to
a fresh hunting ground. As tlie cold grew keener and
the snow began to make the footing more treacherous,
the good Father's experiences became harder still.
When they stopped at night, after a long day's tramp,
he was fain to keep himself warm by helping the
squaws to cut their poles and set up their wigwams, as
you saw in the picture, while the hunters went off to
try to find a supper.
" The wigwam was made by digging out a circular
space in the snow, making an embankment round it,
in which the poles were planted. These were covered
with sheets of birch bark, while a curtain of bearskin
hung over the doorway. An opening was left in the
roof abovti the central fireplace, to let the smoke out,
and for bedding, the ground was coveretl with hemlock
boughs. As you may suppose, the smoke did not all
escape by the hole in the roof, and the birch bark walls
did not keep out much (jold ; so they had to light
o'reat hot fires in the center, and Pere Le Jeune d'^
not know which was the worst, the fire that half-roasted
liis feet, the keen, piercing cold that penetrated the
ci'evices in the bark walls, or the smoke that often
PERE LE JEUNE's CHRISTMAS.
213
made his eyes smart so much that, when he tried to
read his breviary, it seemed written in letters of blood.
" One other annoyance he tells us about very naively ;
that was the Indian dogs that followed the party,
and would seek to share his bed at night or wake him
up by careering over his body in search of a stray
morsel or a bone. The first he did not so much mind,
as the animal heat helped to keep him warm, and as
we know he had no warm coverings for his couch of
hendock. But the worst of all was, that sometimes for
days together, tlie hunters could find no game, and as
Pere Le Jeune had long since divided liis own little
store with his famishing companions, they were left at
such times with nothing to stay their hunger. At this
Christmas time we are speaking of, the smaller game
was very scarce, and there was not yet snow enough
to enable them to hunt the moose on their snow-shoes
— their chief dependence in winter. On that })articular
Christmas Eve, ns I told you, they had started without
breakfast, and for supper they had to divide among
twenty, only a small porcupine and a hare. But as I
said, the good Father thought, not as he might have
done, of Christmas feasts and wassail bowls in France,
but of the two poor wayfarers in the stable at Bethlehem,
who, perhaps, he said, were not so well treated as he I
" I like to picture the good man to myself, that
evening, leaving the noisy chatter of the smoky wig-
wam, where the Indians added to the smoke of the
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214
PERE LE JEUNES CHRISTMAS.
5!''!''
fire that of the long pipes, whieli at such times were
their only solace. I like to picture him going out to
meditate in the dark, silent forest, under the light of
the Christmas stars, where the only sound that broke
the stillness was the cracking of a bough in the keen
frost, or the dropping of a twig on the hard crust of
the snow. I like to think of the diamond points
of the stars, and tbe soft quivering streamers of the
Northern Lights gleaming through the giant arms
of the forest-trees, lighting the darkness, and drawing
his thoughts from perhaps dreaming of gorgeous
Christmas services in great cathedrals, to that simpler
but more solemn scene under the open Syrian sky,
when the ' glory of the Lord ' shone round the shep-
herds keeping their watch by night. Was he not
himself like a shepherd watching over his wandering
sheep, or better, Marjorie, a ray of the Northern
Lights shining in the darkness and waiting to see it
dispelled by the full light of the ' Star in the East,'
and the ' good tidings of great joy which should be to
all people ' ?
" And then I can imagine him, cheered and re-
freshed by' such thoughts as these, making his way
back to the little camp, where the two wigwams that
sheltered the party were visible by the light that
streamed through the crevices of the birch bark, from
the fire within. Lifting the bearskin curtain, he would
enter the smoky atmosphere that made his eyes smart
[|i
PERK LE JEUNE S CHRISTMAS.
215
■t
with pain. Then he woukl make his way hy the light
of the red glowing* pine knots, among the prostrate
forms about him, of men and women, children and
dogs, till he found a couch on tlie bed of hendock
boughs, where, lying down, he could still see the stars
through the opening overhead. By and by, as he was
dozing off to sleep, he would feel a weight laid on his
body, or a cold nose close to his face ; telling him
that one of the rough, shaggy dogs was thus trying to
find a warmer corner, nor was the additional warmth
it afforded him unwelcome. And then he no doubt
thought again of the stable at Bethlehem, where dumb
creatures shared the first shelter of Him whom the
wise men from the East came to worship as a King.
" Christmas Eve passed into Christmas morning, and
the half-benumbed sleepers arose, but not to Christmas
comfort or Christmas clieer. They could make up the
fire and keep themselves warm, but breakfast there
was none, nor any hope of it, for even the bones of
last night's feast had been devoured by the hungry
dogs. The hunters took up again their bows and
arrows and set out on a fruitless quest. The emaciated
squaws sat silent and depressed, or soothed the hungry
babes, while the older children tried to forget their
hunger or bear it with a grave endurance worthy of
little ' braves.' When the good Father repeated his
Pater Noster^ he dwelt with greater fervor than usual
on the petition, ' Give us this day our daily bread,' and
ill
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PERE LE JEUNE's CHRISTMAS.
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'
he would fain have directed the famishing creatures to
Him wlio hears the young ravens when they cry. But
he knew too little of their language yet, and the
wretched Pierre would give him no help; indeed
seemed, as he says, ' possessed by a dumb spirit.' So
he could but pray for them as he wandered through
the forest, trying to api)ease with what he could find
there, the cravings of hungdr, which, as he says, makes
the wolf come out of the forest, but which drove him
farther in, seeking the buds of trees, which he ate
'with relish.' And then he found some strips of deer-
skin, such as you have for straps to your snow-shoes,
which the dogs would not touch, but which made his
Christmas dinner, and which he gratefully called ' good.'
" There was nothing more for hini or any one else
that day. In the evening he went to visit the other
cahcme, as he calls the wigwam. He found things
there much the same as in his own. The young hun-
ters who had been out all day, were sitting weary and
dejected by their lack of success, and the gloomy pros-
pect of starvation. The good Father was ' touched to
the heart ' by their despair, and tried to speak to them
some words of consolation, some hope of better things ;
iiiid then returned to his own wigwam to pray for those
wi?o could not pray for themselves. The renegade
I'ieiTe, probably through seeing him thus employed,
»\ as moved to ask ' what day it was ? ' Pere Le tTeune
replied that ' to-day was the feast of Christmas.' I
PERE LE JEUNE S CHRISTMAS.
217
suppose that some memory from his past life must
have iiioniL'iitaiily touched the wayward heart of the
' apostate,' as the father ealls him ; for he turned to
his brother, the half-erazy ' soreerer,' and exphiined to
him that thattwas the day when Jesus, the Son of God,
had been born. Noting the surprise of the '■ sorcerer,'
Pere Le Jeune spoke to him of the goodness of God
who couhl and woukl give them the help they needed,
if they would ask Ilim. Pierre was silent ; for once he
abstained from contradietion. Pere Le Jeune seized
the favorable moment to ask him to translate for him
into the Algonquin language, two i)rayers, the one to
be said by the Fatlier himself, the other by the Indians.
Pierre was willing, in the extremity of their need, to
try anything that might possibly bring relief. Aeeord-
ingly the two i)rayers were at onee dictated by the
Father, and translated by Pierre, wlio agreed also to
act as interpreter on the morrow ; and then commend-
ing the matter to his Lord, according to his wont, tlie
Father lay down to sleep, hoping for good to come out
of evil.
" Next morning, with siu'h small resources as he
could command — a crucifix and some pictures from
his breviary — he arranged a little oratory which he
thought might impress the savages. Then he assem-
bled the whole of the party and addressed them, mainly
by the mouth of Pierre, to whose interpreting he did
not care to trust himself altogether. Lender these
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218
PERE LE .TEUNES CHRISTMAS.
difficulties he explained to them, in the simplest lan-
guage, that he was forced by the extremity to speak
to them ; that it would be their own fault if they were
not succored ; that God was goodness itself ; that
nothing was impossible to him, and thai even though
they had rejected liim, yet, if they would now truly
believe in him and hope in him, he would not refuse
to hear. And as the poor starving savages had now
lost hope in their bows and arrows, they were glad to
catch at what he offered, and promised to do whatever
he might command. The Father, rejoiced at this, read
the prayer he had written for them, asking them if
they were willing thus to pray to his God with true
and sincere hearts. They all exclaimed, ' We are will-
ing ! ' They then followed the example he set thorn
by falling on their knees with uncovered heads. Then
all joined hands and raised their eyes to Heaven,
while Pere Le Jeune repeated in Algonquin a simple,
earnest prayer, asking Him who has promised to hear
and answer prayer, to give food to these poor people,
promising, on their behalf, that they would believe
in Him and obey Him from their hearts, and ending
by saying, ' de hon cop.ur^ as he tells us, that he him-
self was willing to die that they might live,, and that
they might know Him too.
" But his host, Mestigoit, touched by these words,
begged him to take them back ; for, he said, *we love
thee, and do not desire thy death ! '
PEKK LK .lEUNES CIIKISTMAS.
219
" But Pere Le Jeiine replied, ' I wish to show you
that I love you, and that I would gladly give my life
for your salvation, so great a thing is it to be saved ! '
" Then the Indians joined hands, and, kneeling as
before, they repeated after him the prayer he had (mjui-
posed for themselves. In this prayer they solemnly
promised that if God would give tliem food, they would
henceforward believe in him fully and obey him en-
tirely, and asked him who had died for them to help
them to believe in him i)erfectly. Even Pierre and
the '• sorcerer ' joined in this prayer, the F'ather re-
marking, 'It is for God to judge their hearts.' Then
the hunters went to the chase cheered and hopeful.
" The results justified the good Father's faith.
Several beaver were caught from a dam which had
previously been abandoned. I am sorry, boys, I can't
tell you how they were caught, for Pere Le Jeune
doesn't tell us, though he saw onr captured. I don't
care either to kill things or to see them killed, myself,
but if ever a man might be excused for being glad to
see a poor animal taken, Pere Le Jeune might, then I
They caught a porcupine, too ; and even a moose-deer
was brought home in triumph — an unex})ected prizt.'
when there was so little depth of snow, f^ach of the
hunters had taken something, except Pierre alone.
" As they brought in their game, Pere Le Jeune met
his host with outstretched hand and full heart. Mesti-
goit joyfully recognized the help that God had sent
t
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220
TKUK LK .1 KINKS (HUISTMAS.
and inqnirtul what tlu;}' must now do. Perc Le Jeune
replied that they must tliank (lod who had lielped
them. ' And wherefore, indeed?' exehiimed the in-
eorrigibh' Pierre ; a(hlin<^", ' We sliouhl have found this
well enou<;h without his help I '
" Poor Pere Le fleune felt tlie reekless words like ' a
poniard stroke,' for lie well divined what tlunr effect
would be. Still, however, Mesti<;oit seemed desirous
of following the instructions of Pere Le fJeune, and
would probably have done so but for the strong oppos-
ing influence of the vsorcerer.' A feast was of course
immediately prepared, and the Father attended it in
order to lead the hearts of the savages to recognize
God's goodness, and return thanks for his help. But
just as he was about to do so, Pierre, who was angry
that he had taken nothing, and had refused to act as
interpreter, rudely interru])ted him and insolently or-
dered him to be silent, Pere Le Jeune said that he
would not, for if l*ierre was ungrateful, the others
were not so.
" But the ' sorcerer,' jealous for his own influence
and now freed from his fear of starving, exclaimed :
' Be silent ! thou art a fool ! This is not the time to
talk, but to eat ! ' Pere Le Jeune, in distress, asked
him if he had not eyes, if he did not see the good hand
of God? But he would not listen and the others were
too submissive to his influence even to speak. And
so the feast proceeded, and, without any thanksgiving,
1
PERE LK .IEUNE8 ClIlilHTMAH.
001
the Indians fell upon their prey like ravenous animals,
'like swine,' as he says iiiniselt", '<lev()uriny their acorns
without any regard to the hand that feeds thenu'
'* It was a terrible disappointment. lie had re-
joiced so nmch over the answer to his prayer, and had
hoped so much from the result, i^ut all he says is :
» Tliey were filled with content, I with sorrow. But it
must be left to the will of God. This people's time is
not yet come ! ' "
" Poor Pere Le Jeune I " exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay ;
" and yet why should we say ' poor ' ? a man so ri(di
in faith and Christian patience is to be envied rather
than pitied I "
" I should like the people who doubt whether these
Jesuits were Christians, to hear that story," said Dr.
Ramsay. " How bigotry (tuts the roots of Christian
kinship. That was about — when, Duncan? I'm no
good at dates."
"Nor I, generally," he replied. "But some 1
never forget. That was in the year 1G83, two years
before Champlain's death ; and Chami)lain died, you
know, exactly a hundred years after Jacques Cartier
landed at Quebec. There's a small mnemonic system
for you ! And by the way, it was just about that
same time, that a Jesuit going to Scotland, to convert
your forefathers — and mine too, for that matter — was
hanged in Edinburgh for his zeal, by ' that sanctified
Derson,' King James ! Think of those two extremes,
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PEHE LE JEUNE'S CIIHISTMAS.
I
ono of tlio brotherhood going to the enlightened Soots,
and the other to the savage Indians, and botli, alike,
taking their lives in their hands ! "
" Well, we Presbyterians at any rate have no reason
to bless King .lames ! " said Dr. Kanisay, with u
slight smile ; *' yet there might have been souk; little
excuse for him, for, if I mistak(; not, it was about that
same time that others of that same brotherhood were
instigating the eruel persecution of the Moravians, the
butchery and exile of men, women and children, for
the same ' greater glory of God I ' "
" True enough !" replied the professor. " Such havoc
does human bigotry and eccJesiasticism ma^e of tho
pure Gospel of Love I There have been queer things
done in the name of Christianity ; and not a few by
f Jesuits. But let us be glad of the noble things that
have been done in the same name, in true following of
Christ. We mustn't forget the light in thinking of
the darkness I You were speaking of Gordon as
showing the same spirit with Pere Le Jeune. And
those eleven young Cambridge graduates, led by Wil-
liam C. Studd, of whom I was reading the other day —
that's worthy of a heroic age, too ! Think, Alan and
(xerald, of a Cambridge honour-man and athlete leav-
ing all his English ambitions behind him, and going to
China to devote his life to a people whom too many
professed Christians regard as the very scum of the
earth, not to be allowed to contaminate this Western
rKKK LE JEUNES CIIUIST.M AS.
223
continent ! No wonder such a niiin makes other fel-
lows listen to him, in tlie e<)Ilej;(*s, wlu'iever he goes !
"Yes," continued Professor Duncan, "-the spirit
that sent Pere Le .Jeune to cany light into the dark-
ness, isn't dead, nor ever will die ' Lo, I am with
you alway ; ' and it's true."
Gerald and Ahm h)oked very thouglitful, and j\Iar-
jorie sat listening with intense interest. J^ut hoth she
and Millie wanted to know more ahout Pere Le .leune,
and Jack re-echoed Millie's eager incjuiries :
'' Did he get safe home? How did tlicy get on the
rest of the winter? Did he convert the Indians after
all?"
" The rest of the winter was mucli like what I have
told you about in tlie beginning," said the j)rofessor ;
"•but although they heard of people starving to death
around them, they seem never to have been in (piite
such despair again, though things looked (hirk enough
at« times. After the snow grew deei)er tliey had no
more scarcity of food, for tlien, on their snow-shoes,
they could catch as many elks as they needed. But
the traveling was something terrible I Pere Lii Jeune
went up nearly to tlie top of one mountain, 'armed
with horrible rocks,' from which, they told hiin, under
a clear sky he could have seen at once Quebec and
Tadousac ; and he shuddered to look at the wild ex-
panse of hills and precipices and rocks, tlirougli whieli
his party had to make tlieir way, carrying witii tiiem
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PERE LE JEUNE 8 CHRISTMAS.
i- 1--
their luggage, sueli as it was. When they had to take
to dried meat, he became ill from the laek of other
food, and was laid up for three weeks, during which time
he had nuu'h to hear from the sneers of the ' sorcerer,'
who deteste(i him, and who would have insisted on his
carrying some of the i)aggage when weakened by ill-
ness, if Mestigoit had not interfered and taken it on
his own sled — a sort of tobog<xan. It was well that he
was able to join in the march when necessary, for the
aged or feeble members of such a party were some-
times killed when unable to walk further. Pere Le
Jeune must have been glad when, at the end of Janu-
ary, the party turned their faces in the direction of
Quebec ; and still more thankful when, in March, the
' sorcerer ' and Pierre left the party to go on before
them to the St. Lawrence.
" At length, eaily in April, the party, including Pere
Le Jeune, reached the river and end)arked once more
in their boats. As the Father was still weak and ex-
hausted, Mestigoit undertook to convey him, with
Pierre, to Quebec in his own canoe. They had a
stormy voyage, and a hair-breadth escape from destruc-
tion by the floating ice. At last, on a tempestuous
moonlight night, they came in sight of the rock of
Quebec ; but masses of floating ice lay between them
and the shore, lined with piles of the dislodged ice.
Mestiffoit shot his canoe adroitly throusih the drifting;
cakes, and reaching the vdixo. of that which was still
PERE LE JEUNE 8 CHRISTMAS.
225
firm, managed to get Pere Le Jeuiie safely up upon
the fixed ice, six feet above the water. We can well
imagine how thankfully the weary Father must have
made his way, at tliree o'eloek in the morning, to JVotre
Dame des Anges^ and how gladly his anxious brethren
must have opened to his knoek. Kenieniber, they had
heard not a word of him for six weary months, and
did not know whether he was alive or dead, till then! "
" Thank you for the story, Duncan," said Dr. Ram-
say. " It makes me wish that I had time to read up
these things, as you have. It is better than a sermon ;
for it's a sermon and a tonic in one."
" What's the text of the sermon. Uncle ? " asked
Marjorie, who had been thinking of her father's
comments on the story of the Northern Lights.
"The text? Well, it might have more than one
text, I think. What's your idea, Marjorie? for I'm
sure you have one."
" Oh I it made me think of something my father
said once about the text, ' The light shineth in dark-
ness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.' For
you see the Indians didn't comprehend him, did
they ? "
" No ! that's not a bad idea, Marjorie," said the
professor. " Certainly they didn't comprehend much,
poor creatures. And Pere Le Jeune has no conver-
sions to tell of on tlir.t i)ilgriniage. But yet, even the
ignorant can feel where they can't comprehend ; and
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PERE LE JEUNE S CHRISTMAS.
I think such an example of self-sacrificing love could
scarcely have been lost altogether, even on them. I
don't doubt that its fruits were reaped by others, if
not by Pere Le Jeune. And to us, every such noble
Christian life is an ideal and an inspiration.*'
'' Yes," added Dr. Kamsay, as they rose to go to
tea, " and a rebuke to our modern rose-water Chris-
tianity that pampers itself with luxury, and talks to
no end, and sings :
•
" ' Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from ou high,
Shall we, to men benighted,
The lamp of life deny ? "
and then drops a half -grudged dollar or so into the mis-
sionary collection, and troubles itself no more about
the matter ! Why, those poor Salvation Army people
who were arrested last week for making a disturbance,
are a hundred times more in earnest than at least two
thirds of our average church Christians! There is
the spirit of Pere Le Jeune among them. I tell you,
Duncan, I've felt a lump in my throat more than once
when I've seen them — women as well as men — kneel-
ing down to pray in some of the miserable streets and
alleys where few people ever go who can help it, and
heard them putting all their hearts into their prayers
for the poor creatures about them, till even the hardest
would seem a little softened, for the time at least.
PERE LE JEUNE S CHRISTMAS.
227
Well, we're all ready enough to judge others ! Let us
remember Pere Le Jeune and Isaac Jogues, and try to
catch the inspiration of the same spirit where they
caught theirs I "
" Amen! " exclaimed the professor, while the younger
ones looked grave and thoughtful, and even Ada, for
a little while, had not a word to say.
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CHAPTER XII.
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
■nW
For New Year's Day, Marjorie had a pressing
invitation from Ada to spend the day with her.
" It will be such fun," Ada said, " for you and me
to sit in the drawing-room, as I always do, and see all
the gentlemen who come to see mamma. Some of
them come to see me, too," she added, with a rather
conscious smile. " I think it's great fun, any time,
but it will be ever so much nicer to have you to talk
to while mamma is talking to the gentlemen."
Mrs. West was to have a musical party in the
evening, and Marion and AhA\ were invited to come
then, Marjorie of course remaining to dine with Ada.
Marion, as a rule, did not go to gay parties. She did
not care for them herself, and neither Dr. Ramsay nor
his wife cared to have their children frequent large
and late entertainmentr- which, as Dr. Ramsay ex-
pressed it, combined a maximum of frivolity and
extravagance with a minimum of healthful recreation ;
or as Mrs. Ramsay more briefly put it, were a great
228
1'
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
229
waste of time and money. But Marion loved music
and sang very sweetly, so that a good .musical party
was a real pleasure to her ; while for Alan, not yet
arrived at the dignity of being invited to " grown-up
parties " generally, this one was a great treat ; pro-
cured for him, as he could easily divine, through the
joint mediation of Gerald and Ada, because his sister
and cousin were asked, and they knew that he would
not like to be left out.
The old year passed away as usual, giving place
silently to the new, with its unknown burden of cares,
responsibilities, joys and sorrows. To Marjorie it
seemed as if the year just ended had been the longest
and most eventful of her life. Her Aunt Millie's mar-
riage closing one chapter of it ; the opening of a new
chapter, with new scenes, new friends, new interests ;
her father's absence ; and last, not least, the new
thoughts and inspirations that had come to her, marked
off this past year very distinctly from all the rest.
More especially, the new light that had come to her
since she had heard so much about the "light that
shineth in darkness," had become a real and living
force in her life, and, combined with the thought of
her father, almost unconsciously influenced her thoughts
and judgments and acts. And when she looked back
to last New Year's Day, she could scarcely believe that
she was only one year older.
There was a nice New Year letter from her father
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230
A NEW YEAR'S PARTY.
before it was time for her to go to Mrs. West's, for he
had taken care to calculate very carefully the mail ar-
rangemen*:s, that his letters should arrive just at
the right timt. He had many pleasant scenes to de-
scribe, besides the New Year wishes and counsels ;
and he was much cheered, as he said, in the separation
to find that ;' < > so happy in Montreal. And she
looked bright h.' ''py enough, her. aunt thought,
when slie came dowix ni Jiei varm wraps ready to be
driven to Mrs. *^'at's J " v uncle as he went to see
his patients.
Ada was watching for her friend, ready to greet her
with a hearty kiss, and a " Happy New Year ! " She
expressed great admiration, too, of Marjorie's appear-
ance, when her out-door wrappings were laid aside.
For of course she had to wear a dress suitable for the
evening party, and the one evening dress she had was
the pretty pale maize-colored cashmere that had been
her bridesmaid's attire at her Aunt Millie's wedding,
which had been made under the special supervision of
the bride, and had pleased even her father's critical
eye. It was very becoming to her dark hair and eyes,
and clear, pale complexion ; and she wore as her only
ornament, Ada's pretty locket. Mrs. West, as well as
Ada, admired her dress, all the more that it was " from
New York," for, whatever her prejudices against
Americans might be, they certainly did not extend to
American fashions. She herself was richly dressed in
»
A NEW YEARS PARTY.
231
velvet and lace for her New Year's reception ; and
Ada looked charming in a blue silk afternoon dress
which, as she explained to Marjorie, was to be ex-
changed for a white evening dress for " the party."
If Ada found tlie afternoon '^ reception " amusing, it
was more than Marjorie did. The callers were all
strangers to her, and the greetings and good wishes
sounded for the most part, rather flat and stereotyped.
The luxurious drawing-room, too, did not seem quite
such a vision of beauty as it had the first time
she had seen it. She felt the satiating sensation of
too much ornament, too much ostentation of richness
and luxury. The air was laden with the fragrance
from the open conservatory, and the gracefully ar-
ranged vases of flowers that were scattered about the
room ; the servants were attentive in handing the del-
icate refreshments in readiness to the guests, and the
glow of the bright coal fire sparkled on gilding and
rich draperies and charming pictuies ; but all this had
lost the first charm of novelty, and Marjorie could not
feel so much herself, so free and bright, as she did in
Mrs. Ramsay's simple but home-like drawing-room, or
in the dear, homely " study," littered as it often was
with the play of the children. The very magnificence
about her seemed to j^all upon and oppress her, and
she no longer wondered that it was evidently so com-
monplace to Ada and Gerald, who openly disdained
the multiplicity of " gewgaws."
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A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
As for the talk that went on, it was very much in
keeping with the surroundings. It was all, or almost
all, what her father used to call " outside talk," and it
all ran on the same track. The weather was discussed,
and the chances of a thaw, with the prospects of the
progress and completion of the ice-palace, in time for
the Carnival, now fixed for the end of the month.
