I looked at it, while I was trying to find words to tell her of André. It was thin to emaciation, misshapen from hard work--a frail mechanism, but still powerful because of the life-blood coursing within it. The dark blue veins were veritable bas-reliefs. "Dear Mère Guillardeau, we have had such a lovely summer with André--dear old André, so young in heart." "It was ever like that. Is he well, my brother?" "I hope it may be well with him soon." The old woman looked at me earnestly with her small deep-set eyes, faded with having looked so long on the sunshine and shadows of life. "He is dead, my brother?" "No, not yet. Mr. Ewart wanted me to tell you just as it is." I gave her the details. She sat quietly, her hand still in mine. Into her faded eyes there crept a shadow of some memory. "I have not seen him for many years, mademoiselle." "Was that when he made his voyage to Chicago?" "Yes. On his return he spent the winter with me. We had comfort together. We could talk of old times; we knew Canada when we were young--that was long ago." She sat quiet, thoughtful. Then she spoke again. "You will tell me when the seignior sends word?" "Oh, yes; at once." "I will pray for him. I will have masses said for his soul." "Your grandfather was born in the seigniory of Lamoral, so André said." "Yes; and my father, and I, and my brothers and sisters. My grandfather's seignior was French. Afterwards, the English seigniors had no love for the place. It is our seignior, the Canadian, who cares for it. He carries it on his heart--and us, too, mademoiselle. You know this land is mine now?" "Yes; I am so glad for you. It should have been yours long ago." "Yes, it is mine now for a little while; afterwards it will be my daughter's." "Do you know the old manor well? Have you ever lived there?" "Yes, I have lived at the manor house." "When was that, mother?" "Let me think.--It was ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before André spent that winter with me. It was a hard one; he helped me as a brother should. It was then he was shriven. I was in one of the pews in our church, waiting my turn. There were hundreds come for the shriving. The priest stood in the aisle, the great middle aisle, and all the time there were two kneeling besides him, one confessing, the other waiting his turn." "Did they have no confessional?" "We confessed in the aisle, mademoiselle, before all the world,--we all knew we were sinners,--and the crowd was so great. André, too, I saw by the side of the priest, whispering in his ear." "André! What could his simple life show for sin?" "He is human like the rest of us, mademoiselle." She took her pipe from her pocket. It reminded me of André. I filled and lighted it for her, and placed it between her still strong teeth. "André'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.