Colonel Philibert and Le Gardeur rode rapidly through the forest of Beaumanoir, pulling up occasionally in an eager and sympathetic exchange of questions and replies, as they recounted the events of their lives since their separation, or recalled their school-days and glorious holidays and rambles in the woods of Tilly—with frequent mention of their gentle, fair companion, AmÉlie de Repentigny, whose name on the lips of her brother sounded sweeter than the chime of the bells of Charlebourg to the ear of Pierre Philibert.

The bravest man in New France felt a tremor in his breast as he asked Le Gardeur a seemingly careless question—seemingly, for, in truth, it was vital in the last degree to his happiness, and he knew it. He expressed a fear that AmÉlie would have wholly forgotten him after so long an absence from New France.

His heart almost ceased beating as he waited the reply of Le Gardeur, which came impetuously: “Forgotten you, Pierre Philibert? She would forget me as soon! But for you she would have had no brother to-day, and in her prayers she ever remembers both of us—you by right of a sister's gratitude, me because I am unworthy of her saintly prayers and need them all the more! O Pierre Philibert, you do not know AmÉlie if you think she is one ever to forget a friend like you!”

The heart of Philibert gave a great leap for joy. Too happy for speech, he rode on a while in silence.

“AmÉlie will have changed much in appearance?” he asked, at last. A thousand questions were crowding upon his lips.

“Changed? Oh, yes!” replied Le Gardeur, gaily. “I scarcely recognize my little bright-eyed sister in the tall, perfect young lady that has taken her place. But the loving heart, the pure mind, the gentle ways, and winning smiles are the same as ever. She is somewhat more still and thoughtful, perhaps—more strict in the observances of religion. You will remember, I used to call her in jest our St. AmÉlie: I might call her that in earnest now, Pierre, and she would be worthy of the name!”

“God bless you, Le Gardeur!” burst out Colonel Philibert,—his voice could not repress the emotion he felt,—“and God bless AmÉlie! Think you she would care to see me to-day, Le Gardeur?” Philibert's thoughts flew far and fast, and his desire to know more of AmÉlie was a rack of suspense to him. She might, indeed, recollect the youth Pierre Philibert, thought he, as she did a sunbeam that gladdened long-past summers; but how could he expect her to regard him—the full-grown man—as the same? Nay, was he not nursing a fatal fancy in his breast that would sting him to death? for among the gay and gallant throng about the capital was it not more than possible that so lovely and amiable a woman had already been wooed, and given the priceless treasure of her love to another? It was, therefore, with no common feeling that Philibert said, “Think you she will care to see me to-day, Le Gardeur?”

“Care to see you, Pierre Philibert? What a question! She and Aunt de Tilly take every occasion to remind me of you, by way of example, to shame me of my faults—and they succeed, too! I could cut off my right hand this moment, Pierre, that it should never lift wine again to my lips—and to have been seen by you in such company! What must you think of me?”

“I think your regret could not surpass mine; but tell me how you have been drawn into these rapids and taken the wrong turn, Le Gardeur?”

Le Gardeur winced as he replied,—“Oh, I do not know. I found myself there before I thought. It was the wit, wine, and enchantments of Bigot, I suppose,—and the greatest temptation of all, a woman's smiles,—that led me to take the wrong turn, as you call it. There, you have my confession!—and I would put my sword through any man but you, Pierre, who dared ask me to give such an account of myself. I am ashamed of it all, Pierre Philibert!”

“Thanks, Le Gardeur, for your confidence. I hope you will outride this storm!” He held out his hand, nervous and sinewy as that of Mars. Le Gardeur seized it, and pressed it hard in his. “Don't you think it is still able to rescue a friend from peril?” added Philibert smiling.

Le Gardeur caught his meaning, and gave him a look of unutterable gratitude. “Besides this hand of mine, are there not the gentler hands of AmÉlie to intercede for you with your better self?” said Philibert.

“My dear sister!” interjected Le Gardeur. “I am a coward when I think of her, and I shame to come into her pure presence.”

“Take courage, Le Gardeur! There is hope where there is shame of our faults. Be equally frank with your sister as with me, and she will win you, in spite of yourself, from the enchantments of Bigot, Cadet, and the still more potent smiles you speak of that led you to take the wrong turn in life.”