Then the various arrangements for that were canvassed.
The new toboggan slides to be opened, the French Ca-
nadian trophy to be erected on the Champ de Mars,
the grand ball, and, in particular, the expected visit of
the Governor-General and his wife, with its attendant
festivities. This seemed to be the inevitable round.
One or two gentlemen indeed referred to matters of
public interest. Bismarck's policy, the progress of
Wolseley's Nile expedition, and the fortunes of the
Canadian voyac/evrs with it, the probable fate of Gor-
don and Khartoum, were cursorily touched upon ;
but were soon dropped, for it was evident that the fair
hostess whose mind revolved in a small circle of out-
ward interests more or less connected with herself,
" cared for none of these things." Some of the gentle-
men made some of the smallest of small talk for Ada,
in which Marjorie disdained to take part, as an implied
insult to the intelligence of girls nearly fourteen ! As
the afternoon faded into dusk, and the gas was lighted
in the pretty crystal chandeliers, the visitors grew
more numerous and the visits still briefer, as every
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A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
233
one seemed hurrying to aceompHsh his allotted round ;
a hundred seeming to be no unusual number. Mr.
Hayward made his appearance about five, to stay to
dinner ; and then Ada's spirits rose at once, and her
tongue seemed to go faster than ever. The young man
was evidently a favorite both with mother and daugh-
ter, and knew how to ingratiate himself with both.
He had been accompanying Dick on his round of visits,
leaving out certain " old fogies " to whom Dick had still
to pay some " duty visits," and when the ordinary call-
ers began to thin off, Mr. Hayward kept Mrs. West
and Ada amused with a run of satirical little comments
on their friends and acquaintances whom he had been
visiting. Mrs. West never showed much animation of
manner. She was indeed exceedingly lazy, and more-
over rather affected —
" that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere."
Mr. Hayward's rich English voice, and soft, drawl-
ing English accent just suited her, while the vein of
raillery and the way in which he " touched off '' the
peculiarities of her friends, seemed to entertain her
greatly. Marjorie wondered a little how both she and
Ada could enjoy so much this " making fun " of their
most intimate friends, and she noticed that nothing
kind or pleasant was said of any one ; and that the sa-
tirical remarks were particularly biting when clergy-
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234
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
■a"'
men or their families came under discussion. And as
she had a natural dislike of satire and satirical people,
she ceased to listen to the talk, and was soon absorbed
in an album of line foreign photographs which Mrs.
West had, years ago, brought from abroad.
At dinner Marjorie for the first time saw Mr. West,
who looked like what he was — a shrewd, energetic
business man, with a good deal of the complacency of
success about him. Two things were particularly ap-
parent, that he was very fond and very proud of Ada,
and that he enjoyed a good dinner ; and indeed the long
and elaborate dinners rather bewildered Marjorie. So
many courses, such luxurious appointments, and most
of all, the variety of wines, were a new experience to
her. She met with some banter from her host for
persistently declining to drink anything but water,
and noticed with surprise that Ada drank her glass
of champagne with great satisfaction. Mr. Ilayward
and Dick West evidently thought that any one who
could refuse good champagne must be little short
of a lunatic, but they evidently did not consider Mar-
jorie's abstinence worth notice, while she cared as little
for their opinion. Mr. West, however, did look wor-
ried when he noticed Dick helping himself to wine
more freely than he ajjproved, while Mrs. West seemed
a little uneasy lest his annoyance might find expression
in words and be construed into a reflection on their
English guest. So that the latter part of the dinner
A NEW YEAR S PAKTY.
235
was not very satisfactory and the hostess rose to retire
as soon as she coiikl, remarking that Ada had to
change her dress for the party.
"Dear me!" said Mr. West, "I thought she was
quite fine enough aheady ! Well, Ada, we'll see what
a swell you are, by and by. I sujipose you mean to
be the belle of the evening."
He evidently thought she would, when she appeared
in the drawing-room in a fairy-like apparel of white
gossamer and lace, with a garniture of blue just suffi-
cient to contrast effectively with her golden hair, the
delicacy of her fair complexion, and the soft roses in
her cheeks. She wore a little cluster of rosebuds to
match these, on the breast of her dress ; and she made
a charming picture, of which her father might be ex-
cused for feeling proud. Marjorie and she made a
happy contrast, and as a counterpart to Ada's pink
rosebuds, Marjorie had a bouquet of white and tea-
roses, which Ada had arranged for her. Alan was
enthusiastic in his admiration of both the girls, when
he arrived with Marion ; and if his expression of it
was not quite so open to Ada as to his cousin, it was
very evident that his boyish eyes were strongly fas-
cinated by Ada's charms, which he had never seen to
such advantage before. Mr. Hay ward was more adroit
in his flattering attentions, however, and Marjorie
could not help seeing with vexation that they had al-
ready somewhat turned Ada's silly little head. There
■'i'vl
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236
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
were several very pretty girls there, however, "grown-
up young Ijulie.s," who luitiirally divided the young
Englishuian's attention — not altogether to Ada's
satisfaction.
There was a good deal of music, both vocal and in-
strumental, some of it very good. There was some
brilliant execution on the piano ; but Marjorie specially
enjoyed a charming violin solo, which seemed almost
to speak the voice of human emotion and longing and
aspiration, and called up to her mind some of the grand
scenes she had seen when with her father among the
hills the previous summer. Several ladies sang, most
of the songs being pretty trifles of the day. One
young lady sang, with great vivacity and animation,
some of the i)retty French Canadian songs. As she
sang them in French, Marjorie could not catch many
of the words ; but Alan told her that the air which she
liked best was called, " A la Claire Fontaine,''^ and
was a great favorite among the French Canadians.
The words, he said, were great nonsense ; but he and
Marion would sing them to her some evening at home,
and she could see them for herself. Marion sang sev-
eral songs, most of them being Miss Proctor's words
and great favorites with Marjorie, who had heard them
already. One little song, however, which she sang
towards the close of the evening, was new to Marjorie,
and both the words and air delighted her. It ran
thus :
A NEW YEAU S PARTY.
237
" A little flower >o lonely grew,
So lowly \\i\,s it left,
That heaven seemed like an eye of blue
Above its rocky cleft.
I
" What could the little flower do
In such a lonesome place,
But strive lo reach that eye of blue,
And climb to kiss heaven's face ?
" There's no lot so lone and low,
But strenjijth will still be given
From lowliest spot on earth to grow
The straighter up to heaven."
To Marjorie it seemed as if liiis sonjjf belonged to
the same order as her story of the Northern Lights,
and the pictures of lovely Christian heroism with which
Professor Duncan's narratives had been filling her
mind. She was thinking of Pt;re Le Jeune and his
steadfast faith and hope among the wretched heathen
savages, when she heard Mr. I lay ward's languid tone
addressing some one near him :
" Miss Ramsay has rather a nice voice ; it's a pity
she wastes it on namby-pamby things like that."
" I can't agree with you," said the young lady to
whom he was talking. " I think it's a lovely song."
" O, well ! that's a matter of taste ; but it's great
nonsense all the same."
"I must say I don't see where the nonsense is,"
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238
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
said a young man beside them, whose pleasant, intelli-
gent face Marjorie had noticed before, when she had
been told by Gerald that he was studying for the
Church. " The man who wrote it, Gerald Massey,
wasn't given to nonsense, at any rate."
" Oh I Gerald Massey ! a sort of radical socialist,
isn't he ? "
" Well, I don't know much about his opinions," said
the other, " but I do know that he has the true spirit
of Christianity in him, and that song preaches a real
spiritual truth."
" Oh ! there you get beyond me," said Hayward,
sneeringly. " I thought that what you called spiritual
truths were 'played out' now; that there wasn't any
room for them any more. In fact, I don't know what
' spiritual ' means, nor I think do half the people that
use the word ! It's just a phrase that may mean any
thing or nothing."
" Yes," replied the other young man gravely, " it
does mean very different things to different people !
I find, in the highest authority on such points, that no
one can understand what ' spiritual ' means, unless he
is willing to have his eyes opened from above."
Hayward shrugged his shoulders. "You must ex-
cuse me," he said ; " I for one have no desire to pene-
trate into such profound mysteries. The world I do
know is a very good world, and it's enough for me."
And then he suggested to his companion that she
A NEW YEARS TAKTY.
239
Gerald had been standing near while this little
cussion had been going' on.
should have some refreshments, but she declined, having
had some already.
" If you'll excuse me then, I think I'll have some
myself," he said, and passed on.
" Poor fellow I what a proof he is of the very
truths he rejects, if he could only see it," remarked
the other young man to his companion, as they looked
after him. And then he added, '■• It\s not right to
joke about such matters, but one can hardly help feel-
ing that his insensibility to spiritual influences is partly
due to his familiarity with a veiy different kind of
spirit ! "
dis-
Ile, too, looked after
Hayward, as he disa})peared, and observed to Mar-
jorie :
" I just detest that conceited Englishman ! I wish
he had something better to do than loaf about the
world to kill time ! Dick hasn't been the same fellow
since he's been here, and he seems to want to lead him
into harm's way. And he flatters my mother and Ada
into thinkinii that there's nobodv like liim ! But
come, Marjorie," he added, "■ you haven't had any
supper yet. Come in and ha\e some now."
They went on into the dining-room, where game,
jellies and ices were temptingly laid out, with an
abundance, also, of wine and spirits. When he had
helped Marjorie, Gerald looked about him, and pres-
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240
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
ently cauglit sight of his brother standing with Mr.
Hayvvard, by the sideboard, both helping themselves
liberally to champagne.
" There, isn't that too bad ! " exclaimed Gerald, in
intense vexation. " Dick will make a fool of himself
before he knows it, if he goes on like that. I must
go and stop him I I know what I'll do I "
And going up to his brother, whose flushed face
showed already that he had had considerably more than
was good for him, he whispered a few words into his
ear. Dick immediately left his companion and went
out of the room, returning after a few mhiutes' absence
with Marion, who looked a little uncomfortable as she
noticed his excited manner, but sat down beside Mar-
jorie, while he went for an ice for her.
" I hope you'll forgive me, Miss Ramsay," said
Gerald frankly. '' T know you're so good you won't
mind. I didn't know how to get him away from Hay-
ward there," he said, glancing to where the young
Englishman still stood ; " so I told him 1 thought you
hadn't had any supper yet. And then he went off at
once. For you know he thinks ever so much of you."
Marion smiled comprehendingly, with ready sym-
pathy for Gerald. " I'll try to keep him from going
back there again," she said, as Dick returned. And
she did so, disinterestedly enough ; for she did not care
in the least for Dick's society, and she had a particular
abhorrence of even the most distant approach to in-
A NEW YEAR S PARTY.
241
toxication. Her detestation of the habit, and her pity
for young West combined to make her proportionately
indignant when Ahin remarked, on the way home, that
he thought champagne " a first-class institution."
" A first-class institution for ruining young men,"
replied Marion warmly ; proceeding forthwith to give
Alan a forcible temperance lecture, a point on which
she had very decided views, and in which she was
warmly re-enforced by Marjorie, who perhaps pro-
duced most effect by describing the evident distress of
Gerald at his brother's weakness, and the insidious in-
fluence of the tempter who added double force to the
temptation.
" Well, it is too bad," he said. " And Gerald's
just as steady as a boy could be, though he does take
his glass of wine too, with the rest. But then he has
Dick's example b tore his eyes, and that makes him
careful. Anyhow, I can get on very well without
champagne, and I'm not likely to get much of it! So
you needn't worry, Marion."
' t
CHAPTER XIII.
TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
:.j ^^
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The Christinas holidays were fairly over, and Mar-
jorie got settled down to school work again, after the
long break. Ada and she went together, the first
morning, as Marion went only at a later hour for cer-
tain classes. Ada introduced Marjorie to her special
friends, and it was not long before she felt quite at
home among her new companions. Most of them were
bright, clever girls who liked to study, and Marjorie
was pleased to find that she could take a fairly good
place in her classes, though these included some girls
a year or two older than herself. In German she
found herself rather before her companions, though the
Montreal girls had naturally the advantage in French,
having plenty of opportunity for practicing speaking
it, if they were so disposed. Even Ada could do a
little shopping in it, when necessary.
Marjorie had petitioned for leave to add drawing to
her other studies, having taken a fancy to it from see-
ing her cousin paint ; and her father had willingly
242
TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
243
consented, only exhorting her to begin at the beginning,
and be thorough as far as she went. The hour at the
drawing-class soon became one of the pleasantest in
the day. It was a great pleasure, also, to go with
some of her cousins, or with Ada, to see the pictures
in the little Art Gallery, on a fine afternoon, when the
light was good enough to show them to advantage.
Both Dr. Ramsay and Mrs. West had season tickets,
and Marjorie spent a morning there before the holidays
were over, enjoying the pictures all the more because
there were not so many to look at as there had been in
other art exhibitions which her father had taken her
to see in New York. Ada, who had never had anv
stimulus to take an interest in such things before, began
now to try to see what made Marjorie enjoy them so
much, and even her lessons grew somewhat more in-
teresting to her from the effect of Marjorie's zeal and
industry. Marjorie herself was trying her best to
overcome her natural tendency to be " desultory,"
against which her father had warned her, and she was
succeeding tolerably well. He had counseled her to be
very sparing in her reading of story books — a great
temptation to her.
. She resolutely abstained, therefore, from even look-
ing into one, except on Saturdays, when she allowed
herself the treat for an hour or two over one of Sir
Walter Scott's novels, which were all in Dr. Ramsay's
book-shelves, and of which she had as yet read only
■i
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244
TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
•I".
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^4ill
one or two ; not nearly so many as her cousin Millie
had already devoured.
Millie and she had long talks about them, when
they went on their regular Saturday afternoon excur-
sions, sometimes on a snow-shoe tramp to the house of
a friend two or three miles off, at the other side of the
mountain, and sometimes to see the new toboggan
slides which were being prepared for " grand openings "
at the Carnival. And one fine Saturday afternoon
Alan, who had a particular friend in the club which
owned the " Lansdowne Slide," arranged to take the
girls down that one on a " trial " afternoon, when only
the members of the club and their friends were per-
mitted to be present. It was at the east end of Sher-
brooke Street, just to the right of the mountain slope,
on an open incline, where, as Alan told her, they played
" golf " in summer and autumn. And as Marjorie did
not know what " golf " was, he tried to explain this
old Scotch version of " hockey " or " shinty," at which
he knew that his father and hers had often played
when they were Edinburgh students.
As they slowly mounted the slope to the wooden
platform and " send off," Ada and Millie pointed out
the steep flight of wooden steps that ran up the
mountain close by.
'• It's too slippery to go up now, you know," said
Millie ; " but in summer I often go up, and when you
get to the top it's splendid I "
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TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
245
" I'm going to do something nicer than that, when
summer comes," said Ada. " You know, Marjorie, I
took some riding lessons hist fall, and my uncle in the
country is going to have a pony broken in for me, and
I'm going to ride on the mountain with Gerald. Can
you ride ? For if you can I'll lend you my pony some
day for a ride."
Marjorie 's eyes sparkled at the thought. She had
been a few times on horseback when among the hills
with her father, and she thought it the most delightful
exercise in the world, and the greatest pleasure.
" Wait till you've been down the toboggan slide,
Marjorie," said Alan. " Riding's nothing to that ! "
But when they had mounted the wooden steps which
led up to the high platform from which they were to
begin their descent — Alan carrying the light toboggan
— and when Marjorie looked down the steep, slippery,
inclined plane, she thought it rather a fearful pleasure ;
and felt as if. despite her experience on the children's
slide, she had hardly nerve enough to trust herself to
the giddy descent. She wanted to try, but all the en-
couragement her companions could give, could not
overcome the involuntary reluctance that she felt to
take the final step of seating herself on the toboggan
wheiT poised on the edge of the slippery descent. Alan
assured her that it was particularly safe, as there were
so few toboggans there, and no one was immediately
following. But she still shrank back and declared that
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they would have to go (h)wn without her, the first time,
at least. So Ada and Millie arranged themselves ;
Ada holding tight to the sides of the toboggan, Millie
grasping her waist as tightly ; Alan threw himself on
it behind them, putting out one foot to steer, and away
they went. Marjorie held her breath for a moment,
but before she had caught it again, they were at the
foot of the " send off," and gliding down the white
hill below with a speed that did look exhilarating;
taking them down to the foot of the long slide in about
a minute.
It was fascinating enough, and by the time that the
others had made their toilsome way up again, she had
made up her mind to hesitate no longer, but sit down
in the toboggan without thinking about it. There was
room enough for them all, and they put her between
the other two girls so that she might feel safer. She
held Ada with a desperate grip, and half-shut her eyes
as they shot off. But in a moment they were at the
foot of the giddy plane, and then she could really enjoy
the swift gliding over the hard, smooth snow ; then
came a second leap down a chute, or little sudden
descent in the snow, and then an easy progress, slow-
ing gradually as they reached the level ground, when
they all scrambled to their feet, laughing for glee over
the successful descent. They went down two or three
times more, walking nearly half a mile up each time ;
and Marjorie agreed, as they walked home, glowing
TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
247
with exercise, that, after all, the pleasure of toboggan-
ing had scarcely been overrated.
" You see the benefit of a good example, Marjorie,"
said Alan. ^^ If you hadn't had our heroic example
first, you wouldn't have got your own courage up I "
"Yes," observed Millie, ''and that's one reason why
Professor Duncan tells us all those stories."
" Why," said Ada, '' he doesn't want us all to go to
live among the Indians, even if there were any wild
ones any more? "
" No,'i said Alan, laughing ; " but I suppose we
shall all have lots of disagreeable things to do ; and he
thinks such examples will help to nuike us brave. I
daresay I shall have plenty of such experiences if
I am an engineer, as I want to be."
But Ada was evidently pretty tired, and Alan asked
her to sit down on the toboggan, so that he might draw
her home. And when they had left her there, the
other three took their way, in the rosy winter sunset,
down to Dominion Square, growing daily a center of
increasing interest, now that the stately ice-palace was
rising day by day into its fine pro})ortions and sparkling
ethereal beauty. It was being hurried on now, so as
to be completed by the time fixed for the Carnival ;
and there were few days when Marjorie, with one or
other of her cousins, did not manage to go to inspect
its progress. It was built on the model of a Norman
castle, and its towers, bastions, battlements and ''donjon
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TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
keep " began to be defined with some distinctness. It
was built of solid blocks of ice about three feet long,
a foot in height, and eighteen inches in thickness, all
the layers being solidly frozen together.
When the l)riglit winter sunshine enfolded and pene-
trated the crystal mass, seen against tlu; clear blue sky,
it gleamed and sparkled in a thousand ex(piisite grada-
tions of liglit and shade, from softest ethereal tints
of gray to the diamond glitter of the icicle point.
This afternoon the rosy glow of the sunset seemed to
give it the delicate tints of mother-of-pearl.
To Marjorie, the silent uprising of this wonderful
palace without the sound of hammer or axe, seemed
to be an embodied fairy tale ; one of the " fairy tales
of science " spoken of in the lines her father had
taught her from " Locksley Hall." She only wished
he could see it, as it grew in beauty ; and she did her
best to give him some idea of it, by describing it in
her letters. And there were other ice wonders, too, to
describe. Down in the more strictly French portion
of the city there were trophies rising, which, if less
remarkable for stately beauty, were just as wonderful
in their way. On the Champ de Mars, close to the
old court house and beautiful new Hotel de Ville,
there was a great round tower rising tier upon tier of
enormous courses of ice blocks. It was, according to
Alan, " for all the world like a giant wedding-cake
constructed on the model of the Tower of Babel." It
TREASUUKS OF TlIK KNOW AND ICE.
249
I
was called a rondora^ and Professor Duncan told them
that the idea came from Kussia, and was a hit of i)ar-
baric oriental archit'3ctuie, making a curious eontr.ast
witli the Norman ice castle which by rights should have
belonii'ed to the French.
Then on the Place d'Armes, associated with the
feat of the French Horatius — as Professor Duncan
called Maisonneuve — there was growing u}), under a
canvas covering, a great ice lion, wliicli no one was to
see till it was completely finislunl and formally unveiled,
as a part of the Carnival celebration.
As the time drew close, the city began to j)ut on
more and more of a holiday aspect, and multitudes of
strangers arrived daily. Eviu-y time Marjorie went
towards Notre Dame Street or across Dominion Square,
she was sure to see sleighs containing newly-arrived
travelers from east or west, north or south. Numbers
of Americans, especially, poured into the city every
day, and the papers soon numbered the visitors by
thousands. The Windsor was a gay and busy scene,
with the handsomely caparisoned sleighs constantly
dashing up to the portal, or from it, full of merry
groups of sightseers. The ice-palace was fast receiv-
ing its finishing touches. The clear crystal battle-
ments and turrets, with their machicolated edges, now
Foarkled with dazzling luster in the sunlight. Flags
f >ated from the round towers at the entrance, and
vithin the workmen were busy fitting up the rooms on
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TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
each side of the main entrance ; rooms which, how-
ever, were not to contain anything more poetical than
a coffee-stand on the one side, ai: /* " eTohnston's Fhiid
Beef " on the other, both of which Dv. Kamsay warmly
approved of, as being just the thing needed in such a
place and in such weather. For the cold was certainly
growing keener every day. It seemed as if the ice-
palace were brewing cold weather, and within its solid
walls one might get a very fair idea of what Arctic
cold might be like.
One night, just before the commencement of the
Carnival, Alan came in, saying that they were lighting
up the palace for the first time ..itli the electric lights.
The girls, he said, must come at once to see it. " «Tack
and Jill " were off before Marion and Marjorie could
get on their wraps ; and they and Alan soon followed
tlirough the keen, cold, January night, lighted by a
pale but grov/ing moon. But the moonlight seemed
to fade away when they came in full view of the palace,
and they exclaimed with delight as the wonderful fairy
visioxi met their eyes. It was such a sight as is rarely
seen ; a sight to haunt one's imagination for a lifetime.
It seemed a veritable palace of light, a fairy tale mate-
rialized. For bastions, towers and battlements seemed
to throb and sparkle throughout, with a clear, pure and
living light, like the fair, tremulous shimmer of motb*^r-
of -pearl ; the dentated outlines of turrets and battle-
ments glittering, sharply deiined against even the
TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
251
moonlight sky. Every crystal cube of its massive
courses glittered with the white, lambent light ; and
yet, as they gazed, they could hardly believe that it
was not a dream or an illusion.
" Why, Marjorie ! this must be the work of your kind
Light-spirit, taking pity on our Northern darkness."
Marjorie started from her trance of delight, and
turned smilingly to greet Professor Duncan, who had
been attracted, like themselves, by the wonderful and
beautiful sight. With him was the clergyman whose
church he and Dr. Ramsay attended.
" And does Miss Fleming keep a familiar spirit of
her own then ? " asked the minister playfully.
Professor Duncan explained, and gave the substance
of the little story of the Northern Lights in a few
words. He seldom forgot anything that struck his
fancy, which was one reason why his conversation was
so entertaining to young and old.
" It's a pretty fancy," he said, " and this made me
think of it at once. One beautiful thing is apt to
suggest another, and this is 'a thing of beauty,' though
it can hardly be ' a joy forever,' even in this Northern
clime ! But seriously, you know, I suppose that the
Northern Lights are essentially the same in nature
with the light that is sparkling through that luminous
crystal pile. And, by the way, do you know what is
the supposed explanation of the phenomenon of the
Aurora Borealis, scientifically considered ? "
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252 TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
None of the young people had ever heard it, and
Marjorie and Millie were eager to know.
" Well, you must know, the real nature of electricity
is a mystery. No one knows more than that it acts
in certain ways, and is a part of that great and omni-
present energy which I of course regard as simply one
manifestation of what Wordsworth calls the —
" ' Motion and tlio spirit that impels
All thinking things, all ol)jects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.'
The phenomena of electricity, you know, are caused
by the meeting of two opposite states of the electric
fluid, as it is called, positive and negative electricity ;
thoiigli just wliy, and under what conditions these two
opposite sorts are developed, science as yet refuses to
say. Now, as of course you know, electricity is readily
excited by friction ; and different sorts of friction, or
friction under different circumstances, will produce dif-
ferent sorts of electricity. Now it is supposed that
the friction of the earth's atmosphere against the earth,
as both are in motion, develops electricity, just as does
the rubbing of glass with a piece of silk. And as the
earth's motion is most rapid at the equator, and slow-
est at the poles, positive electricity is excited in the
atmospliere of the tropic and temperate zones, while
at the poles it is negative. And as wherever there is
an interchange between these two we have electrical
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TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
253
manifestations, it is supposed that this interchange in
the North, in certain states of the atmosphere, produ-
ces the Northern Lights, the Aurora being brightest
where the interchange is most active. This is only
hypothesis, but it affords a reasonably probable ex-
planation."
