"Andre's was the sin of silence, as was mine. I, too, confessed it."

I wondered if she would tell me further. I waited in suspense for her next words.

"You ask me have I ever lived at the manor? I lived there one winter--a cruel winter even for us Canadians. It is so long ago, I may speak of it now. My brother will never speak of it more. It eases me to speak of it. It was Martinmas when an Englishman came to this very door. It was after dark. He said he had permission from the English seignior, who was in England, to stay in the manor as long as he would.

The agent of the estate was with him--a hard man. He said it was all right, and showed me a paper which I could not read. My daughter read for me. It was signed by the English seignior; he, too, was a Ewart.

The English gentleman asked me if I would come and keep the house for him and his wife; he was here for her health. Would I stay till spring?

"He offered me twenty _pieces_ the month, mademoiselle--twenty _pieces_! That meant ease of mind for me and my daughter. I was not to leave the manor to go home, he said. I must stay there on account of his wife.

"I took time to think; but the twenty _pieces_, mademoiselle! My daughter said, 'Go; it will keep us for three years.'

"I went because I was paid twenty _pieces_ the month--but, mademoiselle, I would have stayed and worked for her for nothing, for love of her alone. Mademoiselle, look in your mirror when you are at home. You will see her again--so much you are like her; but not in your ways. You remember the first time you came to my daughter to buy the carpets? I said to myself then, 'I have lived to see her again.'"

"How long ago was this, Mere Guillardeau?"

"I have said ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before Andre made that voyage into the west. I loved her--and my brother loved her.

She made sunshine in the manor. It was not as it is now; there was little to do with. She made light of everything; made the best of everything. She had a cow, for the warm milk; and hens, for the new-laid eggs--all nourishing and good, mademoiselle. I milked the cow and tended to everything. I was strong. I did all the work. The agent bought provisions in the village and brought them to us. They came, also, from Montreal. The house was full of sunshine, the sunshine of love, mademoiselle.

"They were not married--but how they loved each other! I carried their sin on my soul. I never confessed till Andre, too, confessed. We confessed the same sin--the sin of silence.

"In the spring I sent them to Andre, into the wilderness of the northern rivers. My brother loved her too, my poor brother.

"It is long past, mademoiselle, but I can not forget."

"And the present seignior never knew of this?"

"The present seignior? Oh, no; he did not own Lamoral then.

Sometimes, it is true, I think I see in him a look of that other; but it is not he. I never knew their names.

"After they left, that agent took that cow from me, mademoiselle, a fine cow she was. He is dead these many years, but he was a hard man; I have not forgotten or forgiven, mademoiselle." She crossed herself.

"The cow was mine; he took her, mademoiselle; a fine cow with a bag as pink as thorn blossoms, and seven quarts to the milking--I cannot forget."

I rose to go, for the old woman threatened to become garrulous.

Moreover, I had heard enough. The Doctor was mistaken. I had learned what I came to find out. I felt fortified to speak with Cale.

"Goodby, Mere Guillardeau."

"Goodby, mademoiselle. You will come again and tell me of my brother?"

"Yes; so soon as I have any word."

She stood in the porch to watch me down the road. I went on to the village. As I neared the steamboat landing, I noticed a large river sloop, tacking in the light breeze to the bank. I stopped to watch it.

Soon it was abreast of me. I walked rapidly on to keep up with it. It came to anchor nearly opposite the cabaret. Its white hull was filled with apples. There must have been a ton or two--early harvest apples, red, yellow, and green; Astrachan, Porters and early Pippins.

Surely this was the apple-boat which Jamie delighted in and described with such enthusiasm! I walked to the bank. A low trestle, laid in a width of two boards, gave pa.s.sage to the boat. What a picture it made!

The low green bank, the white sloop, the blue lively waters of the St.

Lawrence, and, beyond, the islands stacked with the second cutting of hay!

I went on board; bought a few apples; promised to come for a bushel or two the next day, and asked a few questions of the owner and his wife, French both of them.

"How long do you stay?"

"Only a week. This cargo is perishable. We sell here, then we go back for the harvest of winter apples. We come again in October."

She showed me with pride her cabin and the bunk under the companionway, wherein lay her eighteen-months-old baby. "We could not leave him,"

she said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his forehead. "The others are at home; they take care of themselves."

The little cabin was absolutely neat.

I bade her goodby, made a few purchases in the village, and walked back to Lamoral with a lighter heart than I had carried since I left camp.

The old place looked so beautiful in the mellow September sunlight.

I felt less burdened, less restless, less desperate, less doubtful of the future, after that walk. But I determined to wait a few days before speaking to Cale. I wanted to go over the whole matter, collate facts, sort evidence, before speaking.

We had five pleasant days together, Cale and I. We grew confidential, as became relations. We talked of the Macleods; Cale wagered the Doctor would marry Mrs. Macleod in the end. At which I sniffed, and pretended to think he would lose his wager, but deep down in my heart--well, I had my doubts.

I told him of Andre, of the Doctor's enjoyment of camp life. He did not ask me about Mr. Ewart directly, and I volunteered no information, except that we might expect a telegram from him any day.

On the sixth day word came:

"Andre has crossed the last portage; return Wednesday."

He would be here in five days! My first thought was of him, not of Andre.

O Andre, dear old guide and voyageur! You were only a withered leaf falling from the great Ygdrasil Tree of Empire--falling there in the wilds of the Upper Saguenay. But it is by such as you--and succeeding generations of millions of such--that the great Tree of Empire has thriven, thrives, and still keeps in abundant foliage!

I knew the time had come when I must tell Cale all.

x.x.xII

"Cale, I want to talk with you."

"All right, Marcia. I see you 've had something on your mind, thet 's been worryin' you, since you 've come home; better get it off. Nothin'

like lettin' off a little steam when there 's too many pounds pressure on."

"Cale, you _are_ a comfort."

"Am I? Wal, it's 'bout time I was something ter you."

"Cale, have you any idea where my mother fled to when she left her home?"

"No; an' n.o.body else."

"You said George Jackson could get no trace of her?"