“I doubt it is too late, Pierre! although I know that, were every other friend in the world to forsake me, AmÉlie would not! She would not even reproach me, except by excess of affection.”

Philibert looked on his friend admiringly, at this panegyric of the woman he loved. Le Gardeur was in feature so like his sister that Philibert at the moment caught the very face of AmÉlie, as it were, looking at him through the face of her brother. “You will not resist her pleadings, Le Gardeur,”—Philibert thought it an impossible thing. “No guardian angel ever clung to the skirts of a sinner as AmÉlie will cling to you,” said he; “therefore I have every hope of my dear friend Le Gardeur Repentigny.”

The two riders emerged from the forest, and drew up for a minute in front of the hostelry of the Crown of France, to water their horses at the long trough before the door and inform Dame BÉdard, who ran out to greet them, that Master Pothier was following with his ambling nag at a gentle pace, as befitted the gravity of his profession.

“Oh! Master Pothier never fails to find his way to the Crown of France; but won't your Honors take a cup of wine? The day is hot and the road dusty. 'A dry rider makes a wet nag,'” added the Dame, with a smile, as she repeated an old saying, brought over with the rest of the butin in the ships of Cartier and Champlain.

The gentlemen bowed their thanks, and as Philibert looked up, he saw pretty ZoË BÉdard poring over a sheet of paper bearing a red seal, and spelling out the crabbed law text of Master Pothier. ZoË, like other girls of her class, had received a tincture of learning in the day schools of the nuns; but, although the paper was her marriage contract, it puzzled her greatly to pick out the few chips of plain sense that floated in the sea of legal verbiage it contained. ZoË, with a perfect comprehension of the claims of meum and tuum, was at no loss, however, in arriving at a satisfactory solution of the true merits of her matrimonial contract with honest Antoine La Chance.

She caught the eye of Philibert, and blushed to the very chin as she huddled away the paper and returned the salute of the two handsome gentlemen, who, having refreshed their horses, rode off at a rapid trot down the great highway that led to the city.

Babet Le Nocher, in a new gown, short enough to reveal a pair of shapely ankles in clocked stockings and well-clad feet that would have been the envy of many a duchess, sat on the thwart of the boat knitting. Her black hair was in the fashion recorded by the grave Peter Kalm, who, in his account of New France, says, “The peasant women all wear their hair in ringlets, and nice they look!”

“As I live!” exclaimed she to Jean, who was enjoying a pipe of native tobacco, “here comes that handsome officer back again, and in as great a hurry to return as he was to go up the highway!”

“Ay, ay, Babet! It is plain to see he is either on the King's errand or his own. A fair lady awaits his return in the city, or one has just dismissed him where he has been! Nothing like a woman to put quicksilver in a man's shoes—eh! Babet?”

“Or foolish thoughts into their hearts, Jean!” replied she, laughing.

“And nothing more natural, Babet, if women's hearts are wise enough in their folly to like our foolish thoughts of them. But there are two! Who is that riding with the gentleman? Your eyes are better than mine, Babet!”

“Of course, Jean! that is what I always tell you, but you won't believe me—trust my eyes, and doubt your own! The other gentleman,” said she, looking fixedly, while her knitting lay still in her lap, “the other is the young Chevalier de Repentigny. What brings him back before the rest of the hunting party, I wonder?”

“That officer must have been to Beaumanoir, and is bringing the young seigneur back to town,” remarked Jean, puffing out a long thread of smoke from his lips.

“Well, it must be something better than smoke, Jean!”—Babet coughed: she never liked the pipe—“The young chevalier is always one of the last to give up when they have one of their three days drinking bouts up at the ChÂteau. He is going to the bad, I fear—more's the pity! such a nice, handsome fellow, too!”

“All lies and calumny!” replied Jean, in a heat. “Le Gardeur de Repentigny is the son of my dear old seigneur. He may get drunk, but it will be like a gentleman if he does, and not like a carter, Babet, or like a—”

“Boatman! Jean; but I don't include you—you have never been the worse for drinking water since I took care of your liquor, Jean!”