" Thank you, Professor," said the minister. " I
think you have made it quite clear, and it's very inter-
esting to me ; I never heard it before."
" And so, you see, out of the meeting of these two
intrinsically dark and silent forces, in the regions of
cold and darkness, God evolves light."
"Just as easily as He did of old," observed the
minister, " when he said ' Let light be,' and light
was ! "
" And now," continued Professor Duncan, " man,
by availing himself of these laws, can draw this same
powerful, invisible form of Energy into the service of
humanity, and in such beautiful ways as we see here,
yet only as he follows its laws and keeps up the
connection with the invisible power."
" I declare, my dear professor, you are outlining
for me a capital sermon ! You will hear it again one
of these days. Talk of sermons in stones, you have
struck sparks of light out of ice ! I think I shall set
my Bible-class to studying all the beautiful texts about
light."
" It would be a most interesting study,'' said the
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TREASURES OF THE S^OW AND ICE.
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professor. " You young folks had better try it, too.
That parable of light and darkness runs right through
the Bible."
Marjorie thought it would be a very good thing to
do, and the following Sunday, after dinner, she and
Marion took their Bibles and began their search.
They were astonished at the number of suggestive
texts they found, beginning with Genesis and ending
with Revelation. There was the " burning bush," the
"• pillar of liglit," the prophetic visions, the " great
light seen by the shepherds," and the light Paul saw in
going to Damascus ; besides the imagery of Revela-
tion, and innumerable metaphorical references to light
and darkness. The parable did, as tlie professor said,
run right through the whole Bible, quite as much as
did that other one of life and death, and indeed, as
Dr. Ramsay remarked, the two were significantly
interchangeable.
When the professor came in on Sunday evening,
each of the girls had a long list to show him of the
passages that had most struck them. Each of them,
too, had chosen a favorite text. Millie's was, " In
Him is light, and no darkness at all." Marjorie still
adhered to her old favorite, " Ihe light shineth in
darkness." And Marion tliought that the most beau-
tiful of all was in the description of the heavenly city,
" Jerusalem the Golden."
" And the city had no need of the sun, neither of
TREASURES OF THE SNOW AND ICE.
255
the moon, to shine in it ; for the glory of God did
lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof."
" Yes," said the professor, '* that is a grand hope.
You see, Marjorie, the light will not always shine in
darkness, and your Northern Lights won't always be
needed, any more than the sun or the moon."
•' No," said Marjorie, as if half-reluctant to admit it.
" But the Northern Lights won't be forgotten, nor
their lonely labor of love. ' I know thy works ' is
the message to each of the working cliurches. And
He does not forget ! There is another text that 1 like
to remember when thinking of the glory of the future :
' They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of
the firnuiment, and they that turn many to righteous-
ness as the stars forever and ever.' "
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CHAPTER XTV.
CARNIVAL GLORIEl
» ;.
Afi'ER a Sunday which was marked by a quietness
that seemed unaffet^ted by the presence of so many
strangers and the prospect of so many exciting novel-
ties, the celebration of the Carnival began. Alan
who was the most enthusiastic member of the house-
hold in regard to the diversions of the week, kept the
rest duly informed beforehand, and planned with
careful calculation how Marjorie, in particular, could
manage to see the largest share of all that was going
on. Dr. Kamsay, of course, was too busy a man for
much sightseeing, and carnivals were no novelty to
either him or Mrs. Kamsay. And as Alan was a
rather youthful escort for his sisters and cousin, much
satisfaction was expressed when Professor Duncan
accepted sundry hints thrown out by Marjorie and
Millie, and placed liimself at the disposal of the party,
for the four great evenings of the Carnival.
Monday evening had two events on the programme
— the opening of the new Tuque Bleue toboggan
256
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
257
slide, and the unveiling of the colossal ice lion. As
this new slide was the one which, from its convenient
nearness, the young liamsays meant to frequent, Alan,
Jack and Millie were very anxious to be there at the
opening ; so it was arranged that they should go there
first, staying just long enough for Alan to take them
down the slide once or twice, and then walk down to
the Place iV Armes.
The Tuque Bleue slide was a purely artificial one,
the tall wooden platform being erected in a large
open field, stretching from St. Catherine Street to
Sherbrooke Street, thus giving sufficient space for the
toboggans to gradually come to a stop. The electric
light made the gay scene as light as day ; a huge bon-
fire close by threw its ruddy glow athwart the white
light, and black shadows and Chinese lanterns and
soaring rockets added to the picturesque effect. The
inclined plane from the platform, about forty feet
high, was divided into five spaces by raised lines, so
that five toboggans could come down abreast without
any risk of collision. As soon as the slide was
declared open, a number of toboggans waiting at the
top with their merry crews, shot down with lightning-
speed, and were in a few moments at the end of the
course — their occupants quickly scrambling out of
the way of those that were following as fast as safety
permitted. Marjorie declined to be enticed to tlie
platform for that evening, preferring to stand beside
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CARNIVAL GLORIES.
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Professor Duncan and watch the animated scene.
And indeed she had never even dreamed of anything
like it before. The long white expanse of snow,
bright with the variegated lights, the thunderous and
constant rush of the fast-flying toboggans, the merry
shouts of their occupants, the picturesque crowds
of spectators, most of them arrayed in blanket cos-
tumes of many colors, red, white or blue, with gay
striped borders, made the scene quite unique, more like
a page out of a fairy tale than a bit of actual reality.
Botli Marjorie and Professor Duncan were standing-
absorbed in the fascination of the spectacle, Marjorie
trying to distinguish Alan and Jack and Millie, as they
flashed past among the rest, and too much engrossed
to notice the by-stauders moving to and fro close by.
But suddenly a very familiar voice and intonation
sent her thoughts flying off to old home scenes, before
she was conscious of the reason. The next moment
she looked eagerly around. Yes, sure enough ! there
was no mistake about it. Not ten yards off, as intent
as she on the spectacle, stood Nettie Lane, her father
and a cousin of Nettie's, also well-known to Marjorie.
It looked so strange, yet so homelike, to see them.
A s Marjorie darted toward them, Nettie looked round,
and there was a delighted recognition. Marjorie had
hardly thought she should have been so glad to see
her old school friend again.
" Well, now, isn't it funny we should meet you so
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
259
SO
Boon ! " exclaimed Nettie, when the first exclamations
of surpr'se were over, and Professor Duncan had been
introduced to the strangers.
" When did you come ? " asked Marjorie.
" Oh I we got here Saturday night, and we were
awfully tired yesterday. We're at the Windsor, you
know, and to-day we were driving all round the city.
Father wanted we should see it, but we were most
frozen when we got in. 1 think it's frightfully cold
here, so we had to stay in to get thawed. And we
were going to find you out the first thing in the
morning ; but it's splendid, isn't it, meeting here ?
I think it's all lovely I But I should be frightened to
death to go down in one of those things."
" Oh ! it's not so bad when you get used to it,"
remarked Marjorie, with a little pride in her enlarged
experience.
" Have you been down in one, then ? " Nettie; asked,
much impressed, and Mr. Lane, who had been talking
with Professor Duncan, laughed and said that " Nettie
would never be happy now till she went too."
" There are my cousins now," said Marjorie. " See,
you can get a better sight of them now — they're just
stopping — and getting up."
" Wliat ! that tall lad in the blanket suit and red
cap and sash?" asked Nettie, regarding him with
great admiration as a distinguished-looking personage,
quite eclipsing his more soberly attired companions.
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CARNIVAL GLORIES.
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The three had now had all the tobogganing they
wanted for that evening, and leaving the track, came
round to meet Marjorie and the professor, and were
duly introduced to her New York friends. As the
latter were also eager to go to see the ice lion, they
all went on together, Mr. Lane hailing a sleigh near
the entrance, into which the whole party managed to
squeeze themselves by dint of a little ingenuity. As
they drove down town, both Marjorie and Nettie had
a hundred questions to ask. Nettie explained that
their visit was quite a sudden idea. Her father had
some business in Montreal, which he thought he could
accomplish best in person, and as her aunt and cousin
in New York wanted to come, he thought he would
take Nettie also. Her aunt had remained at the
hotel, having had enough of the keen, frosty air for
one day.
" Father wanted mother to come," explained Nettie,
" but you know how busy she always is, with meetings
and things. She thought it was very nice for me to
go, but she said she'd rather stay at home and attend
to her poor people, than go to all the carnivals that
ever were."
Marjorie felt a livelier emotion for esteem for Mrs.
Lane than she had ever known before. After know-
ing Mrs. West, she could better appreciate Mrs.
Lane's Christian zeal and devotion, even if she had
judged her dear father too rashly.
CAltNlVAl. GLOUIES.
2G1
They had not nearly got through the rapid inter-
change of queries and answers when they found them-
selves down at the great square, where the tall ehurch
towers rose stately in the white electric lights. Mar-
jorie tried to exi)lain to Nettie something of the
gallant feat of Maisonneuve, that had become so
associated in her mind with the Place d' Amies, but
Nettie was too much interested in the present fire-
works to care much about —
!*'
•s.
— " old, unhappy, far-oft' things
And battles long ago."
Mr. Lane, however, was genuinely interested in the
reminiscence, and was delighted when he found in
Professor Duncan a companion who could gratify his
desire for information about the past as well as the
present. Their sleigh was drawn up with others on
the edge of the square, whence they could see fairly
well over the crowds that encircled the point of
interest. " Amid a great blaze of fireworks, hissing-
rockets, Roman candles and colored lights, the lion
was unveiled, crouched on a pyramidal pedestal of ice,
at the sides of which stood ice-fountains, apparently
playin,];, the whole being encircled with great white
cannon balls of ice and snow. The lion himself
showed as much spirit as was possible with his hard
and cold composition. He sat with head erect and
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CARNIVAL GLORIES.
open mouth and paw half-uplifted, as if in angry
menace.
" Not quite so bad as the American eagle, as he is
generally portrayed," remarked Mr. Lane after they
had scrutinized him for a few moments, getting a good
view of his great head in profile from their post of
observation.
" What a jolly Hon ! " exclaimed Alan.
"I think he's a beauty ! " exclaimed Nettie enthu-
siastically ; and Marjorie and Millie wanted to know
whether he was English or French.
" Both, I'm glad to say," said the professor, then
added musingly :
" I wonder what he's thinking of — the dynamite
explosion at St. Stephen's, or the fortunes of our brave
men in the Soudan, or Gordon shut up still, I fear, in
Khartoum ! "
" Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Lane. " He has enough
to make him look anxious. It's a ticklish time for
your Government just now."
And the two gentlemen began to talk politics, while
the others watched the lion in silence, as blue lights
began to burn and throw about him a weird effect ;
rapidly changing as yellow, green and rose-colored fire
and smoke-clouds varied the coloring. Several showy
pyrotechnic devices followed, while the rockets and
Koman candles continued to go up, and shoWers of
colored meteors came down about the gleaming sides of
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
263
of
of
the lion, who remained calmly grim and unflinching
to the end, when at last he was left to keep his lonely
watch through the silence of the moonlight night.
Weeks after they all remembered how the lion had sug-
gested Gordon's solitary watch in the desert. For
when the sad news came, they knew that that very day
Khartoum had fallen, opened to the Mahdi by the
traitor Faragh ; and that a treacherous stroke had
ended at once Gordon's lonely watch and his brave
and devoted life.
As they drove up to Dr. Ramsay's house to deposit
the young people there, it was settled by Alan's sug-
gestion that Nettie should come to spend the following
afternoon with Marjorie, and that they should all go
together to see the opening of the new slide at St.
Helen's Island, in the evening.
Accordingly, next day, Mr. Lane brought Nettie
up to the Ramsays', where she was introduced to
Mrs. Ramsay, Marion and the little ones. She was
eager to see how everything looked in a Canadian
home, and went especially into raptures over the
toboggan standing in the entry, and the snow-shoes
hanging up in the hall. But her adiniration reached
its height when Effie came in, rosy with play, her
bright eyes and dark locks just peeping out of the
peaked capote of her little pink-bordered blanket-coat ;
for it was a bitterly cold day, and the warm capote
was a needed protection.
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CARNIVAL GLORIES.
" Oh, you cunning little thing ! " she exclaimed
when she had kissed and hugged Effie — more to her
own C'Uitent than Effie's. Millie looked up from her
book with a surprised and rather indignant expression
in her keen eyes, which Marjorie rightly interpreted, and
laughingly explained that Nettie did not mean to use
the word '' cunning " in the sense they usually associ-
ated with it. Effie understood the adnuration well
enough if she did not the word, and went off to get her
Christmas doll to show, that " Millie and Marjorie had
dressed for her,' while Norman brought in their own
little tobos'oan for exhibition, and offered Nettie a ride
on it. As for Robin, he justified his mistress's high
oj)inion of his sagacity by his evident cordial rec-
ognition of Nettie, with whom he had been a great
favorite.
Cold as it was, Nettie thought she should like to go
for a brisk walk along Sherbrooke Street, and Mar-
jorie and she set out, well muffled up, for Nettie had
added a " cloud "' and some other wraps to her outfit
since she had experienced " carnival weather."
'I think youi' cousin Marion's just lovely, Mar-
jorie," said Nettie, as soon as they were out. " And
your aunt's real handsome, and I'm sure she's very
kind, though she's so(piiet. But they're all splendid !
I think it's ever so much nicer for you to be there
where it's all so lively, than to be all alone in a dull
poky house all day
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CARNIVAL GLORIES.
265
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11
"I'm very fond of my aunt and cousins," said Mar-
jorio, " but you know ' there's no place like home,'
and I slionld never find any house ' dull or poky '
wliere my dear father lived."
" Well, anyhow, it's a very good thing you've got
such a nice home to live in while he's away," rejoined
the practical Nettie, and this, at least, was incontro-
vertible.
They walked far enough to get a distant view of the
" Montreal slide," at the otlier end of tlie street,
crowded with tobogganers in spite of the cold. By that
time, however, they were glad to turn, but not before a
gentleman the}' met had stop])ed to warn them that
one of Nettie's ears, which was exposed to the bitter
wind, was getting frost-bitten. She was very much
frightened, but Marjorie told her it was nothing, it
would b3 all right in a few minutes. And then she
rubbed it with the corner of her fur cape, wliich her
uncle had told her was the best thing to do under such
circumstances : mucli better than using snow. And
presently Nettie declared that her ear was burning so
that somebody must be praising her to the skies.
As they passed the Wests' handsome mansion, Mar-
jorie j)ointed it out to Nettie, telling lier how Ada and
she had become great friends. Nettie admired the
exterior exceedingly, and declared that she would g've
anything to see the inside. Marjori(> did not see very
well how she could be gratified, however. The Wests'
266
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
house was full of visitors just now, and Ada was en-
grossed, of course, with them, and Marjorie thought
that Mrs. West might consider it a great liberty if she
were to tahe a friend of hers there unasked. However,
fortune favored Nettie. As she wanted to go to the
hotel for something she wanted to show Marjorie, the
two girls went down to the Windsor, and Nettie took
Marjorie through the spacious and l)eautiful drawing-
rooms of that fine hotel. As they passed through,
Marjorie encountered Ada and her mother, who Had
been paying a visit to a friend also staying there. Of
course Ada, who had not seen Marjorie for several
days, stopped to talk, and Nettie was duly introduced,
and to her great delight received an invitation to come
with Marjorie to pay Ada a visit next day. Nettie
showed her friend her own room, commanding an
excellent view of the ice-palace, and said that her
father wanted Marjorie to dine with them the next
evening, and that he was going to invite the whole
Kamsay party, Professor Duncan included, to come to
see the " stoiming " of the ice-palace from the windows
of their own rooms, which could accommodate them all.
As soon as tea was over at the Ram says' that even-
ing, the girls hastened to be in readiness for the
sleiirh in which Mr. Lane was to take down Marion
and Marjorie as well as his own party, to see the illu-
mination of St. Helen's Island. The others, Alan,
Jack and Millie, were to walk down with Professor
I *^t^»-*d \»WfV«r.'iid(fc\W^N«A'-'
f
I
■f!J
"Hli'i
the
I lion
illu-
Llan,
jssor
lA.SIlJK nil. ll.K I'M.ACK.
-■:^iTOnp^wirr
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' :(!1|
I
HI!
!^ ii
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
267
Duncan, and meet them at the shore ; and thev started
first, quite undaunted by the extreme cold of the
evening — the keenest of the week.
The swift-gliding sleigh bore the others down so
quickly that they had plenty of time to drive across
the smooth, icy highway to the illuminated slide, which
showed distinctly from the crowded docks, and near
which a mimic volcano was blazing with crimson
light, varied now and then by green and blue, giving
it rather a lurid aspect, while showers of rockets rising
from it completed the volcanic resemblance. Hundreds
of torches, carried by the French Canadian snow-shoe
clubs, were massed about the slide, while gay Cana-
dian songs were sung b}^ the snow-shoers. The party
in the sleigh, however, agreed that the scene was quite
as pretty and effective from the shore, and soon drove
back, meeting the walkers at the place they had agreed
on. From thence they conld see the clustered torches
gradually forming into two long lines of light, as the
snow-shoe clubs formed into procession and crossed
the river highway, spanning completely the half-mile
of river "boulevard." while marching across. It was
a pretty sight to see all the different clubs filing past,
each in its own distinctive variety of blanket costume.
Alan pointed out each individual club as it passed,
telling them s(miething of its history or " local habita-
tion,' for there was a muster of clubs from all the
surrounding points. The " Trappeurs," in their con-
%\
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\ m
y
268
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
*i:
I;-:
spicuous blue and white costume, attracted most no-
tice from their fine imposing appearance, and the
spirit with which they sang the lively " Trappeur's "
song, and then glided into the martial refrain of the
old Marseillaise.
" 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array ! "
quoted Professor Duncan laughingly, as the last of
the long procession passed them. " Well, I'm glad
they're not ' boune for battle strife,' as many such a
band used to be, in the old times of the border forays
between their ancestors and ours, Mr. Lane. May
there never be occasion for border warfare a^ain ! "
" Amen I " exclaimed Mr. Lane. '' Annexation or
no annexation, the United States and Canada are two
countries that can't afford to quarrel, and never will, I
believe, sc long as thexe are so many sensible and
Christian men on both sides of the line."
" Even over the loaves and fishes ? " said the pro-
fessor.
'•'' If we tided over the Trent affair, we can tide
over the fishes," replied Mr. Lane, as the driver turnt^d
his horses' heads, and tlie pedestrians moved on,
Millie this time being squeezed into the big, accommo-
dating sleigli. But before they parted. Professor
Duncan and Alan declared that Mr. Lajie and his
CARNIVAL GL01UE8.
2G9
)ro-
ined
on,
imo-
Issor
his
party must drive back to St. Helen's Island next day,
to see the model of a trapper's or lumbertn's slianty,
which was erected there, in order to show visitors a
little bit of the wild life of the hunter or voyar/cur in
the backwoods. It was arranged, therefore, that the
American visitors should go next day, taking Mar-
jorie and also Alan to act as showman and ex])lain it
all ; for he had once gone out with a hunting party, and
had lived for a time in just such a shanty. Professor
Duncan said that he would walk over himself, and
probably meet them over there.
Next day was not quite so cold, and there was a
threatening of snow, which was regarded with some
anxi' ty lest it should spoil the enjoyment of the great
event of the evening and of the week — the '•• storming
of the ice-palace," to which Marjorie was looking for-
ward with highly wrought exjiectations, having de-
clined all description of it in advance, as she wanted
it to be " quite new and unexpected," and " not like a
story of which you knew the end beforehand." Mr.
Lane's sleigh drove up for them early in the afternoon,
and Marjorie was not to return home till after the
event of the evening.
It was only a short drive across the frozen river to
the pretty island — pretty even in winter — with its
raised outline clearly visible, and its trees graceful in
the contour of their leafless forms. The American
visitors looked with great interest at the broad, smooth
If
i i
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ri
270
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
white channel of the firmly frozen river, the gleaming
villages scattered along its opposite shore, with
sleighs of all sorts and sizes crossing to and fro, the
solid line of the Victoria Bridge to the right, and the
long mass of the city stretching down tlie river to the
left. Mr. Lane thought it must be very like Russia,
and Nettie, regardless of the cold, thought she should
like to stay there all winter, especially as Alan
promised her unlimited tobogganing if slie would do so.
" There's the Hunters"' Camp," said Alan, as the
horses dashed up the little ascent from the river.
Under some tall arching trees stood the little
"shanty," built — walls, roof and all — of round logs.
Without lay the carcasses of one or two fine deer,
while hares and game hung along the outside wall,
and a few fish of different kinds were suspended
beside them, all hard frozen. They found Professor
Duncan walking about inspecting these, and talking
to one of the hunters, dressed in a blanket-coat and
trapper appendages, about the habits and haunts of
the animals. After the strangers had looked at these
trophies of the chast, they proceeded to inspect the
little cabin, which, Alan told them, was an exact model
of the "real thing." The professor showed them how
ingeniously the logs were morticed into each other at
the ends, so as to make the walls as close as possible ;
how the roof was formed of the halves of the round
logs alternately reversed, so that it made a tight roof
»g
le
at
of
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
271
not unlike a tiled one, at a distance, and how ingen-
iously the door was hung on wooden hinges, with a
wooden latch pin, not a nail nor a bit of iron being
used in the whole construction.
*' All done with the ax, every bit of it ; for you see
there are no hardware shops in the forest, and neces-
sity is the mother of invention."
When they entered the low door, as they were
politely invited to do by the gentlemanly hunters, they
found the interior quite as ingeniously arranged as the
exterior. At one side a sort of rude shelf was con-
structed of boughs, on which was strewn the bedding
of hemlock branches.
" Just like Pere Le Jeune's bed, I suppose," said
Marjoiie. and the prof(»ssor assented, adding, however :
" Minus the shelf, of course. They couldn't have
luxuries in such temporary arrangements as wigwams."
In the middle burned a large fire of blazing logs,
the smoke of which ascended through the hole in the
roof, though a percentage, at least, was wandering
about the cabin, again recalling Pere Le Jeune.
Above it v. as suspended from a hook a great iron pot,
in which some fish was being cooked, which the
hunters insisted on letting their guests taste, in little
tin camp plates. A wooden shelf, fitted into the wall,
answered the purpose of a table, and a smaller one sup-
ported a tin jug and basin ; primitive toilet arrange-
ments. Caps and coats hung from wooden pins.
A
272
CARNIVAL GLOKIE8.
"%.
I ■ I
Alan surveyed it all with great satisfaction. " I
expect I shall see enough of this sort of thing, by and
by, when I am out on * surveying [)arties,' " he said ;
adding : " You know in the regular lumbering shanties
they have berths like those all round the walls —
sometimes two tiers of thein — where the men sleep,
sometimes twenty or more in one shanty."
When they had all inspected the ])lace and its fit-
tings to their satisfa(!tion, they walked about the
island a little, admiring the view of the city, with its
mountain background, very much the same, of course,
as that which passengers by water receive on approach-
ing Montreal by the river steamboat.
•■' You can hardly imagine how much prettier both
the view and the island are in summer, wlien the
" mountain ' there is one mass of green, and the
island, too, is as pretty a little park as you could wish
to see. And by the way, Marjorie, did I tell you how
this island came by its name? "said Professor Duncan.
'^ No," said Marjorie ; "^ how did it get it ? "
" From the fair Helene de Champlain. You know
I told you that Champlain brought out his beautiful
and religious young wife to Canada, where she did not
remain very long, however, not caring, you see, for the
role of a lonely 'Northern Light.' But while she was
here she was greatly charmed with the beauty of this
island, and bought it for herself with her own money.
And that is how it comes to be called St. Helen's."
CARNIVAL (iLORIES.
273
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Marjorie ronienibered how she herself had thought
that it would be '^ nicest "' to be a sunbeam, and how
her father had replied. And she felt sorry that
Heleiie de Chaniplain had not proved herself more
worthy of her brave husband. And she wondered
how she eould go into a convent jmd leave him to do
his work all alone. The professor added :
" I have no doubt, however, that she helped to
excite some interest in Canada among the good people
about her. She would tell them about the poor
Indians and their children, and she probably did
something to excite the great enthusiasm that soon
sprang uj) in France about the Canadian Mission."
They had reached the place where the sleigh was
awaiting them, and the ladies and Mr. Lam^ took their
places, Alan preferring to walk back with Professor
Duncan.
" What a lot of things that professor does know !
