It is a beautiful evening. The tide is rushing in over the crisp yellow sands of the beach at Father Point. The sun is setting slowly, as if loath to leave this part of the world, and, as he departs, touches with his rays the gold and crimson tops of the maple and sumach trees, which border the road leading into the churchyard of the Good St. Anne.

The clouds are scudding over the sky in great masses of copper color and gold, parting every here and there, and showing glimpses of clear translucent blue beyond.

And how quickly the whole panorama changes as the sun sinks to his bed in the sea. Anon everything was golden and amethystine, like a foreshadowing of the splendor of the New Jerusalem. A moment later and all is a deep vivid crimson, flooding the scene with its rich radiance and casting into shade even the tints of yon tall sumach tree in the prime of its early autumn coloring. The old grey slate boulders on the beach are illumined by it, and stand out in prominence from the yellow sands.

All is still to-night, save for the beating of the waves against the rocks, or ever and anon the sound of a gun fired from the distant light-house.

The light-house of Father Point stands out clear and distinct on a long neck of rocky land running into the St. Lawrence.

All is still. But hark! A song comes faintly, carried on the evening breeze, and presently it grows clearer, louder, more distinct.

The words now can be heard plainly. They are those of that old French Canadian song so familiar to all dwellers in the Province of Quebec:

The voice was tuneful, strong, and full and clear, though lacking in cultivation. It was that of a girl, who was sitting under the shadow of a large boulder on the beach. She seemed about eighteen, though, in the uncertain wavering light of the sunset, it was impossible to distinguish her features clearly.

Her gown was of simple pink cotton, and on her head she wore a large peaked straw hat, which gave her a quaint old-world appearance.

Her brown hair had escaped from beneath this large head-gear, and blew about in pretty, untidy curls round her neck and shoulders. In her hand was a roll of music, which she had just brought from the church, where she had been practising for the morrow's mass.

The girl was Marie Gourdon, only daughter of old Jean Baptiste Gourdon, fisherman of Father Point. As far as the educational advantages of Father Point and Rimouski could take her Marie had gone, but that was not saying much. Her father was fairly well-to-do for that part of the world, and had sent her, at an early age, to the convent of Rimouski. There she was brought up under the careful training of Mother Annette, the superioress, and received enough musical instruction to enable her to act as organist at the Father Point church, and to direct the choir at Grand Mass.

Marie Gourdon was rather a lonely girl, although she had more outside interests than many of her age. She had few companions, for most of the young girls of the district obtained situations in Quebec, or some of the large towns, finding the dullness of Father Point insupportable. Her father and brother had this summer been on long fishing expeditions, one taking them even so far as the Island of Anticosti, so that Marie was left much to her own devices. NoËl McAllister, it is true, was often here, but neither his mother nor M. Bois-le-Duc seemed to like to see him in Marie Gourdon's society.

This evening she had been thinking over these things after choir-practice. Lately she had found time pass very slowly. Her father and brother had come home early in the evening, but went off directly after supper to skin the seals, and she would see no more of them that night. In all probability in a few days they would go on another expedition.

A quick footstep crunching the sand and a voice saying, "Good evening, Marie," made the girl turn round to see NoËl McAllister standing beside her.

She sprang to her feet and exclaimed, with a certain glad ring in her voice:

"Oh! NoËl, is that you? I am so pleased you are back."

"Yes, Marie, it is I, not my ghost, though you look as if you had seen one. And are you pleased to see me?"

"Of course I am. I think you need scarcely ask that question."

"And what have you been doing, my dear one, since I have been away?"

"Oh! NoËl, the time has seemed so long, so wearisome. There has been no one here to speak to, except for a week or two when EugÈne Lacroix came home for his holidays. I used to watch him paint, and he talked to me about his work at Laval."

"Marie, I don't like EugÈne Lacroix. He is stupid, conceited, impractical."

"Indeed, I think you are mistaken. M. Bois-le-Duc calls him a genius. EugÈne, too, is a most interesting companion, and he has told me many tales of countries far beyond here."

"Well, he may be a genius, though I for my part cannot see it. And you, my dear one, do you long to see those countries beyond the sea? I know I do. I am tired of this life, this continual struggle for a bare existence. The same thing day after day, year after year; nothing new happens. Why did M. Bois-le-Duc teach me of an outer world beyond the bleak Gulf of St. Lawrence? Why did he teach me to read Virgil and Plato? He did it for the best, no doubt; but I think he did wrong. He has stirred up within me a restless evil spirit of discontent. Oh! Marie, to think I am doomed to be a fisherman here all my life. It is hard."

"Yes, NoËl, it is hard. It has always seemed to me that you with your talents, your learning, are thrown away here. But why not go to Quebec or Montreal? You would have a wider sphere there."

"I would go to-morrow, Marie, if it were not for one thing."

"What is that, NoËl?"

"Marie, do you not know?"

"I suppose your reason is that you do not wish to leave your mother," said the girl hesitatingly.

"No, Marie, that is not the reason. My mother would let me go to-morrow, if I wished."

"Then I cannot understand why you stay. You would do much better in Quebec, you with your ability."

"You cannot understand, Marie? You do not know that it is because of you, and you alone, that I stay on in this place, smothering all my ambitions, my hopes of advancement. No, Marie, you say you do not understand. If you spoke more truly you would say you did not care where I went."

"NoËl," said the girl gently, and looking distressed, "you know, my dear one, that I do care very much, and I cannot think why you speak to me in that bitter way."

"Marie, do you care? You have seemed lately so indifferent to my plans, and it has made me angry, for, my darling, you must have seen that my love for you is deep, strong, mighty, like the flow of yonder great river. Aye, it is stronger, greater, more unchangeable."

A glad light came into the girl's pale face, but she did not speak, and NoËl went on:

"It is not as if my love for you were a thing of yesterday, for I can never remember the time when you were not first in my thoughts. Yes, Marie—

"What, NoËl, never? That is a long, long time. Are you sure, NoËl?"

"Am I sure, Marie? Is yonder great rock, on which countless tides have beaten, sure? Is the mighty Gulf sure of its ebb and flow? Is anything sure in this world, Marie?"

The girl did not answer, and he went on:

"Tell me, Marie, do you care for me or do you not?"

Marie hesitated, and NoËl impatiently gathered up some loose pebbles and threw them into the water, walking hurriedly up and down the beach.

"Marie, you must answer me to-night; I must come to a decision."

The girl rose slowly from her seat, and, coming towards NoËl, put both her hands in his, and lifting up her great brown eyes, lighted with happiness and perfect trust, said deliberately,—