"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 _pièces_ the month, mademoiselle--twenty _pièces_! 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 _pièces_, mademoiselle! My daughter said, 'Go; it will keep us for three years.' "I went because I was paid twenty _pièces_ 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, Mère Guillardeau?" "I have said ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before André 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 André, too, confessed. We confessed the same sin--the sin of silence. "In the spring I sent them to André, 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.