Why, Marjorie, he's just like your father for always
being able to tell just the things you want to know ! "
exclaimed Nettie, while Marjorie smiled with pleasure
at the recognition of her f;ither's stores of knowledge,
which had always seemed so vast to her.
" Yes, yes ; the professor certainly is an exceedingly
well-informed man. I consider that we are much
indebted to you, Marjorie, for the pleasure of his
acquaintance," said Mr. Lane.
" And Alan's a real nice boy, too," said Nettie,
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feeling that his merits should not be passed over in
silence. " And I think he's quite handsome, too, in
that blanket costume. It suits him exactly. I wish
he would give me his photograph to take home."
Marjorie replied that she didn't ihink he had any-
good ones of his present self.
There was a little discussion as to what the party
should do next ; and it was arranged that Marjorie
and Nettie should be dropped at Mrs. West's to pay the
visit on which Nettie had set her heart, while the
others drove on to see some snow-shoe races then
going on, and would return to take them to the Victo-
ria Rink, to look in at some fancy skating that was
going on there.
Fortunacely Ada was at home. She explained that
all the others had gone out sightseeing, but that she
was rather tired of it, at any rate, and had staid at
home, thinking that Marjorie and Nettie would prob-
ably call that afternoon, Nettie was enthusiastic in
her open admiration of everything she saw, and Ada
was as willing to exhibit as the visitor was to admire.
The drawing-room, the conservatory, the library, the
dining-room, Ada's own room, were all visited, and the
multitude of ber.utiful things they contained duly
scrutinized. And Nettie admired everything, from
the statuary and pictures down to the ornamental cov-
erings of the steampipes, and the artistic tiling and
fittings of the grates. Ada, who had always an unlim-
1:1
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
275
in
duly
'rom
cov-
and
nlim-
ited supply of candies on hand, treated her friends
h'berally to walnut creams and French bonbons as
they sat and talked, Ada having as many questions to
ask about New York as Nettie had about Montreal.
The two got on very well, notwithstanding Ada's pro-
fessed objection to Americans, and the fact that, what-
ever she might say of Marjorie, she could not consider
Nettie as anything but a '" real American." But with
Ada, as with many people, theory and practice were
somewhat disconnected.
When the sleigh returned to take them up, Nettie
knew far more accurately all the details of the interior
she had just seen than Marjorie did yet, and being of
a very practical turn, she was much impressed with the
amount of money that must have been spent on it.
'' How I should like it if we could have just such
a house as that ! " she exclaimed as they drove off.
" O, father ! it's such a beautiful house ! 1 wish you
could have seen it."
"I've no doubt of it," said Mr. Lane, smiling.
" I've seen some of these Montreal houses before.
But I don't think you are very badly off at home."
" I don't think you'd want to change with Ada if
you knew all about it," said Marjorie. '' I think it's
a great deal nicer to have a mother like yours, who
cares about giving her money to missions, and looking
after poor people, than to have the sort of mother Ada
has."
m
276
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
"You*re right there, Marjorie," said Mr. Lane,
whose quick ear caught the low-toned remark. " Net-
tie has got a mother who's a woman in a thousand. I
only hope she'll follow in her footsteps."
The two New York ladies had been left at the Vic-
toria Kink, wnere Mr. Lane and the girls joined them.
It also was decorated for the Carnival, the chief orna-
ment being a little Gothic tower in the center, built of
ice, from which in the evenings colored lights were
showered in profusion. The fancy skating was very
good; and the ladies watched with admiration the
graceful turns and twists which the skaters performed,
as if it were the simplest matter possible to keep one's
balance on one foot on a glassy surface. But they
soon grew tired of it, and were very glad to go back
to the hotel before the early dusk began to fall, and
have a rest before dinner. Nettie and Marjorie en-
sconced themselves in one of the recesses off the great
drawing-room, and there, luxuriously installed in one
of the comfortable little sofas, they talked away till the
gong sounded for dinner.
It was a pleasant novelty to Marjorie to sit down at
one of the well-appointed little dining-tables in the
magnificent frescoed dining-room of the hotel, in which
Nettie told her the great ball was to come off on an
evening later. She and Nettie amused themselves in
selecting the dishes with the longest French names
from the elaborate menu, and were sometimes dis-
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
277
appointed in the results. At last the fruit and ice-
cream appeared, and the long-protracted dinner con-
cluded with a cup of coffee. Marjorie for one was
not sorry when it was over, and they adjourned to the
drawing-room, where they found her cousins already
arrived. They were soon joined by Professor Duncan,
and then they all proceeded to their posts of observa-
tion upstairs. Marjorie was glad when it turned out
that she, with the two gentlemen, were to have a room
and a window to themselves, as she knew she should
enjoy the sight fur better for the absence of the brisk
comments of Nettie and her cousin.
By the time they reached the windows, the large
square below was one black mass of people, crowded
as close as they could stand around the space to be
occupied by the besieging band of snow-shoers near
the ice-palace, glittering in its intense white radiance.
Every available point of vantage in the vicinity was
occupied ; even the trees served as a roost for advent-
urous sightseers, while pillars, projections and roofs
were all utilized.
" There they come — see the advancing line of
torches," said the professor, pointing up the square.
On they came, in long procession of two and two, like
the one of the preceding evening, the flaring torches
they carried throwing out the light blanket suits with
gay borders, and the bright tuques, sashes and hose,
while the snow-shoes on which they tripped so lightly
278
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
looked like tadpoles on the snow. Each club carried
its own standard, and the men sang snatches of spirited
songs as they marched in time to their own music.
The whole aspect of the mimic army conveyed an im-
pression of abounding physical energy and overflowing
animal spirits, quickened by the sharp frosty air. For
the snow flurry that had threatened had passed over,
and the sky and atmosphere were brilliantly clear. As
the Tuque Bhue Club passed beneath th( windows,
Marjorie eagerly scanned it to see whether she could
discover Alan and Gerald, who both belonged to it.
It was not long before she singled them out, walking
together, and pointed them out to her companions.
" Ah, yes ! they make a nice contrast, those two.
Alan's such a strapping, broad-shouldered fellow, just
cut out for the profession he wants to follow, and
Gerald's a fine, thoughtful-looking lad. I often wonder
what he'll make of liimself," said the professor, half-
soliloquizing.
Onward strode the long array of men, looking like
an army of knights in white armor, and winding round
the palace, encircled it with their cordon of moving-
lights. And then the fervor of the fray began. One
rocket after another whizzed forth in the direction of
the luminous palace, till soon the air was filled with a
shower of fiery projectiles describing all manner of
curves of light against the sky. Lurid serpents glided
up into the air, circling round the palace as if intent
CARNIVAL GLOUIES.
279
on its destruction. Tiien from the tall tower of the
castle, on which the moving figures of the defenders
could be distinctly seen, came a counter-fire ; the flash-
ing lines of light meeting and (^-ossing, the sharp
whizz and crack of the fireworks keeping uj) a sem-
blance of a real assault ; now seeming to strengthen
in its force, while again the besiegers seemed to rally
and put forth all their strength in sending fort); tor-
rents of fiery arrows on their foes. Now and tnen,
when the contest slackened, a side fire from the Wind-
sor would be poured into the melee. Suddenly, as
the mimic battle went on, the pure white light of the
crystal pile changed into a yellow glare, while clouds
of smoke arose above its battlements. The yellow
passed into a lurid red. The spectators held their
breath. It was almost impossible to resist the illusion
of a castle in a blaze of real flame. An almost pain-
ful interest invested the brave defenders, who still
kept their post aloft on the tower. But presently the
glare softened, faded into a deep purple ; then an ex-
quisite soft blue light pervaded the building, changing,
in its turn, to a pale sea-green, f'inally even this
faded away ; and as the last shower of fiery arrows
spent itself harndessly in the air, the palace stood once
more in its crystal purity, gleaming with its clear,
throbbing white brilliancy, like a vision of ethereal
beauty that no mortal power could harm or destroy.
" ' Nee tamen cojisumebatur^' and yet it was not
280
CARNIVAL GLOKIEH.
consumed," quoted the professor, when it was all over.
" I hope we may take it as an omen of the condition
of our brave Gordon, unhurt after all he has passed
through."
And so, no doubt, it was, but in a sense not meant
by the speaker ; for erelong they knew that on that
very day Sir Charles Wilson had arrived before Khar-
toum to find it fallen, and Gordon relieved, indeed,
and at "rest from his labors."
"But it seems to me," he added, "a symbol of a
soul that has been sorely tried by temptation, and yet
unharmed ; nay, all the purer for the battle fought
and the victory won ! You remember, Marjorie, the
song your cousin sings, ' Cleansing Fires ' :
** ' For the rokl must be tried by Are,
As the heart must be tried with pain ! ' "
i
" Well, now, that's a capital idea," said Mr. Lane,
as Marjorie, who had been spell-bound by the spectacle,
silently assented. " I've known just such a ease my-
self. I believe there's a meaning in everything, if one
could just hit on it."
" I'm sure there is," said the professor. But now
the long white train of white-uniformed knights had
begun their retiring march, and the professor suggested
that the younger members of the party should walk on
with him and watch their progress up the " mountain,"
CARNIVAL GLOUIEH.
281
a
iiy-
»ne
low
had
Ited
on
to which they were now bound. The girls and Mr.
Lane, too, gladly followed the suggestion, and they
walked up in the rear of the departing army, watching
them winding in a living line of light, up the mount-
ain path an<l along its brow. Led by Professor
Duncan, they walked till they gained the platform by
the Reservoir, from which point they could at once
watch the motions of the procession of lights and enjoy
the effect presented by the gleaming white palace
sparkling like a great pearl in the city below them.
Having, ttnally, followed the snow-shoers back on their
downward course, they encountered Alan and (lerald,
who had '" deserted," as they expressed it. Alan per-
suaded Mr. Lane and Nettie that it was not yet too
late for a slide down the Tuqw /i/ewc, which was
almost in their way. Thither they went accordingly,
and Nettie, in a whirlwind of fear and delight about
equally mingled, accomplished the object of hev and)i-
tion — a "• toboggan ride," which would be a tale to
tell for years to come. Mr. Lane was persujuled into
going down also, but declared, as he pulled himself up
from the snow, that, " while it was vvell enough for
once, once was enough : and that it was high time that
they were all at home and asleep, instead of turning
night into day in this fashion."
Next day there was the grand drive which is always
a " feature " of the Caimival, when a long train of
sleighs, in which was represented every species of
1
II
282
CARNIVAL GLORIES.
vehicle to be found or devised in Montreal ; making a
procession almost long enough to enconij)ass the city.
There were ,all the bona fide equipages, from the richly
robed family sleigh, high |>oised above their runners,
to the tiniest and lowest cutter, which was one drawn
by a goat, which Marjorie had formerly admired ;
while anothci*, only a little hirger, had harnessed to
it a donkey arrayed in as full a tobogganing costume
as a donkey could wear. Thcr(? were great drays and
primitive country sleighs, and a' tall, old-fashioned
vehicle driven by a negro coachman. Tlu^n there were
the great trophy sleds ; one i)iled up with a pyramid
of snow-shocrs, another with tobogganei-s ; a large old
boat of antiquarian interest mounted on runners ; an
Indian canoe similarly equipped, and a mammoth
toboggan labeled *' Baby," an exaggeration of one well
known at the Tvque Blnie slide. The day was bright
and comparatively mild — an ideal winter day ; and the
visitors with Marjorie enjoyed the drive from a bal-
cony of the hotel, which of course was on the line of
mandi. In the evening they all went down to witness
the closing scene of the Carnival ; the " storming "
of the condora., or great ice-cairn down town, in which
the French Canadian clubs figured. The huge white
tower rose in six narrow circles, each the top of a
separate wall of ice, and these ledges were all outlined
with snow-shoers, while the apex of the whole was
crowned by the colossal effigy of a snow-shoer, in the
CARNIVAL (il.OKIKS.
283
deep blue and white iinifonn of the '' Tra])|)eui'H." A
Hurroundin*^ jjlialaiix stormed the stron^hohl witli their
roekets and fiery ser})ents, tlie attaek l)ein«»' a second
edition of the one on the iee-pahice tlie nij^ht before.
Some very fine fireworks added to tiir g-eneral effeet ;
and the dense crowd, inchiding a hir^-e part of tlie
P^'cneh population of the city, seenictl immensely de-
lighted, uttering gleeful exclamations of " B(ni ! "
"e/b/ifr//" ^'' j\/(((/tnfi'(/H(' / '' 'ds one |)yroteehnic dis-
play after another l)lazed forth in its short-lived beauty.
Marjorie was amused and intei'ested as the j)rofessor
pointed out to her sonu; of the rude litth; sleighs of
the poor hfthltautSj which had brought nj) their little
loads of eager sightseers from the country homes, for
the rare and long-expected jdeasure. And there they
sat, a picture of simple-hearted, thorough enjoyment,
laying up recollections of these wonderful sights, which
would brighten their monotonous lives for months to
come.
Mr. Lane and his party were going to look into the
Victoria Rink on their way home, as there was a skat-
ing carnival going on, to which Mr. Lane had received
tickets of admission from one of his business friends.
Nettie insisted that Marjorie should go with them,
promising to drive her safely home after they had just
taken a look at the gay and picturesque scene. It
was, Marjorie thought, more like a fairy tale than a
reality. The great building was brilliantly illumin-
1 V
284
CARNIVAL (JLOUIK8.
ated ; tlie fairy-like ice grotto was charmingly deco-
rated with hrilliant flowers, and the throng of quaint
and fanciful figures, gliding in graci'ful, undulating
motion to the inspiriting niusie, made a picture worthy
of the uiii(pie scene. The characters who glided j)a8t
in endless suc(!ession had all, surely, stepped out of
books or stories. There was, Marjorie was certain, Ha-
roun-al-Kaschid himself. Next to him came an Italian
peasant girl ; then a stately cavalier, and a red Indian
with deerskin shirt and leggings and befeathcred head.
And there was a court huly in powdered wig and high-
heeled shoes. And then came a stalwart ecclesiastic
— could it be Pere Le Jeune? — and arm in arm with
him, in doublet and hose, with jdumed hat — surely
that must be (Jhamplain ! Between the bright and
varied dresses of the swiftly moving throng, the con-
tinuous surging sound of a thousand skates grazing
the ice at once, and the sweet strains of the floating
music. Marjorie did not know whether she were awake
or dreaming ; but she had all the sensation of being
awakened from a dream when Mr. Lane's authoritative
voice de(;lared that " it was eleven o'clock, and high
time to leave all this theatrical tomfoolery, and go
home like sensible folks, to bed."
And so ended the glories of the Carnival ; and next
day Nettie and her friends, like many other visitors
from afar, were to turn their faces homewards.
v\
CHAPTER XV.
PEKE DE N OUE.
Mr. Lane had decided to leave Montreal by the
evening train. Nettie and her uunt and cousin would
have liked to stay to get a gli!nj)se of the grand hall
at the Windsor that night, but Mr. Lane would not
spare another day ; so Nettie reluctantly prepared to
tear herself away from what had been to her like a
scene of enchantment. Marjorie went shopping with
her in the morning, and tried to restrain Nettie's ardor
to possess herself of all manner of souvenirs of the
Carnival ; miniature snow-shoes, toboggans, photo-
graphs of the ice-palac'P, which abounded wherever
they turned. Marjorie persuaded her to be satisfied
with copies of the illustrated Carnival numbers of the
Witness and Star, in the way of ])ictorial representa-
tions, as Mr. Lane had already bought one excellent
])hotograph of the ice-palace ; and she herself j)ro-
cured copies of the picture papers to send to her father
and to Rebecca, knowing how the latter would be de-
lighted ; in the first place with the remembrance, and
286
a-
Tt
il ■'
;ii
fe-i
286
PERE DE NOLE.
ill the second, witli tlie wonderful pictures of the
tobogganing" and snow-shoeing and all the icy wonders
of the Carnival.
After the shopping was done, Marjorie acted as
cicerone to show tlie others tlie churches. They went
to Notre Dame and then to the old lionsecours, where
the subdued and foreign tone, and the humble kneeling
h<ihlt(fnts impressed Mr. Lane very much ; for this is
the favorite church of tlie French Canadian, and much
frequented daily.
Coming back along Xotre Dame Street, they turned
into the '■•Gray Nunuery," Nettie being most eager to
see a French convent. Tliey looked around the quiet
courtyard, such a strange contrast to the bustling,
crowded street they had just left ; aiul Marjorie
showed Mr. Lane the primitive old gray stone build-
ing near the gate, whicli had been the first chapel
foundi-'d by Marguerite de Bourgeoys in the seven-
teenth century, and whicli is now used for some kind
of warehouse. Then tiiey read the tablet on the pres-
ent substantial stone chapel, which conimeuiorates the
name and the fame of the devoted and benevolent
Marguerite. And when a gentle, sweet- faced nun
conducted tliem into the great salon^ she pointed out,
in her broken English, the portrait of the foundress,
with its kind and sensible face ; and Marjorie at once
excited the pleased interest of their conductress when
she began to tell her friends what she had learned
i the
nders
ed as
went
where
eeling
this is
nmeh
burned _
Loer to
5 quiet
istling-,
ujorie
Imihl-
ehapel
seven-
e kind
e pres-
tes tlie
evok'ut
d nun
hI out,
nih'oss,
at once
s when
learned
i!
;;
I'AXCY I>Ui:ss CAlf.NINAI., AT IIIK \l('l<»ltl\ KINK.
[■m
ill
PERE DE NOUE.
287
about the labors of love of this noble-hearted French
maiden for the poor Indian children in the early days
of M..ntreal.
Last of all they went to the Jesuits* church, and there
they were all delighted ; first with the beauty of the
interior with its rich artistic decorations, and then with
the exquisite organ music, for there was a practice
going on, and they had the benefit of it.
Marjorie took lunch with her friends at the Wind-
sor, and in the afternoon Professor Duncan came by
appointment to take them to see the University. The
library and museum were of course the chief points of
interest. Marjorie thought it would be dcliglitful to
live among those long rows of books, and have nothing
to do but read them — a i)lcasurc which Nettie de-
clared, she would never envy her. But Nettie was
delighted with the museum, and es])ccially with the
specimens of wild Canadian animals. She was not at
all impressed with that black unintelligible-looking
object which the professor told Mr. Lane was the
oldest Canadian fossil yet discovered, and which had
caused a great deal of discussioii among naturalists.
Nor did she care mucli for the long rows of cases of
minerals and moths and butterflies : but the beaver
and foxes and deer and bears were; inspected with the
greatest interest, in which IMarjorie fully shared ; for
were not these the very creatures which sometimes
came into the professor's stories ? He himself pointed
288
PERE DE NOUE.
out the different kinds of deer ; showed them the great
ox-like head of the moose, with its immense breadth of
nose and of liorns ; and the smaller, though somewhat
similar type of the elk and tlie earibou, with their
completely different horns, rounded and pointed
instead of flat and branching. He pointed out the
curious third horn of the caribou deer, pointing down-
ward along the creature's nose, and Marjorie thought
she should have no difficulty now in remembering what
these different species looked like. Then they looked
at the finer, more graceful heads of the ordinary red
deer, so beautiful and appealing with their large
soft eyes, that the girls wondered how men could ever
be cruel enough to shoot them, and Professor Duncan
admitted tluit he was quite of their opinion, whereat
Mr. Lane laughed heartily, and said that he only
wished he had the chance to bring down such a fine
quarry.
Nettie looked with much interest at the beaver, with
his flat trowel of a tail ; and the raccoon, with his
bushy body, sharp nose, grizzled eyebrows and black
eyes, and at the slender mink and soft-furred otter,
which would now be real creatures to her, instead of
mere names of furs. Then they went to look at the
birds, and after pointing out the principal song birds,
the professor showed them the varieties of aquatic
birds ; the tall cranes and herons, the soft-tinted
ducks, the great, solemn loon, with his black head and
PERE DE NOUE.
289
white collar, which frequents only solitary places, and
dives below the water whenever an enemy ai)})roaches.
But the hour for tlie departure of Mr. Lane and his
party was drawing on, far too soon for Nettie, who
could hardly bear to leave " dear, delightful Montreal,"
and all her new friends, and begged Marjorie to write
to her long letters, telling her about everybody and
everything.
Professor Duncan and Alan, as well as Marjorie,
went to the station to see the travelers off ; and many
regrets and good wishes were exchanged. Mr. Lane
was most earnest in his thanks to Professor Duncan
for the pleasur:; which his society had added to a most
delightful visit, and in his hosi)itable invitation to
come to see him, and " do " New York with him, as
they had " done " the Carnival together.
" Good-by, Marjorie ! come back as soon as you
can," Nettie called out as a last word from the window
of the train. Then with the usual shriek of the loco-
motive, they were off, making Marjorie feel, for the
moment, as if she had lost a link with her old home-
life. But she soon forgot this in hearins: Professor
Duncan and Alan discussing, as they walked home, the
battles in Egypt, of which the news had just come, and
the grave situation of Stewart and his troops, not to
speak of General Gordon, about whom the anxiety was
growing stronger every day. It was not long before
their worst fears were confirmed.
290
P£KE DE NOUE.
A few days later Professor Duncan came in for his
usual Sunday evening visit, with a saddened look and
a lack of his usual animation.
" So it's all over out there, Kanisay," he said to his
friend the doctor.
"You think the worst is true, then?" replied Dr.
Ramsay. " I have been trying to hope still."
" I fear — I fear," said Professor Duncan sorrow-
fully. " It seems too sad to be true, but it's only too
probable. In fact, treachery's what I've been fearing
all along ; and they say it was on the twenty-eighth.
While we were enjoying the mimic siege of the ice-
palace, that tragedy was being enacted over there."
But Norman and Effie did not at all enjoy thi«
grave and solemn talk, and Millie, though she had
taken a profound interest in Gordon's fate, thought
that it should not swallow u}) all other subjects, and
asked if they were not going to have that other story
the professor had promised to tell them.
" O, yes ! about my good Pere De Noiie," he said,
" the first martyr of the Canadian missions. Well, it
isn't so difficult to turn from Gordon to him, for,
though the good Father is by no means a martial figure,
he showed that he could be a hero, too, and one with
the very same spirit in him — of humble, unconscious
self-sacrifice. It is pleasant, too, to realize that who-
ever may live or die, that spirit, ' the Spirit of the
Lord,' abideth forever."
PERE DE NOUE.
291
ice-
" Strange," said Dr. Ramsay, " I never thought of
taking that text just in that way before ! But it is
wonderfully true, and it ought to be the great consola-
tion when '^ a leader in Israel ' falls, and for the time
it seems as if all was lost."
" Let me see then," said the i)rofessor, answering
the wistful looks of the children, who were afraid that
one of these digressive diseussions was impending.
" I must begin at the beginning, I suppose, and tell
you that when Pere Le Jeune first came to Quebec,
Pere Anne de Noiie — for that was his full name^ — a
scion of a noble family in Champagne, came as one of
his three companions."
'^ Why did they call a man ' Anne ' ? " asked Millie.
" It was very common for men on entering ;i reli-
gious order, to take a new name, often the name of a
saint ; and I suppose Pere De Noiie chose St. Anne
as his patron saint, and took her name. Pere Le
Jeune tells us that poor Pere De Noiie was very sea-
sick on their voyaga out ; and they had good reason,
when they landed at Gaspe, to take all the comfort
they did out of the passage occurring in the service
for the day, ' Lo, I am with you alway, even to the
end of the world,' for at Tadousac, they had a horrible
foretaste of the barbarity of the Indians, in the fate of
some Iroquois prisoners whom they vainly tried to save
from torture and death. And they knew that such a
fate for themselves was by no means an improbability.
292
PERE DE NOUE.
" When they all got settled down in their little log-
built convent of Notre Dame des Aiigeti, surrounded
by palisades like a fort, more Jesuits came to them ;
till their family numbered six priests and two lay
brothers. The priests slept in little cells eight feet
square, off their refectory ; and they had besides, a
chapel, a kitchen, and a lodging for workmen. For
they had a little farm, kept pigs and cows, and culti-
vated fields of rye, barley, wheat and maize. Pere
Masse, was wont to be called le Pere utile^ * the useful
Father,' because he looked after the cows and pigs,
and Pere De Noiie had a more difficult task in manag-
ing the worl'inen, who seem to have been often discon-
tented, though Pere De NoUe's mildness succeeded in
keeping down their grumbling, and making them fairly
content with their unequal wages, which of necessity
were somewhat uncertain. » ,
*' Pere De Noiie does not seem to have been gifted
with much capacity for learning languages, so that he
could not do a great deal in the way of converting the
Indians ; but he did not think any useful work beneath
him. Pere Le Jeune tells us that some of the Indians
took a curious fancy during the winter, that Pere De
Noiie caused a cold wind that was blowing, by going
out early to work in the wood when the sky was red.