“Ay, you are intoxication enough of yourself for me, Babet! Two bright eyes like yours, a pipe and bitters, with grace before meat, would save any Christian man in this world.” Jean stood up, politely doffing his red tuque to the gentlemen. Le Gardeur stooped from his horse to grasp his hand, for Jean had been an old servitor at Tilly, and the young seigneur was too noble-minded and polite to omit a kindly notice of even the humblest of his acquaintance.

“Had a busy day, Jean, with the old ferry?” asked Le Gardeur, cheerily.

“No, your Honor, but yesterday I think half the country-side crossed over to the city on the King's corvÉe. The men went to work, and the women followed to look after them, ha! ha!” Jean winked provokingly at Babet, who took him up sharply.

“And why should not the women go after the men? I trow men are not so plentiful in New France as they used to be before this weary war began. It well behooves the women to take good care of all that are left.”

“That is true as the Sunday sermon,” remarked Jean. “Why, it was only the other day I heard that great foreign gentleman, who is the guest of His Excellency the Governor, say, sitting in this very boat, that 'there are at this time four women to every man in New France!' If that is true, Babet,—and you know he said it, for you were angry enough,—a man is a prize indeed, in New France, and women are plenty as eggs at Easter!”

“The foreign gentleman had much assurance to say it, even if it were true: he were much better employed picking up weeds and putting them in his book!” exclaimed Babet, hotly.

“Come! come!” cried Le Gardeur, interrupting this debate on the population; “Providence knows the worth of Canadian women, and cannot give us too many of them. We are in a hurry to get to the city, Jean, so let us embark. My aunt and AmÉlie are in the old home in the city; they will be glad to see you and Babet,” added he, kindly, as he got into the boat.

Babet dropped her neatest courtesy, and Jean, all alive to his duty, pushed off his boat, bearing the two gentlemen and their horses across the broad St. Charles to the King's Quay, where they remounted, and riding past the huge palace of the Intendant, dashed up the steep CÔte au Chien and through the city gate, disappearing from the eyes of Babet, who looked very admiringly after them. Her thoughts were especially commendatory of the handsome officer in full uniform who had been so polite and generous in the morning.

“I was afraid, Jean, you were going to blurt out about Mademoiselle des Meloises,” remarked Babet to Jean on his return; “men are so indiscreet always!”

“Leaky boats! leaky boats! Babet! no rowing them with a woman aboard! sure to run on the bank. But what about Mademoiselle des Meloises?” Honest Jean had passed her over the ferry an hour ago, and been sorely tempted to inform Le Gardeur of the interesting fact.

“What about Mademoiselle des Meloises?” Babet spoke rather sharply. “Why, all Quebec knows that the Seigneur de Repentigny is mad in love with her.”

“And why should he not be mad in love with her if he likes?” replied Jean; “she is a morsel fit for a king, and if Le Gardeur should lose both his heart and his wits on her account, it is only what half the gallants of Quebec have done.”

“Oh, Jean, Jean! it is plain to see you have an eye in your head as well as a soft place!” ejaculated Babet, recommencing her knitting with fresh vigor, and working off the electricity that was stirring in her.

“I had two eyes in my head when I chose you, Babet, and the soft place was in my heart!” replied Jean, heartily. The compliment was taken with a smile, as it deserved to be. “Look you, Babet, I would not give this pinch of snuff,” said Jean, raising his thumb and two fingers holding a good dose of the pungent dust,—“I would not give this pinch of snuff for any young fellow who could be indifferent to the charms of such a pretty lass as AngÉlique des Meloises!”

“Well, I am glad you did not tell the Seigneur de Repentigny that she had crossed the ferry and gone—not to look for him, I'll be bound! I will tell you something by and by, Jean, if you will come in and eat your dinner; I have something you like.”

“What is it, Babet?” Jean was, after all, more curious about his dinner than about the fair lady.

“Oh, something you like—that is a wife's secret: keep the stomach of a man warm, and his heart will never grow cold. What say you to fried eels?”

“Bravo!” cried the gay old boatman, as he sang,

and the jolly couple danced into their little cottage—no king and queen in Christendom half so happy as they.