It seemed that they were accustomed themselves to
remain at home when the sky was red, and then the
wind did not blow ; and they were sure that if Pere
PERK I)K N01:E.
293
De Noiie would only give up his unseasonable excur-
sions, the wind would cease to blow.
" In the end of January of that same winter, the
one preceding that of Pcre Le Jeune's pilgrimage,
about which I have told you, some of tlie friendly
Algonquins were encamped at Cape Tourmente, below
Quebec, and sent an invitation to the good Fathers to
come to visit them in their wigwam, and partake of
their game. The Fathers were unwilling to offend
them by refusing to go; and moreover they heard
that an Indian well-known to them had died down
there, and had left two orphan children, whom they
wanted to secure, in order to send them to France to
be educated as missionaries. So Pcre De Noiie deter-
mined to take the journey, by no means an easy one.
For, as Pcre Le Jeune says, the only inns were
the woods themselves, where, when night drew on, the
travelers would clear a round space with their snow-
shoes for shovels, and make a big fire in the shelter
of the wall of snow ; while a little melted snow and
dried eel served for supper. Compare that with the
Windsor, Marjorie I "
*' I don't think Alan would care much to go on such
a hunting party as that," said Millie, while Marjorie
felt half-ashamed of her sumptuous dinner at the
hotel.
" Well, they reached the hunting camp in safety,
and the savages were very glad to see them, though
•»S''
294
PERE DE NOUE.
they showed it only by exclaiming : ' Ho I ho ! ho ! '
their usual greeting. They hastened to 'put on the
niuckle pot,' as the Scotch song says, and boil some
elk flesh in snow-water for their visitors' supper, and
as the young hunters brought in some beavers, these
were added to the feast, the Indians astonishing Pere
De Noiie by the amount they could devour.
''■ But the Father could not eat the Iialf-cooked flesh
as they did, and before long he felt that he must
return, or he would soon be too weak to do so. He
was indeed half-starved, for the little store of bread
that he had carried with him was greedily taken by
the Indians, who said that he could eat as much of it
as he wanted, when he returned home. And while on
his way home, with the sled load of flesh that the
Indians had bestowed on him, he fairly gave in from
sickness and exhaustion and exposure to a bitter wind,
and could go no farther until Pere Le Jeune, being
informed of his condition, sent a messenger to carry
bread and wine to revive him. Rest and refreshment,
however, soon restored him from the sick exhaustion
caused by exposure, starvation and the close, smoky
atmosphere of the i-eeking wigwam.
" T have told you this incident to show you that
Pere De Noiie, though not naturally adventurous,
shrank from no hardship or peril to which he was
called. One of his most marked characteristics,
indeed, was his passion for implicit obedience to his
PERE DE NOUE.
295
that
urous,
was
•istics,
to his
superior in all thingH. He was a man of a most sen-
sitive conscience, and nothing gave him so much pain
as did fear of having neglected any duty. We do not
hear very much about him during the evi-ntful years
that followed. As his bad memory kei)t him from
mastering the Algonquin language, he seems to have
devoted himself mainly to the spiritual needs of the
French about the forts, or of the Indians with whom
he could communicate through an interpreter, lie
was most attentive to the sick, and, sharing all the
hardships of his charge, he would cheerfully fish in
the river, or dig for roots in the woods, in order to
* feed his sheep,' literally as well as metaphorically.
"In January of the same year th; ♦; saw the martyr-
dom of Isaac Jogues — 1646 — Pere De Noiie became,
as I have said, in a sense the first martyr of the Cana-
dian Mission, though it was not by the hands of savage
men. lie set out from Three Rivers with two soldiers
and a Huron Indian, for the fort which the French
had built at the mouth of the Richelieu, where he was
to say mass and hear confessions. They all, of course,
walked on snow-shoes, the soldiers dragging the bag-
gage after them on their small sleds. The soldiers
were awkward at walking on snow-shoes, and were
greatly fatigued after their first day's march of
eighteen miles. Pere De Noiie was now an old man
of sixty-three, and could not help with the baggage,
but he was more accustomed to snow-shoes, and was
290
PERE DE NOUE.
not SO much worn out by the tramp. At night — a
bitter cohl night — they made their camj) on the shore
of the frozen Lake St. Peter, in the way I have
already described, clearing a round spot in the snow,
hoaj)ing it up as a shelter against the wind, and then
building a large fire in the middle of the circle.
" All lay down to sleep, and slept soundly. But
about two o'clock in the morning Pcre De NoUe, who
had been troubled about the fatigued condition of his
companions, awoke and looked out. It was a brilliant
moonlight night, such a night as that of our tramp,
when the boys went for the Christmas-tree. The
broad highway of the frozen lake looked invitingly
clear, open all the way to the dark border of pines on
the other side. Pere De Noiie conceived the idea
of going on in advance, and sending men ba(^k from
the fort to help his comrades to draw their sledges.
He knew the way well, and had no fears. So direct-
ing his companions to follow next morning the tracks
of his snow-shoes — as he felt sure he should reach the
fort before nightfall — he left behind him his blanket
and his flint and steel, taking only a piece of bread
and a few prunes in his pocket.
"But before dawn the clear moonlight grew clouded
over and a snowstorm set in, which left the good
Father in darkness, in which he completely lost his
way. He wandered far out on the lake, and even
when day dawned, he coald still see only the snow
PERE 1>E NOUE.
297
close about and beneath him. On be toiled tlirough
the fast-fuUini^ snow, often returning on his own tra<!k,
and at last, wlien night came on, he dug a hole in tiie
snow close to an island, and lay down to rest, without
fire or covi'ring. Next day he puslied on again, and,
sad to say, i)assed near the fort without seeing it,
and walked some distance further on.
" Meantime his comj)ani()ns, unable to trace the
tracks of his snow-shoes, quickly covered by the snow,
had also wandennl from their course, and had camped,
the first night, on the shore of tlie same island,
not far from Pcre De Noiie. The Indian, though
ignorant of the country, determined to push on alone,
and soon reached the little palisaded fort, with its
little garrison of a few men, doing sentry duty to
watch the Iroquois. Here the Indian found to his
surprise that nothing had been seen of tlie Fi'iher, and
a search party started at once. They quickly found
the soldiers ; but in vain they ranged tlie ice in all
directions, shouting and firing to catch the wanderer's
ear. All day they searched in vain, returning at
night baffled and fearing the worst. Next morning
two Christian Indians went out with a French soldier,
and finding the Father's track by the slight depression
it made in the snow that had covered it, they followed
it up till they found him — where the Angel of Death
had found him already. He had dug a second hole
in the snow, and there, kneeling bareheaded, his eyes
^'pff
'^I3«i
298
PERE DE NOUE.
raised towards Heaven and his hands clasped on his
breast, he had met death with the fortitude of a
martyr and the tranquillity of a saint, just as, I am
certain, our lamented Gordon met it in the Soudan ! "
The children, who had listened intently, were look-
ing very serious ; Norman and Effie, indeed, looked
ready to cry, for they could understand this tale better
than that of Pere Le Jeune's trials.
Presently Mrs. Ramsay said gently : " It is a
beautiful story. Professor Duncan, and, as you say, it
shows very clearly the oneness of the Divine spirit of
Love. How it recalls the words : ^ Hereby know we
love, because He laid down His life for us ; and
we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.' "
" Yes ; those two did it, in the same spirit and by
the same strength," said Dr. Ramsay reverently.
" But," said Marjorie, " why does it say that ' we
ought to lay down our lives for the brethren ' ? It
can't mean every one, surely."
The professor smiled. " It means that we ought to
hold ourselves in readiness to do it, if need be." Then
seeing that the young folks looked surprised, and
Marjorie a little doubtful, he added :
" Yes ; children, that is one of the secrets of love,
that only love can know. But every true mother
knows it, does she not, Mrs. Ramsay ? "
'" Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Ramsay, with the loving,
gentle smile that her children knew so well.
.'■{I
PERE DE NOUE.
299
((
And the ' ought to hiy down our lives ' implies the
oug"ht to give everything else when called upon — time,
labor, wealth, culture, energy, everything we have or
are, to feel that it all belongs to Him whose we are and
whose are our brothers, too. Sometimes that is harder
than the other. Gordon himself said, ' To give your
life to be taken away at once, is one thing ; to live
such a life as is before me is another and more trying
ordeal.' "
" I hope that Pere De Noiie's self-sacrifice was
appreciated," said Dr. Ramsay.
" I feel sure the lesson wasn't lost," replied the pro-
fessor. " Three years later, one of those Christian
Indians who found his body fell a victim to the
Iroquois, when the Huron Mission was almost exter-
minated by these savages. And it is specially recorded
of him that lit received his death-blow in exactly the
same posture in which his friend and teacher, De Noiie,
had resigned his life. Depend upon it, no act of true,
loving self-sacrifice is ever lost I The misfortune and
the fault of our vapid, useless sort of Christianity, as
Gordon called it, is that it has lost, to a great extent,
the sense of this and the power to do it. The world
needs a new waking up to what Christ taught, and
what it means to be his disciples.*'
" Well, I hope none of us shall forget the practical
lessons you have given us, Duncan," said Dr. Ramsay.
Marjorie, at all events, did not.
CHAPTER XVI.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
The weeks seemed to pass very quickly after the
excitement of the Carnival was over, and things had
settled down again into their ordinary course. Mar-
jorie was much interested in her studies, and was
making good progress in them. She wanted to sur-
prise her father by the improvement she had made in
various directions, especially in her drawing, at which
she would have worked longer than was good for her,
had she been allowed. She was very anxious to draw
one good head from a model before her father's return,
and her teacher told her that she might begin shading
very soon, if she continued to progress so well in her
outlines. Her enthusiasm spurred Ada on to take
a stronger interest than she had ever done before, in
the lessons, which had previously been gone through
mechanically, as a sort of necessary evil. Now she
began to see that they might actually be a source of
pleasure — a new revelation to her. In her own nome
there was no one who took any interest in such mat-
300 . ,
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
301
her
take
-e, in
fough
she
Ice of
Inome
mat-
ters, except, indeed, Gerald, who, however, had been
apt to look down upon " girls' lessons " as rather be-
neath his notice. She had a fancy for drawing, too,
though she was very impatient of the tiresome straight
lines and curves, and was eager to paint plaques and
panels at once. The frequent juvenile parties and their
unsettling effects, prevented her making the progress
she might otherwise have done, for she was by no mejins
wanting in quickness of comprehension, and indeed
would sometimes learn more rapidly than Marjcrie,
though she was too apt to forget as readily. But
Marjorie was still her favorite companion, and she
would do a good deal to win the approbation of the
friend who had so completely won her affection, with-
out, indeed, having cared much to do so. But Ada
was a winning, kind-hearted little maiden, and Marjorie
had grown more attached to her than she could have
believed possible.
Miss Mostyn, who was fond of Ada, too, and had
not forgotten her interest in Dr. Ramsay's American
niece, invited the two girls to spend an evening with
her invalid sister and herself. They lived in a charm-
ingly neat little house, on a quiet, unpretending street,
and Marjorie thought that, after all, it could not be so
very hard to be an invalid when one had so much
brightness about one — such pretty flowers and dainty
work, not to speak of the attractive-looking books
arranged on a little table within easy reach. But the
302
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
i
brightest object within the little room was the invalid
herself. She seemed even brighter than her active
sister, whose face was sometimes a little clouded by
her care and concern for the poor people whose affairs
were almost always on her mind.
"But you see, my dear," she said to Marjorie,
"• when I come home worried about things, it just puts
it all away to look at my sister's face ; for she never
worries about anything. It seems just a special gift
to make up for her affliction."
But " Miss Matilda," as she was called, did not
look in the least like an " afflicted person," as they all
took tea together at the daintily set little table drawn
up beside her couch. She seemed, indeed, overflowing
with hr^ppiness as she talked to the girls, asking ques-
tions about their work and their pleasures, pleased
with Marjorie's glowing description of the ice-palace,
which still stood in all its beauty, though it was but
seldom now that it shone at night with the clear,
pearl-like luster from the light within, which gave it
sq^ch an unearthly beauty ; vei-y much as the face of
the invalid shone with the inner light of a truly happy
heart.
" It's too bad you can't see it, Miss Matilda," said
Ada sympathizingiy.
" Ah, my dear, I've learned to know that there are
better things to enjoy than those we can see with the
outward eyes. It's a lesson worth all that it cost, too,
n
iniR"
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
303
though you may not think so now. There are things
that it's harder to submit to than that."
"Yes," said Marjorie, " I think I know what must
be harder — ^to see so many things you want to do."
Miss Matihla smiled and said : " Yes, that's a good
guess, dear. It used to be the very hardest thing for
me to bear cheerfully ; to know that there was so
much work to be done for my Master in the world,
and not to be allowed to do it, when I did want to so
much. But then I learned to feel that if my Master
wanted me to do it, he would give me the power ; and
as I had given myself completely into his hands, I
felt I must be satisfied with his plans for me, and not
try to make better one^ for myself. And, trust me,
dears, that's the real secret of happiness and peace ;
there's nothing like it. Since I learned it, I've been
as happy as the day is long. There's a pretty little
verse that Dr. Ramsay once quoted to me from Burns,
and I've never forgotten it :
said
are
the
too,
" ' For Happiness must liave its seat
And center in the breast;
The heart's aye tlie part aye
That malies us truly blessed.'
And it's so true that everything the heart wants is to
be found in God."
Marjorie and Ada talked about this as they went
home, and agreed that it did seem strange that an in-
i
n<
304
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
valid SO shut out from ordinary enjoyments, should be
so happy.
" I suppose it's because she's a Christian," said
Ada ; " but I didn't think that being a Christian made
people happy. Mr. Hay ward's always talking about
religion as a thing that spoils people's lives, and keeps
them from having any fun. And I'm sure he always
seems jolly enough without any."
" Yes ; but what would he do if he were a helpless
invalid like Miss Matilda ? " asked Marjorie.
" Oh ! he says he would kill himself if he had to
live such a life. He has a brother who is an invalid,
and he says he could never stand it."
" Then you see Miss Matilda is better off," Marjorie
replied. " I don't think Mr. Hayward is nice at all,
Ada, and I wish you didn't like him so much."
This, however, was a subject on which Marjorie and
Ada never could agree, and the former knew that her
words were wasted when she objected to Mr. Hayward,
who still frequented the Wests' luxurious home as a
privileged visitor. Every one said that Dick West
was getting worse and worse, and that he never would
do any good while he frequented the society of his
questionable friends. His mother, at all events, made
no attempt to remove him from the influence of Mr.
ITayward's companionship. Gerald continued to dis-
like him as much as ever, but he found little sympathy
whew be expressed it.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
305
He and Alan were both studying hard, in order to
pass their final school examinations in the spring.
Alan wanted to go out on a surveying party for the
summer, though his father wished him to enter the
University in the autumn, desiring that each of his
boys should have the benefit of a liberal education,
whatever vocation they might afterwards follow.
Gerald had not yet decided what he was to do after
his college education was completed, but thought at
present that he should like very much to go with Alan,
if they could secure an appointment on the same expe-
dition. He was tired, he said to Alan, of the feather-
bed life they lived at home, and he should like to try
a little " roughing it," and have a little adventure by
way of variety.
His birthday occurred in March, and it had been a
long-established custom that he should have some of
his most intimate boy friends to dine with him on that
occasion. Alan, of course, was invited, and was very
particular — for him — that his attire should be in the
most correct style, and that his tie should be of the
most becoming shade. Millie teased him by declaring
that this was entirely on Ada's account, and Marjorie
laughed, and declared that she quite agreed with her,
whereupon Alan professed to be very indignant, and
intimated that it would be as well if certain persons
would mind their own business. Marion, like the
good elder sister she always was, adjusted his tie, scru-
IP'^.f
306
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
tinized his general appearance, and declared he " would
do," without making any such ill-natured insinuations.
But she stopped him, as he was rushing off, to whisper
a word in his ear.
" All right, Moll ! You'll see how moderate I'll be,"
he said, and went off whistling his favorite air, "-4
La Claire Fontaine.''^
" Where's Ah:,n ? " asked Dr. Ramsay, when he
came in to tea, noticing his empty place ; for it often
happened from the doctor's frequent absence from
meals and his preoccupation with his patients, that he
did not know or remember such little matters as in-
vitations, though these were not of very frequent
occurrence so far as the young folks were concerned.
Mrs. Ramsay explained where he was.
" I wish they didn't have these boys' dinner parties,"
he said, frowning slightly as he was apt to do when a
little worried. " They ha^^e all the long string of
courses, and wine just like their elders, and, if it does
nothing worse, it puts all sorts of nonsense and ex-
travagance into tlieir heads. I don't believe these
youngsters will enjoy themselves half so much to-night
as Marjorie's father and I usi'd to do, when we had
our college cronies in for a bit of su])per and a ' crack.'
And we thought it a very fine supper, I assure you, if
we had a bit of Finnan haddie and a Welsh rabbit, with
a tumbler of toddy to finish off with, for you see we
weren't total abstinence in those days. But we never
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
307
>»
does
id ex-
these
l-niglit
fe had
srack.'
'^ou, if
with
iee we
never
took more than one tumbler, or two at the outside, and
even then our studies never suffered. But nowadays
the boys must have their chiret and sherry and their
champagne, and so on, and poor Dick West's a sam-
ple of what it comes to."
'• Well," said Mrs. Ramsay, " I think you would liave
been better witliout even your glass of toddy ; and I
shouldn't think that any great imi)rovement on the
champagne. The toddy hasn't done Scotchmen too
much good."
"O, yes! I know you'll be bringing up poor Burns
next ; and you're right enough, my dear. Total ab-
stinence is by far the best thing on the whole, either
for both physical and moral health, especiidly in this
climate of ours, and with the wretched stuff they gen-
erally sell here for whiskey. But, you see, if one is
autobiographical at all, one nmst stick to facts, and I
was only comparing our Scotch ' plain living ' — if not
'high thinking ' — with the luxury of our modern
Sybaritism. One thing is certain : Syl)ai'itism will
never make nu'n ; and our rich men's sons will never
be equal to their fathers. Well, I'm glad, for my boy's
sake, that I'm not a rich man."
" Some people would say ' sour grapes,' " replied
Mrs. Ramsay, "but I don't."
Alan came home in high spirits. They had had
such a splendid dinner ; everything just like a grown-
up dinner party, "ending up with some first-rate
i
308
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
songs." And Ada "looked stunning," too; he had
never seen her look prettier !
Mrs. Kanisay and Marion both noticed, a little
uneasily, Alan's flushed face and excited manner. " I
suppose the champagne was good, too," observed his
mother.
" Oh ! I didn't take much, really ; only one glass,
and a little claret ; I don't care for sherry a bit. But
some of the boys had several glasses, and I don't think
Gerald liked it altogether."
'' Well, my boy," said his mother earnestly, " I
should very much prefer your not taking anything of
the sort. You've never been accustomed to have it,
and I don't want you to get into drinking habits. I
wish, that to please me, you would promise to abstain
altogether ; at least till you are twenty-one, and can
judge better what is good for you. And then I hope
you will be actuated by a desire to seek the good of
others as well."
" Well, mother, I'll think about it ; I would do a
great deal to please you, you know," he said, stooping
for her good-night kiss.
" Mamma is more nervous about Alan," said Marion,
" because she had a brother who spoiled his life by get-
ting into drinking ways. And she has a fancy that
Alan is very like him. I hope he will do what she
wants him to do, or we shall always be uneasy about
him when he's out of our sight."
\\
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
809
do a
)oping
[arion,
>y g«t-
ly that
it slie
about
After this, it was rather rcniarkahh' how often the
subject of total abstinence came up in the course of
the Saturday tramps, which Marjorie enjoyed weekly
with her young cousins, when Alan and she generally
had pretty long tjilks, and how many things she found
to say in its favor, both for the benefit of Alan and
Jack. And these remarks were by no means without
effect, for Marjorie was so good a comrade that she
had a good deal of influence with both boys. She had
become quite ex}rert at snow-shoeing, and so ju'customed
to the toboggan slide that she had lost all fear, and
only regretted that the advancing season must soon
put an end to this and other winter sports. Occasion-
ally they varied the exercise by going to the rink for
an hour or two, and Marjorie tried hard to learn the
" Dutch Roll," and " Outside Edge " from Alan, who
was very willing to act as instructor. Gerald, too,
skated very well, so that Marjorie had no lack of
teachers and helpers. She had certainly improved
very much in health and strength since she had come
to Montreal, and had grown plumper as well as taller,
so that Dr. Ramsay declared that she would be a good
illustration of the benefit of a sojourn in a doctor's
family, as well as of a winter in Montreal.
One ev^ening early in March, they had all been at
the Tuque Bhue slide, and as Alan and Marjorie re-
turned with Marion who had been with them. Jack
and Millie lingered a little behind, for now the days
310
A NEW ACQUAINT \N(K.
were so miu'li lonj^cr tliat it was (|iiito lij^ht at six
o'clook ; anil these two liked to get all the fun they
could, now that it would be so soon over. Even when
the tea-bell ning- tlu^y had not turned up.
'' Where Jire .Jack and Jill? " asked Dr. Ramsay a
little uneasily, as he noticed their absence.
"Only at the slide," replied Alan ; "they couldn't
tear thenisc^lves away when we did."
" I hojie they haven't got into any mischief," he
said. " I'hey ought to be in in time for tea."
" I'll go and hurry them uj)," said Alan good-
naturedly, for he noticed that his father looked rather
more worried than was usual with him.
Presently he returned, laughing. " They did have
a ' spill,' '' he said, "but there's no great harm done.
' Jack foil down nnd broke his crown,
And .Till cjinio tuniblinj? after.'
But it's only the toboggan that got broken this time,
and it's a wonder that it has held out so long, with
Jack using it."
" Then they're not hurt ? " said the doctor, looking
relieved.
" No, only a bump or two ; Jack, I fancy, will have
a black eye for a day or so, though."
And then the two came in looking rather crestfallen
and disheveled, and very eager to explain that " it
wasn't bad steering at all, but only because Willie
■^ ■ ■• - \
Ht
A NKW ACyUAINTANCK.
811
Foster would run his toboggan too close, juul his went
faster than theirs."
'* Well, children, you know you ought to he very,
very careful, as I have often told you," said Dr. Ram-
say. " I'm afraid you are growing reckless, and I'm
glad the toboggan's broken, for you will have to get
on now without one of your own, and be satisfied to
get a ride from Alan so long as it lasts. I always did
think 1 had a little ' second sight ' about me, for I don't
often feel so uneasy about you. But I've just been
seeing a case that rather upset me. I'll tell you about
it after tea."
The doctor, however, only made a pretense of taking
tea, and scarcely ate a mouthful. This was not unusual
with him, but it was unusual to hear him volunteer an
account of any of his patients, especially painful ones.
His present "case" was sorrowful enough. It was
that of a poor little French boy whom he had been
called in to see when passing near the spot where he
lived, not far from the railway. He had been playing
with some other children in a snowbank, had slipped
and rolled down just as a locomotive was aj)proaching,
and had had his arm so crushed and torn, that he had
had to amputate it at the shoulder.
" O, father ! how dreadful," exclaimed Jack and
Millie together, while Marjorie grew pale and sick at
the thought of a child suffering so much.
" I didn't tell you about it just to shock and pain
312
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
you," said the doctor ; " but because I want some of
you to go to see the poor chikl as often as you can.
He ouglit to have been taken to the hospital, but 'he
is the only son of his mother, and she is a widow,' and
it would almost have broken her heart to let the child
go away from her. So, as she seems a very tidy, care-
ful creature, 1 thougl ♦^ it best not to press the matter.
Probably the child would fret more with homesickness
than would counterbalance the good of the hosj^ital
nursing. These French Canadians do cling so to their
little homes, however humble they are ! And this is
such a poor one. The mother takes in washing, and
manages to keep the boy and herself. He did work
in one of the factories (and he isn't eleven years old
yet) but the confinement was too much for him, for
he's a puny little fellow, and she wouldn't let him go
any more, thous^h she tells me he wanted to do it to
help her. But the little room is very bare, and I want
you to see that the child wants nothing that he should
have, either in the way of diet or a little cheer."
There were several volunteers at once for this kindly
office, and Dr. Ramsay gave directions as to just what
diet was to be prepared for his little patient, Mrs.
Ramsay undertaking to superintend this, a frequent
office of hers where poor patients were concerned.
Marjorie was glad to have an opportunity of putting
in practice some of the lessons she had learned lately,
especially as the Browns did not now need so much
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
313
attention — the man beinof able to be about again.
Mai'iou and she went down next day with the doctor.
Tlie little boy was lying- very pale and weak in the
bare but tidy little room, his mother busy with her
ironing. It was in a narrow French street where the
houses looked old and grimy, and all the little shops
had French names. That of the little bov was Louis
Girard. His mother was a pale, thin little woman,
looking exhausted with her night of grief and watch-
ing, and yet ironing away at her table as if nothing
had happened. She told them, in her broken English,
that her little boy was so good and so i)atient ; '•'' vomme
un petit r//?(/f'," she added, resorting to her French to
supplement her English.
The boy was too weak to care to speak, and only
feebly noticed their presence. Marion offered to relieve
her by sitting u}) with the child that night, but the
poor mother explained that the neighbors were very
kind ; " tr'i'S ho?i?ies,^^ finding that jNIarion understood
her French, in which she much ])rcfcrrcd to talk. They
wouldn't mind coming in and sitting up when she was
tired out, and she could take a nap on a neighbor's bed
while its owner took her place. And Marjorie remem-
bered what her father had said about the goodness of
the poor to each other.
After that she found her way often to Madame
Girard's little room, and very soon poor little Louis
learned to watch for her visits. Encouraged by the
314
A NEW ACQUAINTANXE.
example of her cousin Marion, she tried to talk to him
a little in his own language, and though at first she
was sorely perplexed by his French Canadian patois^
she succeeded by and by in being able to understand
him and to make him understand her. She generally
took Robin with her on these visits, and the little dog
was a great source of amusement to the little fellow
after he began to get relief from the prostrating pain
and fever. He tried his best to say " Robin," and
was much pleased when the dog would answer the call
and leap up beside him. By degrees, as Marjorie and
he began to be more intelligible to each other, he would
tell her about the factory he had been working in, and
how hard the children had to work — being sometimes
cuffed and beaten if they failed to satisfy their masters,
till Marjorie felt shocked to think that such things
could be.
Marjorie's French vocabulary was still limited, but
she bethought herself of taking- with her a French
Testament, and reading, very slowly, a few verses at
a time. She chose such passages as the story of the
daughter of Jairus, the Good Samaritan, and Louis
listened earnestly, nis black eyes fixed on her while
she read. Madame Girard, too, would often stop her
interminable ironing, and sit down to listen, exclaim-
ing approvingly, " Cest tres joll pa," as Marjorie
ended. How much Louis understood she could not
tell, but there she had to leave it. The little fellow
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
aif)
was certainly wonderfully patient, a fact wliidi uiucli
impressed Jack and Millie when they came to see him.
Marjorie grew so much interested in him that
she never let more than a day or two pass without
<»oing to see him, even though it cut a little off her
drawing time ; for her aunt insisted that she should
not abridge her hours of exercise. But the snow-
shoeing was practically over now, for there had been
a good deal of mild weather, and a '' thaw '' had rather
spoiled it. The tobogganing was getting s})oiled, too,
though skating was still available. The ice-})alace
still stood, though breaches here and there began to
show the power of a silent besieger : and the ice lion
and the vondora were decidedly the worse foi- tlie in-
roads of the same insidious enemy. The latter, indeed,
was already being carted away in blocks, to till some
of the ice houses for the coming summer.
Marjorie tried to interef^t Ada in her little ])rotege^
but without much success. Ada was willing enough
to give a generous donation out of her ])ocket-money,
to buy for the invalid uidimited oranges or cjindies :
but when Marjorie tried to coax her to go to see him,
Ada was quite impracticable. She had all her mother's
aversion to being made "• uncomfortable " by scenes of
siidvuess or suffering, and she didn't see wliat good she
could do Louis by going to see him. Marjorie was
rather vexed. She thought that, by this time. Ada
would have profited more by the lessons of Professor
316
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
Duncan, and she had quite set her heart on starting
her on a career of phihmthropy through getting inter-
ested in poor Louis, who of course would have to be
helped for a long time to come. When she could make
no impression on Ada she began to feel impatient, and
a little bit self-righteous, too.
" Well, Ada," she said indignantly, " wait till you
are sick yourself, and then you'll have more sympathy
for sick people ; " words that she was not to forget for
weeks to come, as sometimes happens with our most
thoughtless remarks.
Having failed with Ada, she tried Gerald, whom she
found more open to persuasion, and she had much
pleasure in guiding him to Madame Girard's little
room, and securing his promise to visit and befriend
Louis as much as was in his power ; which was the
more satisfactory, as Ada and she had been conscious
of their first coolness in regard to the matter ; Mar-
jorie not being able to retxlh'^. that the habits of a life
of self-indulgence are not to be broken in a day.
CHAPTER XVII.
ANXIOUS DAYS.
RVfR
It
Well, Marjorie, how is your little French friend
getting on?" asked Professor Duncan, one Sunday
evening towards the end of March, as he took his seat
in his accustomed chair.
Marjorie replied that he was doing so well that he
would soon be allowed to sit up a little, and that he had
already been wondering what he should do for a living,
with only one hand.
" Poor little fellow ! " he said. " But I don't doubt
that something will be found for him to do. And they
are wonderfully adaptive and patient, these Frencli
Canadians. I'm sorry to see, Ramsay, that we're
likely to have some trouble with their relations in the
Northwest. That rebellion seems to be getting seri-
ous, to judge by the last news of the collision between
them and the mounted police."
••* Yes," said Dr. Ramsay ; " great pity it occurred.
1 was hoping the affair might have been settled with-
out bloodshed. But wlien people get excited, and
ai7
318
ANXIOUS DAYS.
their blood is up on both sides, some rashness is sure
to occur. Alas ! ' how great a matter a little fire
kiudleth.' "
" ye-.F '' ?'oplied the professor, " and it could all have
been so easily avoided. A little ordinary humanity, a
little faithful attention to the duties they are sworn to
fulfill, on the ])art of our public men and their agents,
would 1. .f\?ssed these grievances long ago. As
it is, 1 iun ,1:".'^ 'hat these poor people will learn the
bad lesson tiiat hvll ts vvi'^ *\ttract attention when all
other ap]>i-; ' hive 1 ■^. Some of our papers have
been pressing ciie .:-.ob c.iese poor half-breeds for
months past, but to no purpose. Those whose busi-
ness it was to right them, have been too busy with
their own affairs, or party affairs. And now it's on
the cards that this may be a tedious and bloody
struggle. What a comment it is on our boasted prog-
ress, to send men out t(, shoot down these misguided
and neglected people, instead of giving them kind care
and common justice. Greed, speculation, party poli-
tics — that's some of the darkness that the light has to
struggle through now, as best it can."
Alan, who had come in while the professor was
s[>eaking, listened with a very sober face. He and
Gerald had been greatly excited by the news of a re-
bellion of the half-breeds and Indians in the north-
west of Canada, and of the calling out of the Volun-
teers, and both were wishing they had been eligible
ANXIOUS DAYS.
319
for such a splendid adventure. But these observa-
tions of Professor Duncan seemed to throw another
light upon it, in which it did not seem so splendid.
Presently, however, another reeoUeetion occurred to
him while Professor Duncan and Dr. liiimsav went on
discussing the situation ; and he turned to Marjorie,
remarking :
" Gerald says Ada is not feeling at all well to-day.
She hasn't been out since the day before yesterday."
Marjorie felt a little conscience-stricken. She had
not gone to pay Ada her usual Saturday visit, feeling
a little vexed still, at her refusal to go to see Louis.
She thought she would go to ask for her the next
afternoon.
But the next day it rained heavily, and as Marjorie
had taken a little cold, her aunt would not allow her to
go out again after she came home from school, very wet,
and looking tired. The mild soft weather they had
had for a little time had been causing a good deal of
illness, and Dr. Ramsay had a good many patients on
his hands. And next day Alau came honu» from school
with the news that Ada was very ill indeed, and that
the doctor feared an attack of typhoid fever.
Typhoid fever it did, indeed, turn out to be ; and
before many days were over, Dr. Ramsay was called
in to consult with the Wests' family i)hysician, as he
had once been called in before in Dick's illness. He
looked very grave when he came home, and, in reply
rvmm
320
ANXIOUS DAYS.
to Marjorie's anxious questioning, he said that it was
a very serious case indeed, and that Ada was not a
good subject for a fever ; her temperament being very
excitable, and her constitution by no means strong.
It was a terribly anxious time for poor Marjorie,
and indeed all ihe Ramsay family more or less shared
her anxiety, for Ada had become a favorite with them
all. No one, indeed, could help being attracted by
her sunny face and graceful, winning ways. And so
this individual anxiety rather cast into the shade the
public one which was exciting the whole Canadian
people with martial preparations and tidings of Indian
risings and frightful massacres. At another time
Marjorie would have been eagerly sharing the general
excitement. But just now the question of Ada's re-
covery was paramount, and nearly every afternoon she
called at the house to ask how the patient was, receiv-
ing always the same reply : " Just the same, Miss ; a
little better if anything."
But Dr. Kamsay saw no improvement yet, and one
afternoon, when Marjorie returned from school, Marion
met her with the sad intelligence that her father had
come home from a consultation with scarcely any hope
of Ada's recovering from the utter prostration of her
present condition. While there was life there was
hope, of course, but no one could tell at present how
much power of rallying she possessed, and the end
might come at any moment.
h "
ANXIOUS DAYS.
321
Marjorie was almost stuiinod. She liad never real-
ized before the idea of death in connection with Ada,
notwithstanding her anxiety. In the rusli of feeling
that came over her, the predominant thought was that
she must see Ada once more, even if she might not
speak to her. If she only could tell her how sorry
she was for what now seemed to her her unkind speech
about illness, which also seemed to her to have been
an ill-omened harbinger of evil.
She did not wait to take counsel of any one, but
hurried off to Mr. West's house ; and instead of her
usual query, asked if she could see Mrs. West, or any
one. The servant said she did not know. Mrs. West
did not see any one, but she would see if Mr. Gerald
was in, and she showed Miss Fleming into the library.
The room seemed empty, but Marjorie stepped quietly
in over the soft carpet, for the house seemed so hushed
that she instinctively tried to move silently, not to
break the prevailing stillness. Suddenly she perceived
that Mr. West was standing with his back to her,
leaning on the back of an easy-chair, his head bowed
in his hands, while a tempest of grief shook his frame.
Marjorie was startled, and almost frightened. She
had never before seen a man so overpowered with
emotion, and it was difficult to realize that Mr. West,
whom she had always associated with riches and pros-
perity, should be in such a depth of distress, though
the cause was surely quite sufficient, Ada was the
,*^'
r
322
ANXIOUS DAYS.
apple of her father's eye, the center of all his hopes
and affections, and her removal from his life would
make his prosperity itself seem valueless. Marjorie
could not bear to remain there even as an unseen wit-
ness to his grief, and she retired as noiselessly as pos-
sible to the drawing-room, where the sumptuous luxury
of the surroundings, and the glowing bloom of the con-
servatory seemed in such mocking contrast to the heavy
cloud of sorrow that darkened the luxurious home.
In a few minutes Gerald came in, looking pale and
haggard. Marjorie eagerly told him her wish. He
looked very grave as he said that probably she might
see Ada for a minute or two, but that Ada would not
see or notice her, as she was appai-ently unconscious.
Pie would ask the nurse, as his mother was lying down,
quite worn out with grief and watching.
He soon returned and asked Marjorie to follow him
upstairs to Ada's room. How vividly the recollection
flashed upon her of the day when Ada, bright and
joyous, had led her into it first. The canary in his
gilded cage was banished now to the conservatory and
the room was darkened, so that at first Marjorie could
hardly see the pale little face on the pillow. But how
changed it was since she had last seen it. Wan, color-
less, all the bright sunny locks vanished — for they
had been cut off in the beginning of her illness —
Marjorie could scarcely realize that it could be Ada.
She lay with closed eyes, and one might easily have
ANXIOUS DAYS.
323
doubted whether she still lived. Marjorie stood at a
little distance, fearful lest she might disturb the
patient, by whom the nurse was keeping close watch.
The tears soon dimmed her sight, and it was only by
a strong effort that she could restrain her sobs. But
it was of no use to stay here. Ada seemed further
away from her than before. So she turned sadly
away, almost wishing that she had not come. She
could not bear to think of remembering Ada like this,
if — but she would not think of such a possibility
just now, or she would break down and distress Gerald.
He followed her silently down the stairs, and as she
bade him good-by, not venturing on any expression of
sympathy, he half-murmured the words: "■Pray for
her, Marjorie ! " and turned away, choking down a
sob ; for he, too, was fonder of his sister than of any
other member of the family.
Marjorie hurried on, too much excited to walk
slowly or think calmly. She was possessed by one
overpowering thought. If Ada died was she ready to
pass to another life ? She remembered vividly the
words Nettie Lane had used about her father, and
though applied to him they seemed absurd, they now
appeared to her filled with a terrible meaning about
Ada. She could not think that Ada was a Christian,
and if she should die in this condition ! Why had
she not tried harder to lead her to think of the things
that now were the only things that could matter to
\\
324
ANXIOUS DAYS.
her? She felt as if she had been false to her duty
and cruel to her friend, and that she would give any-
thing in her power for an opportunity of retrieving
her neglect. Feeling as if she could not bear the bur-
den of such thoughts alone, she was seized with the
impulse to go to Miss Matilda Mostyn with her trouble.
She felt that she would sympathize with her trouble, and
that slu; might throw some light on the problem that
was perplexing her. Fortunately, she found Miss
Matilda alone, with the sweet and peaceful expression
that always made her face so attractive, even to those
who did not know its secret.
Miss Matilda understood Marjorie's trouble at once,
without much need for explanation. She had, indeed,
been thinking a great deal about Ada ; had been
taking her anxiety about the child where she took
all her burdens, and laid them down. And she
had a soothing balm ready ; even her soft and gentle
tones seemed to carry it in advance to the sorrowful
heart.
" Yes," she said, " it's an anxious thought, I know ;
many a time I've had it myself ! But remember, Mar-
jorie, God loves Ada infinitely more than you can.
Can't you leave her in his wise and loving care?"
" Yes ; but O, Miss Matilda ! if she were to die
unprepared ! And she has never had any one to make
her think of such things."
" My dear," said Miss Matilda, " people talk a great
AN\U)l\s DAYS.
325
deal too much about being ' prepared ' for death. If
they would think a little more about being prepared
for life ! It's all a i)art of the one thing, for time
can't make sueh a difference in God's sight. It ia a
terrible thing, if one realizes it, for any one to be
living in any corner of (iod's universe and not be
friends — be reconciled with the God of infinite love
and wisdom ; not be the true child of tlie loving Father.
But then he has such infinite patience, as well as in-
finite love and wisdom. And he has many a way
that we know not, to bring his ' banished ' home ;
banished, of course, by their own wayward will. So,
my dear, just trust poor little Ada in her Father's
hands, and don't think that you )uld do more for her
than he can."
Marjorie went home much comforted, though she
cried half the night. And Alan looked as if he had
not slept much either ; in fact, he had been very dif-
ferent from the usual Alan ever since his father had
been called in for consultation in Ada's case. No
one took any notice of his depression, knowing that
he would shrink from and resent it. Even Millie had
sympathy and tact enough to refrain from seeming to
observe that he was not in his usual spirits ; and the
progress of affairs in the northwest, and the mustering
of the Volunteers always furnished a timely relief from
the topic which was too painful in its interest to per-
mit of discussion.
326
ANXJOUS DAYS.
But, as the April djijs passed slowly by, and the
piles of snow were inpynsibly melting away from the
streets, Ada's condition seemed to improve a little ;
and Dr. Ramsay, who visited her daily, began to dare
to hope that she had, as he said, ' turned the corner."
But he warned them all, when tliey expressed their
delight, that it would require the greatest care and
most judicious nursing to bring her back to health
and strength, and that any relapse would probably
prove fatal. As the orders were that she was to be
kept perfectly quiet, Marjorie had no expectation of
seeing her for a long time. But one day Gerald came
over to say that Ada had taken a fancy to see Mar-
jorie, and that she would fret if it were not gratified ;
only, if Marjorie came, she must not let Ada waste
any of her strength in talking. Marjorie willingly
promised to try to keep Ada from getting excited by
the interview, and accompanied Gerald at once, her
heart beating quickly at the thought of seeing her
friend again after this long season of suspense, which
had made her feel how strongly she had become
attached to her kind-hearted, though thoughtless little
friend.
Ada looked a little more like herself than she had
done when Marjorie had last seen her, but the absence
of the cloud of bright hair and the soft wild-rose color
made a very great difference. She tried to smile when
she saw Marjorie, who only took her hand quietly, as
I
^^^'
ANXIOUS DAYS.
327
if she had seen her the day before, having been strictly
charged by her uncle to show no feeling in the inter-
view. Ada was not allowed to talk yet, nor indeed
was she disposed to do so ; but she did summon strength
enough to say to Marjorie, with a rueful attempt at a
smile :
" Haven't they made me a fright ? All my poor
hair gone I "
Marjorie only smiled, and said that it wouldn't be
long in growing again ; but in her heart she felt almost
as much regret as Ada. It did seem like a pretty
picture spoiled ; and yet she wondered how she could
think of such things when Ada had been restored, as
it seemed, from the very grave.
Mrs. West sat beside Ada this time, though the
nurse was still on duty ; and Marjorie was shocked by
the great change in her, too. She looked ten years
older ; indeed, it was hard to believe that this worn
and faded-looking woman could be the mucli-admired
Mrs. West. For she had a heart, after all, and next
to her eldest son, who liad been addino- recentlv to her
load of anxiety, its idol was her pretty daiigliter ; and
when trouble and threatened bereavement came, she
found no help or comfort in the things that ordinarily
satisfied her selnsh heart. After all, as Marjorie's
father had once said to hei", people did not always
have to lose their riches to find out that they are not
" enduring habitations."
328
ANXIOUS DAYS.
lu :;;
Ada begged Marjorie to come again soon, and Mrs.
West indorsed the request ; for weakness and inac-
tivity made Ada very fretful, and her mother was glad
to catch at anything that seemed likely to entertain
her a little. So she came frequently to sit with her
in the afternoons, not, however, quite deserting Louis,
who was getting on nicely, and now had Millie and
Jack for his more frequent visitors ; though Jack had
to carrv on most of his conversation with him in dumb
show. Marjorie had to give up all thoughts of draw-
ing the head she had been ambitious to do for her
father ; but she felt that Ada needed her, and that
her father would be much better pleased with her doing
the kindness to a friend than he would be with the
most successful drawing. And indeed it made no
small difference in the rapidity of Ada's improvement
that Marjorie came to sit by her almost daily for two
or three hours ; talking to her when she was disposed
to listen, and sometimes reading to her bits of Mr.
Fleming's letters, containing lively descriptions of the
West India Islands, which he was visiting ; and occa-
sionally a })art of one of his printed articles about the
Southern life, which had now begun to appear, much
to Marjorie's delight, for it seemed to her a visible
token of his re-established health.
But one afternoon Gerald insisted that Marjorie
should go down with him to see the " ice shove " ; that
is, the curious massing and piling up of the cakes of
ANXIOUS DAYS.
329
ice along the shore when the river bursts its icy bar-
riers. It occasionally causes a flood, but at this time
it was not so violent, though the jagged masses with
which the shore was heaped bore witness to the strength
of the current that drove them before it and landed
them in picturesque confusion along tlie river bank.
" You must go to see the Lachine Kapids some day,"
Gerald said, " and then you won't wonder at the effects
of such an irresistible force."
Marjorie described it all to Ada, on her return, but
Ada listened without much interest. She had never
been taught to enjoy nature much in any form, and
did not see anything particularly interesting about an
" ice shove."
Presently she asked Marjorie how the little French
boy was getting on. She seemed to have only now
recollected him.
Marjorie told ner, adding that Millie and Jack
went to see him often, now that she could not go so
frequently.
" O, dear ! " said Ada ; " how tiresomely good you
all are ! Even Jack and Millie, too ! "
Marjorie said nothing, only smiled a little. But
Ada had got into an unusually thouglitful mood. The
two girls were quite alone, and the air of a very balmy
spring day came gently through the ventihitor, while
the spring sunshine, softened by the rose-tinted cur-
tains, flooded the pretty room.
330
ANXIOUS DAYS.
4 I
1 Si
m 4
" Marjorie," began Ada, very seriously, " I suppose
I came very near dying?"
" I suppose so," Marjorie replied. It was the first
time that Ada had seemed conscious of having been
in such danger.
" Well, if I had died, what do you suppose would
have become of me ? "
This question completely puzzled Marjorie. She did
not know what to answer, even to herself.
" You know ministers always say that people can't
go to Heaven unless they are Christians, and I know
very well I'm not a Christian, though I believe you
are ! So I couldn't have gone to Heaven, could I ? "
Marjorie could only say that her father used to tell
her that if people could go to Heaven without loving
Christ, they wouldn't be happy there ; and that the
Bible didn't say anything about '' going to Heaven,"
but about going to be " with Christ."
But this was unintelligible to Ada, nor indeed did
Marjorie understand it yet, herself.
" Well, you know the rich man that was clothed in
purple and fine linen was 'in torments.' I heard our
clergyman preach about that the last Sunday I was
in church, and it has often come into my head since.
And when he came to see me — you know mamma
only let him come once — he prayed that I might be
made one of God's children. Now, how can I, Mar-
jorie ? I think I'd like to be if I could."
r"^'*
ANXIOUS DAYS.
331
Marjorie was deliglited to hear Ada say this, but
she hardly knew what to reply. Then she remembered
what her father had said to her about being " con-
verted," and she tried to explain to Ada that it meant
being willing to follow and obey Christ.
" But how can I be willing, and what must I do to
obey Him?" persisted Ada.
•■' He can make us willing if we ask Him," said
Mai'joi'ie, "■ and He will show us just what He wants us
to do. But the first thing is to love Him."
" Yes," said Ada ; " but how can I love Him, when
I've never seen Him? And how can I be sui*' He will
her»,r me if I ask Him ? I know Mr. Hayward didn't
believe that He could hear at all. Did you know he
was gone away, Marjorie ? "
" Yes," said Marjorie, " and I'm very glad."
" Well, I was dreadfully sorry at first,'* said Ada.
" That was one thing that made me fret when I was
beginning to get better. But I don't mind so much
now, for I know he used to say lots of things he didn't
mean. But you know he never went to church, and
he didn't believe Christ could hear us at all."
" Yes, I know," said Marjorie ; " and once my
father didn't, either. But he does now, and so do I.
I'm sure Christ was divine when he was on earth, for,
as Professor Duncan says, no one else wa.* ever so
altogether good ; and if he was divine then, he i** divine
still, and when we try most to be like him, we feel that
^3 'i,!
:332
ANXIorS DA vs.
He does hear and help us. And I think He has helped
you, in making you well, just as he did the daughter
of Jairus, you remember."
" O, yes ! I remember," said Ada eagerly. " Do
you know, I once saw such a beautiful picture ! It's
here in Montreal, and I wish you could see it. Christ
is in it, sitting by the little girl, and just putting out
his hand to wake her uj) ; he looks so good and kind.
I thought then I could love him if he looked like that."
"But ir*; must have looked like that, Ada, if He
could die for us because ITe loved us and wanted to
save us I And if He did tliat, don't you think He will
help you to love and obey Him if you ask Him? "
"Well, I will ask Him," said Ada, "if that's all it
means to be a Christian ! But I used to think it
meant going to church very often, and reading sermons,
and going to see sick people all the time, and never
having any pleasure. And so I didn't want to be a
Christian; at any rate, not till I knew you. But I'm
glad you like to come to see sick people, anyway," she
added, with one of her old smiles.
"But it does mean some of these things," said Mar-
jorie, " for you know Christ says we are to love God
* with all our heart, and our neighbor as ourselves.' "
" But how can we?" said Ada. "Nobody does."
" I don't know," replied Marjorie ; " but that is
what Christ says, and my father said that he always
meant what he said."
ANXIOUS DAYS.
333
" But if people loved their neighbors as themselves,
there wouldn't be any poor people in the world, and
that poor boy wouldn't have so little, nor his mother
to work so hard, when we have so much."
" No," said Marjorie, " I think a good many things
would be different if we all did love our neighbor as
ourselves ; though I don't know if there would be no
poor people. My father says there always will be, so
long as some folks are idle and lazy. But theie
wouldn't be so many, and Louis would be better off."
" Well, Mai'jorie, I've got a surprise for you," said
Ada. " I asked mamrua, to-day, to give me all the
pocket-money she owed me, and here it is," she added,
taking her little velvet purse from under her pillow.
"• And you are to take it all for little Louis, to get
him anything you like."
And Marjorie, with great satisfaction, took out a
bright gold sovereign, and never even thought that,
after all, her own prediction had come true.
She could not forbear going to tell Miss Matilda
of this conversation ; and the invalid rejoiced with her
over the good news, and reminded her that she should
not forget to return thanks to liim who had thus
answered their prayers. Ada's recovery seemed to
progress more rapidly now that her heart had become
more at rest ; and before the swelling buds on the trees
began to burst, she was able to be moved downstairs
to the sofa in the library.
CHAPTER XVTII.
OPENING B L () S 8 O M S.
Every day now grew more springlike. The last
traces of the snow and ice were fast disappearing under
the genial influence of the brightening sunshine, and
Jack and Millie were already contemplating an expe-
dition to the " mountain " to look for the first wild
flowers.
Now that the roads were growing dry and smooth,
(lerald was out every afternoon on his pony or his
bicycle, for he had both ; and he frequently let Alan
have the use of the one he was not using liimself , which
Alan much enjoyed. Meantime the progress of the
struggle in the Northwest was the absorbing topic.
The interest grew more intense when the news came of
bloody conflicts between the Volunteers and the half-
breeds ; and the lists of killed and wounded were
eagerly scanned, even by those who, like the Ramsays,
had no very personal interest in the matter. Alan
and Gerald wished again and again that they could
have been in one of the engagements ; a wish which
334
OPENING B1.0S80MS.
335
their mothers and friends certainly did not endorse.
But the decisive conflicts at Batoche and Cut Knife
Hill "-broke the l)ack of the rebellion,'' as Dr. Kanisay
said ; and the restoration of quiet and order would
only be a question of time.
" I hope the lesson will be taken to heart by
all whom it concerns," said Piofessor Duncan, ••' and
that another time they won't wait to do their duty till
battle and massacre and a devastated country have
waked them up to it." And when the description
came of the conference between the cliief Poundmaker
and the Canadian commander, they all read it with an
interest intensified by the stories which had taken
them into the roving- life of the Indians of two hun-
dred years before. Indeed, as Professor Duncan said,
it seemed like a revival of the old stories, only with
the great difference that the Indians felt themselves
in the power of the white man ; and that, for the first
time, they had real reason to com})lain of their treat-
ment under the British flag; for it was clear that if
the agents of the Government had done their duty,
the rising would never have occurred ; and Dr. Ram-
say read with pleasure a letter he had received from a
friend in the Northwest, who testified to the fact that
but for the influence of the Christian missionaries
among the Indians, the rising would have been far
more general and far more destructive.
Ada's pony had been brought into town — a pretty
1!i "
m
•• 1
336
OPENING BL0880M8.
little sorrel, gentle, and nicely trained ; and she was
counting the weeks that must elapse before she could
use it. But a bright thought ()('(nn'red to her ; why
might not Marjorie have a ride on him ? The riding-
master had been giving his education some finishing
touches, and Gerald had tried him several times while
Alan rode his, and declared him " just the thing for a
girl, so easy and gentle ; and spirited enough, too,
for Ada, at least."
Marjorie thought the proposal of a ride a charming
one, and as Mrs. West was willing to carry out any
wish of Ada's, and Dr. and Mrs. Kamsay had no
objection, she went, one fine May afternoon, to don
Ada's habit and start for her ride. The; little blue
riding-habit was a trifle small for Marjorie, but it had
been made large for Ada, who was growing fast, so
that it answered the purpose tolerably well. Marjorie
was more excited than she was willing to show when
Gerald put her up on the saddle, in orthodox fashion,
and she gathered the reins in her hand, Gerald show-
ing her what he considered the best way to hold them.
They walked soberly enough along the winding
road that led up the mountain, now and then turning
to look back at the city, as it lay spread out below.
When they were fairly on the pretty mountain road,
where the air was full of the fragrance of opening-
leaves and wild blossoms, they had a brisk canter till
they came again to a more sudden rise. Marjorie was
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
337
SO exhilarated by the delightful bounding motion,
which was so nuu'h better than a toboggan, after all,
that she forgot all about the view that lay behind
them until, coming out at last on the very brow of
the stately hill, Gerald drew rein and told her to look
down.
And there, Indeed, was a view to enjoy, with the
soft spring sunshine flooding the scene, and giving an
ethereal coloring to the distant hills. Just below lay
the city, its streets and squares mapped out in serried
ranks. Beyond it curved the wide blue river, its chan-
nel studded here and there with bosky islands, while
beyond it soft blue mountain summits rose against the
distant horizon. Gerald told her the names of the
different hills, showed her St. Helen's Island, the way
down to Quebec, and then, when they had gone a little
farther on, pointed out the white gleam of the Lachine
Rapids in the far distance.
Marjorie remembered what Ada had said about the
greater beauty of the view in summer, and wished she
were there to see it with them.
" I don't wonder that Jacques Cartier called this
' Mount Royal,' " she said, thinking of Professor
Duncan's stories.
" No," said Gerald. " I wish there were any such
great things to do now, as those old discoverers did."
" Are there not always great things to do ? " said
Marjorie.
I! '\
338
OPENING HLOHHOMIS.
"■
"Well, what would you be if you were a boy?"
asked Gerald, after a slight pause.
Marjorie did not know. She thought it would be
nicest to be something like her father.
" I used to think I'd like to be a soldier," Gerald
said ; " but there don't seem to be any very noble
wars now, at any rate. I've been thinking that, after
all, there must be better things to do than picking off
poor savages, and that seems to be the main thing our
men have to do nowadays. And then, as Professor
Duncan says, war should not be thought of between
Christian nations any more. But I do wish there
was something to be done that one could put one's
heart into ! I'm sick of the flat sort of life most
people seem to live, and I often think I'd like to cut
it all, and go off, like those old Jesuit fellows that
Professor Duncan is so fond of."
" Or like those Cambridge graduates ? " suggested
Marjorie.
" Well, I tell you, it would be a fine thing if one
only could believe as hard as they do ; to put one's
heart and soul into a cause that one thought was the
best in all the world. I'm sure I wish I could! IT.*;
a fine thing to be a doctor like Dr. Ramsay, i
know T could never make a doctor of myself, an , as
for law and business, I hate the very thought of
them."
" There's the Church, then," said Marjorie.
?;
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
339
lit;
" Yes," said (lerald with a .sigh. " I should like
the Chiu'ch Hist nitc, if I wore only good enough! Or
rather, what 1 should iik(! would bo to bo a missionary,
or to go oft' like (iordon and fool I was doing some-
thing that would really tell ! But then, you know,
one couldn't do that unless one believed with all one's
heart."
" Of course not,'' said Marjorie. '"' But why
shouldn't one ? "
"Oh! girls find all that so easy. So did I, once,
only I never thought much about it at all ! But that
Hay ward used to say so many things ; 1 know he was
no good, any way, but then I couldn't help thinking
about the things he said, and I can't believe quite as
1 did."
" I don't think that sort of believing was worth
nuich," replied Marj«)rie. " I think my father wouldn't
call it believing at all, only * taking for granted.' "
"And isn't that what everybody has to do?" asked
Gerald, surprised.
" My father didn't, at any rate. I can't exactly ex-
plain it, but I know that ho doesn't call it believing
unless things are quite real to you. And he says if
<me only tries to do what one does believe, and is will-
ing to get more light, one will get it. You know that
verse, don't you : ' If any man will do His will, he
shall i (>w of the doctrine ' ? "
I don't know it," said Gerald. " You must
a
Ir
■^)
5 '^ i
II --i
340
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
show it to me. I should like to hear your father talk
about such things."
"• Perhaps you may," said Marjorie. " You know
he's coming- for me, some t'.ae this summer. But then
there's Professor Duncan. He's almost as good."
Gerald laughed, with a little of his old satirical
manner. '' Well, if ever I have a daughter," he said,
"■ I hope she will think as much of me as you do of
your father ! "
" Perhaps slie will," Marjorie retorted, " if you
deserve it as well."
^' Suppose we have another canter now," said Gerald,
ignoring this remark.
As they leisurely desceUvled the mountain slope after
their canter, they passed children carrying little bas-
kets and bunches of the graceful white trilliums or
" May lilies," as they called them ; with a few late
hepaticas and vioh^ts. Here and there a wild plum
or cherry spread its whit*i plumes beside their way.
It was an exquisite evening, full of fragrance and
freshness, and Marjorie long remembered the charm
of the ride, with the spring sunshine on the scene and
in her heart, too.
But good and ill are apt to be intermingled in life.
When Marjorie reached home she found a bit of bad
news awaiting her, and Norman and Effie in deep de-
jection, though they declared that '' it wasn'i, their
fault, at any rate." Robin had gone out with them.
i
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
341
as he often did now, and had not come home. They
did not know just when he had left them or how he
had lost them. Alan had been out searching for him
ever since, and .lack and Millie had gone in another
direction ; but no trace had been found of him yet.
Marjorie was very uneasy. It was not only that she
herself was very fond of the little fellow, but he
seemed a charge from her father ; and what could she
say to him if Robin were lost ? However, she would
not add to the children's sorrow, and tried to be as
hopeful as she could ; though she had a very uneasy
heart all night, not knowing where poor little Robin
might be. Dr. Ramsay had telephoned to the police-
station, and seal an advertisement to the paper, so
that no precaution might be neglected ; for Robin was
a dog of some pecuniary value, and if Ite had been
stolen, might not readily be recovered.
But relief came from an unexpected quarter. Next
mornino-, as Mariorie was about to set out on the
search herself, little Louis Girard appeared with Robin
in his arm — having, poor little fellow, but the one —
and with his pale face beaming with delight at being
the restorer of the " little dog of Mademoiselle."
Robin had run into the house where he lived, having
seemingly been chased and frightened. It was too
late in the evening to bring him home, so Louis had
taken good care of him till morning, and had begged
his mother to let him take the dog home himself. It
H;:l!
342
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
m
m ■!
was hard to say which of the three concerned showed
most pleasure in the denouement — Marjorie, Robin,
or Robin's restorer. When Ada heard the story she
was so delighted that she said Louis must be doubly
rewarded. For she and Marjorie had been planning
how they might get him out to the country air, to
make him grow really well and strong.
Marjorie's birthday came on the twenty-fourth of
May, which is a public holiday in Canada, being ob-
served as the birthday of Queen Victoria. There had
been a good many projects made as to how it would
be best to celebrate the day. It was finally decided
that they should have a picnic on St. Helen's Island,
which is often called the island park of Montreal.
The day turned out a lovely one, and the only regret
felt by the party as they went down to the ferry, whk
that Ada was not able to accompany them ; of course
(jerald and Professor Duncan were guests. The
picnic would not have been complete without the pro-
fessor. Mrs. Ramsay enjoyed the excursion as much
as any of the younger ones, and Dr. Ramsay said if
he could manage it he would come in the afternoon to
escort them liome. And Miss Mostyn, by general con-
sent, was invited, and agreed to take a holiday for once.
Marjorie had had a birthday letter from her father
that morning, and it inclosed a little birthday gift, the
proof of another "parable," by the author of her fa-
vorite Northern Lights. She took it with her to the
•J
iri
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
343
island, that Professor Duncan might read it at leisure,
and gave it to him to look at as he lay down on the
grass to luxuriate in the beauty of the day and the
newly-fledged trees, of which there were many large
and beautiful ones on the island. Marion and Mar-
jorie, with Alan and Gerald, strolled leisurely along
the pretty shady walks through the wood or along the
shore, picking a few wild flowers here and there ;
snowy trilliums or purple violets or wild diolytra.
They even found in a shady spot, a late specimen
of the white cups- of the bloodroot, to the delight of
Marjorie, who had never seen this earliest spring flower
before. Mrs. Ramsay and Miss Mostyn sat near the
professor with their knitting, and called them all to
headquarters when it was time to spread the luncheon
in the sunny glade they had selected for that purpose.
When luncheon was over — Robin having his share
as well as the rest — Professor Duncan took up the
printed paper, and proposed to read the little parable.
"I like its meaning,'' he said, "and it is very
appropriate to this sweet spring day and these spring-
flowers that you girls have adorned yourielves with.
I suppose you would rather have a story than the
botanical lecture I was thinking of giving you? '"
There was no dissent from this suggestion, and the
professor, waiting till the remains of the luncheon had
been removed, began the reading of this sjiring
parable :
344
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
" The summer had filled up the measure of its days,
and finished its work. Every seed had ripened and
fallen, every fruit was garnered, every nut hung ready
to be carried by the squirrels to their winter store-
houses. The soft, dreamy, golden sunshine seemed to
wrap all nature in an exquisite repose, as of satisfied
rest after happy and successful efPort. The Spirit of
the Woods looked with a contented smile upon the
peaceful beauty of the scene, which left nothing
further to desire or to hope for ; and she, too, seemed
to yield to the languorous influence about her, and to
rest satisfied with mere existence in the sweet and
drowsy stillness.
" Suddenly she became conscious of a strange and
subtle change, which seemed silently to pass over the
face of this dream-like beauty. The golden glow
faded out of the sunshine, a strange chillness pervaded
the air, and one by one the delicate blossoms drooped
and faded, while cold gray clouds hid the soft blue
of the summer sky, and sobbing gusts of wind strewed
the grass with sere and withered leaves, that but
lately had been waving, fresh and green, in the soft
summer breeze. The Spirit of the Woods looked
with dismay at the sudden id mournful blight that
had touched, with a destroying spell, the perfect
beauty in which she had been rejoicing, and she
seemed to feel the presence of a great destroyer, of
whom she had vaguely heard ; before whose coming
if.
^
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
345
all the beauty of the earth must perish. She wept
bitterly, till the boughs of the great trees drooped
heavily towards the earth, and the crystal tears
dropped from the feathery sprays of the hemlocks,
and sanl: dovlti into the earth, to refresh the soil that
had become parched with the long reign of unbroken
sunshiie, and to keep the roots of the grass and the
tender plants from being dried up for lack of
moisture.
"Then there came a day that gave new hope and
joy to the drooping heart of the disconsolate Spirit,
and made her feel as if, after all, the Destroyer had
been overcome. Perhaps her tears liad been powerful
to drive him away. At all events, it seemed as if the
reign of brightness and beauty had returned. The
sunshine again broke, bright and golden, through a
soft morning mist that seemed to bathe all nature in
the freshness of spring. And when it shone on the
forest, there gleamed out a thousand hues of amber
and gold and crimson and pur])le, and every twig and
shrub seemed to glisten as with ruby and coral in the
morning sun, in which many a ' burning bush ' shone
with almost dazzling radiance. The Spirit of the
Woods ffazed in astonishment and delight at the won-
drous transfiguration which liad clothed with new and
glorious beauty the nature that had seemed ready to
droop and die.
" But her joy was short lived ; lov very soon
346
OPENING BLOSSOMS,
again the gold faded out of the sunshine, and instead
of the soft, brooding, slumberous calm in which all
the living creatures had seemed to bask and luxuri-
ate, wild gusts again began to sob and wail through
the forest, sweeping away, all too swiitly, the rich
colors from the trees that began to stretch their bare
dark boughs appealingly to the stormy sky. The
bitter north wind breathed over all things its biting,
nipping air, and every green thing sank before it in
blackened decay. The grieved and disappointed
Spirit wept again, more bitterly than before, over the
desolation of her kingdom — the dead and dying-
herbage, the swift disappearance of the glory of color
that had seemed to crown the woodland with an
aureole of brightness, just before this mournful
shattering of her hopes. This time her tears as they
fell were caught and crystallized by the tricky frost
spirit into an exquisite, sparkling hoarfrost, which at
least beautified the advancing desolation which it could
not stay. Day by day, as the winds blew and the
rain fell, more and more dying leaves fell from the
trees, and dropped sodden on the yellow, withered
grass, and as the sad-hearted Spirit looked over her
desolated realm, but lately so rich in beauty, she could
see nothing to console her. But even as she sat dis-
consolate amid the brown and sere remains of what
had been such luxuriant verdure, behold, there glided
up to her a beautiful, clear-eyed spirit called Hope,
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
347
who whispered to her in sweetest tones that, iilthoii<:jh
the great Destroyer had come, despite her tears and
prayers, there woukl yet arise a great and powerfnl
Restorer, even stronger than the destroying power
that had wrought such evil and havoc ; and that tliis
Restoring Spirit woukl bring back to her desolated
woods a new and f rer beauty, that would even make
her forget the treasures she had lost and was now
mourning.
"So the Spirit of the Woods was comforted, and
waited patiently, watching always for the promised
approach of this wonder-working power. One night
there arose the sound of a great and mighty wind, and
as it rushed through the forest, bending and swaying
the great trunks and branches, driving everything
helplessly before its resistless strength, the expectant
Spirit wondered whether this might not prove to be
the power that was so strong, and of which so much
was to be expected. But its strength seemed only for
destruction, for it tore up even large trees, that were
not very firndy rooted, and snapped asunder, with a
loud crash, tall and strong trunks, while it ground and
crushed the tender boughs and twigs, and left the
forest more bare and desolate than Ix'fore.
" Again the Spirit watched and waited, sorrowful
for the havoc she could not prevent, yet still hoping for
the wonderful Restorer who was to do what she could
scarcely now think possible. But she had faith in the
348
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
\
is K
III
promlser, Hope, and whore she could not see, she
trusted. One clear night, when everything was very
still, she became aware of the silent presence of a
great and terrilde Power. The svaftly rushing water,
that nothing could hold back, became suddenly cold
and lifeless, then solid and dark like a jiiece of dead
matter. The soft brown earth became hard and rugged
as iron. No one could ever have imagined her the
gentle mother of so many living things. ' Here is a
power mightier even than the wind,' thought the
Spirit. ' The wind could only lash and toss the water
into a rage; this holds it in chains and fetters. But
this also is the power of death, not of life I ' And
the Spirit sighed, but patiently watched and waited
still.
" By and by, without a sound, or the rustling of a
dead leaf, a strange, soft, white, feathery mist de-
scended on all the bare, dark forest and hard, iron,
bound soil. Before long they were all enwrapped and
shrouded in a soft, unearthly, though beautiful gar-
ment, that seemed to be an etherealized semblance of
the beauty of its summer verdure. Tenderly the
Spirit of the Snow wrapped its light, fleecy drapery
about the interlacing gray boughs, till each twig and
spray seemed to stand out in a lovely tracery of the
purest white, which glittered in the sunlight with a
more dazzling luster than that of ])earls or diamonds.
As the Spirit of the Woods gazed in admiration, she
wondered whether, indeed, this could be the new res-
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
349
toration of beauty that had been promised ; but she
shivered at the thought that, though beautiful, it was
cold and inanimate, and that even its beauty was not
the beauty of life, but of death. And even while she
thought this, she, too, yielded to the benumbing spell
that seemed to have overcome all things, and fell
asleep.
" When she returned to consciousness, it seemed as
if she had been aroused by a kiss so soft and warm,
that it sent a thrill through all her being. As she
looked up, she forgot even to think about the promised
Restorer, so lost was she in an encompassing and pene-
trating sense of awakening life. The trees still showed
their leafless boughs against the sky, but there was
about them a magical presentiment of quickened vital-
ity; a faint feathering out of swelling buds, which
exhaled the most exquisite fragrance, an air as soft as
the down on the swan's breast. The ground was still
brown, and strewed with sodden leaves ; but a moist,
sweet odor came forth from the " unbound earth," and
myriads of tiny green points and shoots were rising
and expanding themselves in every direction. As the
delighted Spirit looked towards some moss-grown rocks
near at hand, she started in an ecstasy, for in their
shelter she saw an exquisite cluster of lovely snow-
white cups, gleaming like stars out of their deep, rich
green leaves. And she knew it for a parting gift left
by the Spirit of the Snow to show how her purity had
entered into this fresh and renewed life. And all
I r
350
OPENING BLOSSOMS.
uround the woodland was studded with snow-whitt-
phiiiies, as it' the snow wreaths were still clinging to
the bare shrubs ; only this snow was living and breath-
ing the fragrance and the tenderness of oj)ening life,
blended with the dazzling i)urity of what had been the
cold and soulless snow.
" As she looked in silent wonder and delight, a
liquid, melodious trill met her ear, like the pure note
of returning life, and wherever her eye turned it was
ghiddened by bursting buds and opening flowers, nearly
all of the same dazzling snowy purity, though here
and there their fair whiteness was just tinted by some
excpiisitely delicate coloring ; and occasionally a blood-
red blossom seemed to be a memorial of the beautiful,
but mournful glory which had preceded the season of
sorrow and despair. But now the air was full of fresh
hope ; the sun shone warmly with a soft, sympathetic
power that made its gentle kiss a very touch of life.
The music of a thousand streamlets filled the air, and
the song birds that had fled before the Destroyer's
approach, were caroling joyously from every bough.
And the Spirit of the Woods, as she drew in a long
breath of the sweet reviving air, exclaimed, ' Now 1
know that the power of love and life is forever stronger
than the fatal force of death and destruction.' "
" Well, do you like 'the Spirit of the Woods as well
as the Light spirit? " asked the professor.
(Jl'ENlNG IlLOWSOMS.
351
*' No," said Marjorie promptly. " She was very
useless, for she could ouly uioau and lament."
'* Oh, well ! she's cmly intended to symbolize Nature
'travailing in i)iiin,' as she is now; and she does well
enough for that. 15 ut on a day like this one can take
in the lesson, and it's the very one I've been preaching
to you in my stories — that Love is the only power
that will ever appeal to the luunan heart."
'" Yes, indeed," said Miss Mostyn ; "• I know that
by experience, if I'm not a professor. Love is the
only thing that will work any real reformation, even
with the most hardened."
" And therefore," said the professor, "• I for one
need no other evidenc^e that the Gospel of Love came
from Ilim who made the heart and knows how to
touch it."
But Norman and Effie were rather im])atient of the
quiet talk ; and very soon they all went on an expedi-
tion to look at the military buildings on the eastern
end of the island, where a regular garrison used to be
posted, but where now almost absolute solitude reigns.
" So may it be with all our fortifications every-
where," said the professor. "• There ought to be no
more need for them."
Then they began to talk of Ilelcne de Champlain,
and to wonder how the island looked when she first
fancied it.
" I'm sure I think she might have been very con-
f^
' ;
i
■ \
352
OPENING liLOS80M8.
ri I
tented in Canada," said Millie, " with such a pretty
island all for her own."
" I think HO too," said Professor Duncan.
When Dr. Hamsay arrived they boiled the kettle
with a spirit lamp, and had afternoon tea by the shore.
There were several otiier picnic j)arties on the island,
but it is so lar««v tliat they did not disturb each other.
The children had lovely bunches of wild flowers to
carry back, as they stepped aboard the ferry boat to
return in the glowing- sunset, the city before them
lighted up with the golden flood of radiance, and the
distant hills transflgured, too, with its transient glory.
The little ones, with their flowers, were driven back
by the doctor, who had left his horse at the nearest
convenient place, and the others walked leisurely home
in the pleasant spring twilight. To Marjorie, notwith-
standing her father's absence, her fourteenth birthday
seemed the pleasantest she had ever known.
}. i;
'iJ
~"~' -—"'•■ —
CHAPTER XIX.
EASTWARD, Ho!
Mr. Fleming's tour among the West India Islands
had been ratlier more protracted than lie had at first
intended ; and he wished to visit several interesting
])oints in the South before returning northward. It
would be, he wrote to Marjorie, 'Inly, at any rate,
before he could join her in Montreal. Her cousins
were delighted at this, for they had been afraid lest he
might come for Marjorie before they went to Murray
Bay, where they always spent the summer holidays,
in one of the country cottages near that pleasant sj)ot.
They had told Marjorie a great deal about its nuiiiifold
beauties and delights, so that the pleasure of looking
forward to these counteracted the disappointment of
her father's protracted absence ; and they were all
eagerly anticipating the first week in July.
Ada was getting on very well, but the doctor rec-
ommended a change to country air as soon as pos-
sible. She had been hearing so much about Murray
Bay from the Ramsays and Marjorie, that she fixed
35^
354
EASTW AKD, HO
r
m '
S':"
her affections on that 2>hice at once, and the doctor
said that nothing could be better than the bracing air
thtre, though the water, unfortunately, would be too
cold to admit of her bathing. Mrs. West had been
there occasionally when her children were younger,
and as a general thing she preferred to go to the
livelier American watering places ; but as Ada had
taken a fancy to go to Murray Bay, and as she cer-
tainly was hardly fit for a long and fatiguing railway
journey, the convenience of a i)lace accessible by
stea-ner decided the matter. And Ada soon had the
satisfaction of informing Marjorie that her father had
secured a furnished house for a few weeks, wliere she
hoped Marjorie would spend part of her time with her,
when they were all down there together.
Another little project the two girls discussed with
great interest. Louis Oirard had some relatives not
far from Murray Bay, and if they could take him jind
his mother down there to their friends in the country,
it would be the very thing to recruit them both. It
would be, too, Ada said, the nicest sort of reward
to give the little fellow for finding Robin, though
perhaps it would be more correct to say that Robin
found him.
Dr. Ramsay had often told Marjorie of the " Fresh
Air Fund " in Montreal, for taking poor children out
to the country ; so she suggested that they should
start a little '' Fresh Air Fund " for little Louis. The
EASTWARD, HO !
355
It
aid
" Fund " became very popular. Gerald and Ada put
into it almost all their pocket-money, the latter limit-
ing her expenditure in candy to a wonderful degree.
Marjorie put in all that she could save from what her
father sent her for necessary expenses. Mrs. West
dropped in a five dollar bill, and the young Ramsays
each contributed their mite ; and very soon they had
collected quite enough for the purpose. And as Dr.
Ramsay wanted to get Louis to the salt water as
soon as possible, he and his mother were sent off with
the first detachment that went down under the care of
the "■ Fresh Air Society." Both were delighted ; the
mother crying with pleasure at the prospect of seeing
her old home and her relatives again.
Alan had got his surveying appointment, and had
started with his party; but Gerald wa too much
needed at home to allow of his being spared. As
Dick could not be much depended en, and was, more-
over, needed by his father in the office, Gerald must
take care of his mother and sister when they went to
Murray Bay, where they were to have with them an
aunt and two cousins or Ada's. And as they had
several other friends who took summer cottages at
Murray Bay, there would be no lack of pleasant
society. The Ramsays' usual resort was two or three
miles from the hotels and little settlement of summer
cottages, on the opposite shore of the bay. But tlie
Wests were to take down a phaeton to drive, and with
Uu;
356
EASTWARD, HO !
j' I
Gerald's and Ada's ponies, there would be no difficulty
in having frequent meetings, even if the charming
walk were too much for the invalid.
June passed rapidly and pleasantly by. Marjorie
went to school as usual, and had now set diligently to
work at her crayon head, though the weather was
not very favorable for indoor application. Ada was
taken out for a drive every day, and Marjorie was her
frequent companion. Their drive was usually thi
delightful one round the Mountain Park, with its
lovely views of city, river and country, on both sides
of the noble hill. Sometimes they drove through the
beautiful cemetery, where the quiet sleepers rest under
such a bowery shade of stately trees ; and occuf^ionally
Gerald and Marjorie had a ride, sometimes up the
" mountain," sometimes along the smooth surface of the
Lachine Road, with it,, green fields and tall elms and
glimpses of Dutch canal scenery, and the tall, gray
French spire of Lachine rising above the trees.
Everywhere there was the fresh beauty of June ;
even in the city itself, where the gardens were aglow
with flowers and blossoming shrubs, and many of the
streets, especially those leading up to the " mountain,"
were like bosky avenues ; and the " mountain " itself
had shaken out its luxuriant mantle of green, and rose
behind the city, twice as ^tately in its summer robes
as in its cold wintry garb. In fact it seemed scarcely
possible lo realize that the Montreal of June and the
I
10
5>
IC
i!
t
EASTWAliD, HO I
357
Montreal of the Carnival were one and the same
place. .
Professor Duncan went away in June to Quebec,
where he usually spent most of the summer, and
where he promised to take care of Marjorie, and show
her much of the historic city, if she would come on a day
or two in advance of the family party, who could not con-
veniently linger on the way. Before he left, however,
an early morning expedition was arranged to go down
the Lachine Rapids, as Gerald had suggested. He
and the professor acted as escorts, and Marion, Mar-
jorie and Millie started about six o'clock on a lovely
June morning, after a hasty breakfast, to meet their
escorts at the Bonaventure Station.
The train had soon whisked them out to Lachine,
where they stepped out on the pier where the steam-
boat lay on wliich they were to descend the rapids.
Above stretched the wide Lake of St. Louis — the
expansion of the river above the rapids, which for-
merly bore the same name. As they steamed away
from the village, with its large stone church and Pres-
hijtere^ and line of houses stretching along the lake
shore. Professor Duncan pointed out the Indian village
of Caughnawaga, on the opposite bank of the river,
just below the lake, and told Marjorie something of
the romantic and tragic career of Robert de la Salle,
the first feudal lord of Lachine. The very name of
the place was, he said, a memorial of this adventurer's
I
358
EASTWARD, Ho!
ambitious dreiiin of finding a short way by water
across the continent to India and China. It was in a
spirit of derision that his jealous enemies gave this
name to the seigniory here, given to him by the eccle-
siastical body which then owned Montreal, on condition
that he should build and maintain a fort there, which
might help to keep off the raids of the murderous
Iroquois. And he told her that there were still relics
there of La Salle's old house and fortification. But
La Salle was a born explorer, he said, and soon sold
his seigniory here that he might go farther West, and
devote his life to his cherished project of finding a
water way to the Pacific.
The professor also told briefly how, after a long
succession of arduous labors, toilsome journeys and
heart-breaking disappointn^ents, he at last realized
his dream of finding the Mississippi River, following
it to the GnU" >f Mexico, a'^d taking pt)ssession of this
great rich Western and Southern country in the name
of his king, the great Louis the Fourteenth. But
even in the realization of his dream he was doomed to
disappointment. The jealousy of his foes and the
forces of nature seemed to be banded against him, and
after twenty years of labors and l)ravely-borne dis-
appointments, he fell in the wilds of Texas by the bidlet
of a traitorous follower wliile trying to secure succor for
an ill-fated colony he had led to that southern shore.
Marjorie listened to the professors brief outline
EASTWARD, Ho!
359
with the greater Interest, because it seemed to int(u--
weave with tlie history of the place that of her own
native hind, and establislied an unexpected link of
association between this Canadian village and that
tropical Louisiana of which she had been reading so
much in her father's letters, and both of which draw
their French character and coloring from the same old
brave explorers.
But they were nearing the rapids now, and the
present excitement crowded out every other thought.
These rapids do not look so grand and formidable as
some of the other rapids of the St. Lawrence, and just
at first Marjorie felt greatly disappointed. But when
they got fairly into the strong grasp and swirl of the
water that looks so deceitfully quiet, and were carried
on at headlong speed past the bare black rocks that
almost graze the steamer's side, and saw the strong
white breakers that here leap up as if to catch it and
drag it to destruction, it was exciting enough ; and she
almost held her breath till they had stemmed the rag-
ing snrges below the rocks, and had emerged into the
calm, though still swift current near the tranquil
beauty of Nun's Island — quite an appropriate name,
Marjorie thought, for an island that seemed such an
embodiment of rejwse, contrasted with the angry and
troubled waters just above.
The view of the city, with its mountain background,
was lovely in the fresh, bright morning light, as they
3G0
EASTWARD, HO !
steamed under the huge Victoria Bridge, and swei)t
round to the quay. And then this little expedition,
so unique to Marjorie, was over already. She stepped
off the steamboat reluctantly, glad that^^ she could look
forward to having soon more enjoyable travel on the
same noble river.
The weather was growing very warm in Montreal,
even before the end of June. Marjorie felt it difficult
to fix her thoughts on her studies, and her energy was
growing rather languid. Ada was suffering from
prostration caused by the heat, and grew more fretful
than she had been since the first days of convalescence.
Preparations were hurried on, and one fine evening \v.
the end of June, Marjorie found herself on board the
large Quebec steamboat, with her aunt. Jack and
Gerald, who were going down in advance of their
respective parties, to have all things in readiness.
Marjorie was to be left at Quebec with Professor
Duncan till the others came on, two days later, when
she was to join them on the Saguenay steamer.
They had a beautitid calm evening, with a growing
moon, as they sailed down the wide stream of the St.
Lawrence, watching the " mountain " till it rose dimly
blue in the distance. To Marjorie it was associated
with so much enjoyment, that to lose sight of it at
last seemed like bidding good-by to an old friend.
Her aunt insisted on her going off early to her state-
room, notwithstanding the beauty of the .summer
EASTWARD, HO !
361
night ; for there wouhl be far more to see in the
morning, and she wouhl have to be up about five, not
to miss the fine scenery just above Quebec.
When she came out on deck in the cool, fresh
morning, the river scenery was completely different.
Instead of tlu^ low flat shore near Montreal, the sun
shone on h!;h wooded banks, dotted with gleaming
white villages and church spires, and away in the di.i-
tance, beyond a misty bluff wliich they said was the
rock of Quebec, stretched a vista of stately blue hills.
Mrs. Ramsay and Gerald were out already. Her aunt,
who of course knew the shore well, pointed out the
pretty little nook where the Cap Kouge River comes
out between its protecting hills, and where an unsuc-
cessful colony was planted, before Champlain founded
Quebec.
By and by they drew nearer the regal old city, and
Marjorie could discern the outline of the rock and
citadel, with the mast-studded river and great Atlantic
steamers lying at Point Levis, on the other side of
the channel, which there is only about a mile wide.
Mrs. Ramsay pointed out a picturesque little French
village, lying in the shelter of the high wooded bank
above Quebec, and told her that that was Sillery, the
spot where a religious establishment had been founded
by an old knight of Malta, and where the devoted hos-
])ital nuns had first established themselves when they
joined the Canadian mission. And she told her that
302
EASTWARD, IIO !
if]
when Madame de la Peltrle, a noble lady who was one of
the first to come out to work for the conversion of tlie
Indians, and two or three of the nuns who acconi})anicd
her, first visited this spot and saw their little Indian
pupils, they were so glad, that they seized and kissed
every little Indian girl within their reach ; " without
minding," so Pere Le Jeune said, "whether they
were dirty or not. For," he added, " love and charity
triumphed over every human consideration."
As the steamer stopped at her dock, just under the
dark gray rock of Cape Diamond, with Dufferin
Terrace and the citadel high above their heads, Mar-
jorie and her friends had no time to stop and enjoy
the view of the tall quaint houses or busy harbor.
Professor Duncan was waiting for IVIarjorie, and the
Saguenay boat was waiting for the others. Very soon
they were separated, and the steamer rapidly receded
down the river, while the professor and Marjorie drove
np the steep hill in one of the quaint little French
('(fJeches that are just made for these hilly roads, with
their two wheels and strong springs, and the sure-
footed ponies that draw them.
As soon as they' had breakfasted at the house of
Professor Duncan's hospitable hostess, where Marjorie
caught glimpses of charming mountain views in every
direction, they set out on their round of sightseeing.
Professor Duncan took her first to the spacious
Dufferin Terrace close by, from which she could see
EASTWARD, Ho!
3615
the beautiful panorama around her ; the river winding
down on both sides of the purple woods of the Island
of Orleans, the distant hills changing eolor with the
passing of the light fleecy clouds ; the wooded heights
of Levis opposite crowned with villages and steeples ;
and just below the busy harbor and the quaint, grimy
old town.
The professor pointed out Champlain market just
below them, telling her that thereabouts had stood
that first " H<ihitatlon da Champlain,,'" which had been
one of his " Scenes of Christmas Past." And Mar-
jorie tried to fancy the busy city gone, and the
primitive little settlement under the hill, just as it was
when Champlain cultivated his roses in his garden
below. On the ground beliind the Terrace, the pro-
fessor said, stood the old Chateau of St. Louis, wliere
Champlain died.
From the Terrace they mounted to the glacis of the
citadel and found their way round to the entrance,
catching different views all along their way. Marjorie
was bewildered bv the great walls and ditch of the old
fortress, and delighted beyond expression by the mag-
nificent view from the " King's Bastion," commanding
such a sweep of charming landscape scenery — blue
mountains, rich woods, fertile fields, gleaming villages
and winding river. From the other bastion, bearing
the name and crest of the Prince of Wales, the pro-
fessor pointed out the rugged stretch of green just
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364
EASTWARD, Ho!
below and beyond, and told her that those were the
** Plains of Abraham," where Wolfe had fallen, after
fighting the decisive battle which won Canada from
the French.
Coming down from the citadel, they strolled round
the ramparts, crossed the quiet green esplanade, in-
spected the new stately gates, and the fine new Parlia-
ment buildings outside the walls. And wherever they
went, there were such charming views of gray-blue hills
receding beyond each other to the horizon, and blue,
sail-studded river and woodland, and long fields and
white villages, that Marjorie could have gazed all day.
Near St. John*s Gate the professor stopped and showed
her how the St. Charles wound out from among the
hills till it met the St. Lawrence at the city; and
showing her a green point round which this small
river made a silver loop, he told her that that was the
site of Pere Le Jeune's little convent — Notre Dame
des Anges ; and that in the stream close by Cartier
had laid up his ships during that terrible winter.
After dinner, as Marjorie declared that she was not
at all fatigued, they drove out by the St. Foy road,
past charming villas and gardens, and back by the St.
Louis road. They drove down to the pretty little
village of Sillery, under the cliflF, and there the pro-
fessor pointed out, under a spreading elm, thr French
inscription that marks the spot of the " first Convent
of the Hospital Nuns." He showed her, too, the old
EASTWARD, HO I
365
house that still stands, built in those early days for
the Mission ; and near it the white monument of
Enemond Masse — the "/?ere utile ^* who was the first
of the pioneer missionaries to go to his rest.
As they returned, the professor dismissed their
carriage at the toll gate near Wolfe's Monument.
They stopped to look at it and read the simple inscrip-
tion: " Hei'e died Wolfe Victorious ; " with the date,
" 1759." Then they walked across the green, uneven
meadow, and the professor pointed out where Wolfe
had scrambled up the height among the rough bushes,
leading his men to the unexpected and successful
attack which wrested from the French their hardly
won and heroically kept colony. And as they walked
back, he gave her a few particulars of the battle, and
how the brave Wolfe had asked " Who run ? " and
being told that it was the French, said, " Then I die
happy," and quietly expired.
In the evening they went to enjoy the sunset from
Duiferin Terrace, where the band plays on fine sununer
evenings. As they strolled up and down, watching
the rich, soft sunset tints fading from the distant hills
and the caLn river, the professor talked of the old
times of Quebec, and the brave deeds and high hopes
that were associated with those old rocks and hills.
And as they noticed the stately forms of some long-
robed ecclesiastics walking by in the gathering dusk,
Marjorie could easily have conjured up the shade o£
366
EASTWARD, HO I
Pere Le Jeune and his brave comrades, revisiting " the
glimpses of the moon."
Next day the professor drove Marjorie down to
Montmorency Falls, past the long line of pretty little
French cottages and old-fashioned gardens that line
the Beaupavt Road. They walked across to the brow
of the cliff, and down the dizzy flight of steps, getting
different views of the great, snowy cataract dashing
down the steep amid its showers of spray that bedewed
the tall dark pines, which made such an effective set-
ting to the snowy sheet of the foaming cataract. Then
they dined at the little inn, and strolled about the lovely
grounds close to the Falls — whose proprietor was an
acquaintance of the professor — and walked back up
the lupid brown stream of the Montmorency till they
reached the "Natural Steps " ; the succession of brown
ledges over which this mountain torrent dashes down
to join the St. Lawrence. In the evening they had a
charming drive home, with the tin roofs of Quebec
before them glittering like a golden palace in the rich
sunset light.
Marjorie was enchanted with Quebec, and could
have lingered there for days. She would have liked
a longer peep at the " Basilica " — as the Cathedral is
called — and at the Ursuline Convent Chapel, where
the hush seemed as remote from ordinary life as the
light still kept burning in memory of a French girl
who died a hundred years ago. And she was fascinated
EASTWARD, HO !
367
by the thought that still where the convent stood
was the very same old garden where Madame de la
Peltrie and her nuns sat and taught the little Indian
girls centuries ago.
It would be charming to come back here with ht?r
father, she thought, and now she could be his guide,
as Professor Duncan had been hers, to the historic
associations of this cradle of the life of Canada.
But her friends expected her to join them at the
Saguenay boat next morning. And thither accord-
ingly Professor Duncan and she again drove down in
a caleche. Mrs. West and Ada, with Dick in charge,
and her cousins under Marion's supervisicirs, and an
enormous pile of luggage, were being transferred from
the one steamboat to the other. All were delighted to
greet Marjorie ; and saying a hurried and grateful
good-by to the professor, they were off, and gliding
away from the stately city, and along the populous
shore of the Island of Orleans.
CHAPTER XX.
AMONG THE HILLS.
Charming, indeed, was the sail down the glorious
river, past the grand wooded hills that rose in stately
procession, one behind the other, as they steamed
rapidly northeastward. These looked more and more
lonely as they got farther down, and the white villages
and solitary houses that dotted them for a great part
of the way, grew farther and farther apart. Occasion-
ally, however, a white cluster of houses would be seen
almost at the summit of a high, rugged hill, clothed
throughout with fir and birch ; though more often, as
they proceeded, these were one huge mass of green.
Tlie high piers by which the steamer occasionally
stopped to disembark freight or passengers, astonished
Marjorie, till reminded that they were now in water
which was constantly rising or falling with the tide.
About three o'clock in the afternoon they came in
sight of the long, tall pier of Murray Bay, where,
amid the expectant crowd that always awaits the
steamer there, they soon discovered Gerald, with Mrs.
368
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AMONG TH£ HILLS.
369
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Ramsay and Jack. The pony phaeton was got out of
the boat as soon as possible, and Gerald drove his
sister to their temporary home, about a mile from the
landing, just under the brow of the hill that runs
along the curving shore of the beautiful bay. Oppo-
site was Cap a L^Aigle, where the Ramsay:* cottage
stood, and at the head of the bay a white church spire
marked the French village of Murray Bay, which is
quite distinct from Point au Pic, where the hotels
and summer cottages stand.
Marjorie was to stay with Ada for the first day or
two, at least ; so she bade good-by to her cousins as
they stepped merrily into the little French hay cart
which was to carry them to their destination. Ada
was delighted with the novelty of the simple country
house, with little or no furniture, but full of the sweet
fresh mountain air, and lovely views of hill and sea ;
as the expanse of river appeared to be, with its tide-
uncovered beach. Then the green partially wooded
hill rose just at the back of their little inclosure, and
all they had to do was to stroll away up the grassy
slope and find a more charming and extensive view at
every step. Every hour of the bracing air seemed to
bring new strength to Ada, and she was impatiently
waiting permission to mount her pony and ride off
among those lovely hills with Gerald.
Marjorie set off in the pony phaeton with Gerald, a
day or two after, to go to her cousins at Cap a UAigle,
370
AMONG TU£ UlLLS.
It did not seem very far, looking across the brown
sandy beach and soft blue strip of river, to the bold
bluff stretchin<»; far out seaward on the other side.
But they had to drive round the bay, past the continu-
ous line of little French farmhouses and strips of
upland farm, past the queer earthen ovens that stood
by the roadside, through the quaint French village
that lay on both sides of the bridge that spanned the
shallow brown Murray River, and then up along the
foot of wooded hills to the brow of the long grassy
bluff. The view on both sides was magnificent,
whether they looked landward into the vista of hills
beyond hills, or across the river to the distant hills on
the other side, or eastward to the ocean-like horizon.
Dr. Ramsay loved this pluce so well because, he said,
it reminded him strongly of the highland scenery of
his native land.
The Ramsays' cottage was a small one, and very
plain and bare ; but the children rushed to meet her
in great spirits, to tell her of all the fun they had had
already. And only the day before, they said, Louis
Girard and his mother had come in a little country
wagon to see them, and had been so disappointed that
" Mademoiselle was not there."
It would be pleasant to tell more particularly of
all the delights of the next three or four weeks ; the
rides and drives, the canoeing on the river, the picnics
to the pretty waterfalls in the vicinity. But all this
AMONG THE HILLS.
371
must be left to the imagination of the lover of pict-
uresque scenery. ?Iarjorie was delighted, at least, if
her cousins were not, when a letter arrived from her
father, telling her that he was on his way northward,
and would reach her almost as soon as his letter. It
need scarcely be said that she was eagerly watching
at the pier when the steamer's smoke was seen in the
distance, rounding the promontory above ; and that
when it drew near enough at last to admit of distin-
guishing the figures on board, her eye soon detected
the familiar figure that was as eagerly looking out
for her. And when she was once more clasped in
his embrace, and his familiar tones were in her ear,
she could scarcely believe that he had been so long
away.
Mr. Fleming was as delighted as Marjorie had an-
ticipated with the charming scenery of Murray Bay.
He and she had many pleasant walks together, in
addition to the more extensive family expeditions, dur-
ing which she unfolded to him the various experiences
of the past months, so much more fully than she could
do in letters. And he was astonished to find how
much she had grown in mind and character, and how
much she knew, thanks to Professor Duncan, of the
old heroic age of Canada.
Gerald and he had many talks, too, and Mr. Fleming
was much interested in the thoughtful, ambitious lad,
who reminded him strongly of his own early self.
372
AMONG THE HILLS.
One evening the three were walking up from Cap a
IJ Aigle to Murray Bay, after one of the frequent
tluinder storms which abound there, followed by an
exquisite rainbow. As they walked, the sun set in a
dazzling glory of purple and crimson clouds, that
flooded the hills with the most exquisite hues, and
bathed the green slope at hand in a mellow light,
while the river lay as it were a soft, translucent min-
gling of opaline tints of rose and pale green and
softest purple. It was a picture that would not be
soon forgotten. *
" Well, Miss Marjorie, isn't this grand ? " said a
well-known voice. Marjorie started and turned round.
" Why, Professor Duncan ! Where did you come
from? Father dear, this is Professor Duncan. Pm
so glad ! "
And when they had taken breath after the greeting,
the professor told them that he was going to take a
sail up the Saguenay, and had stopped on the way to
see them all and try to secure a traveling companion
for his trip.
He and Mr. Fleming very soon renewed their old
acquaintance, and it was soon arranged that when the
next boat came down, Mrs. Ramsay, Marion and Mar-
jorie, with Mr. Fleming and Gerald, should accompany
Professor Duncan on this charming expedition.
The summer dusk was just closing in as they
rounded the rocky point of Tadousac, and saw the
AMONG THE HILLS.
37.i
village nestling among the crags and stunted firs, where,
as Professor Duncan reminded them, the very first
little settlement had been perched when the fur-
traders had their headquarters there for traffic with
the Indians, who brought their furs down the gloomy
Saguenay.
They went ashore to see the little ancient church
which had so long stood like a tiny "light in the
surrounding darkness " of savagery and heathenism,
and watched the lights of the village as they left it,
seeming a type of the part which the little church
had played so long.
They remained up till midnight to see Cape Trin-
ity and Eternity by moonlight, looking like great
Titanic shadows looming over the blackness of the
stream. In the early morning they went ashore at
Ha Ha Bay, and went to hear the early mass in
the village church, where a devout congi'egation of the
country folk was assembled.
They had a delightful day on the wild river, with
its endless ranges of stern cliffs and wooded gorges,
the little villages perched on craggy ledges, the weird
majesty of Cape Trinity and Cape Eternity, with their
dizzy height and weather-scarred precipices. They
passed Tadousac again in the "gloaming," and were
almost relieved to get out of the gloomy shadows of
the Saguenay and out on the broad St. Lawrence.
It was very late — about three in the August morn-
374
AMONG THE HILLS.
ing, for they had been delayed by the tide — when the
steamer approached Miirrpy Bay. They had all been
walking up and down the deck, and Mr. Fleming and
Professor Duncan had been talking of the old days,
and how truly the " lights " which the brave pioneers
had carried into these savage wilds, had been " lights in
the darkness " ; even like those soft auroral streamers
which they had been watching in the northern hori-
zon ; for in that north latitude it is often pretty cold
even in August.
They talked, too, of the darkness that shrouds so
large a portion even of our great cities, and how many a
quiet, steady light is needed to shine there, too, as
"lights in the darkness." Marjorie listened to the
conversation, feeling that as she must soon be leav-
ing all these pleasant scenes, and be returning to
the old life, which now did seem just a little lonely,
there would always be this noble ideal and aspira-
tion, worthy of any one's best efforts. Everywhere,
if one tried, one could iudced be a "light in the
darkness."
" And look there ! " said Professor Duncan. Away
to the eastward there was a pale streak of amber
heralding the coming dawn. And now the aurora
lights began to fade out of the sky as it grew every
moment brighter.
" Yes," said Mr. Fleming ; " it makes me think of
the time when ' the city shall have no need of the sun.
AMONG iHt HILLS.
375
neither of the moon to Hhine in it ' — and ' there
shall be no night there.' The Northern Lights won't
be needed then ; bnt till then may they continue faith-
fully to shine on as * Lights in the Darkness I ' '*
" Amen ! " said tlu^ professor.
And if Marjorie did not say " Amen " aloud, she
said it in her heart.