And afterwards--never shall I forget that little scene!--after the dishes were washed, the goat fed, the horse bedded and the baby asleep, the seven children placed themselves in a row, the oldest girl of fifteen at the head, and waited for a signal from their father: a long drawn chord on a mouth harmonicum. Together parents and children sang the _Angelus_, sang till the room was filled with melody and, it seemed to me, the soft September night without the open door. This was my introduction to the family Duchêne. I slept in an unfinished chamber. A sheet was tacked to the rafters over the bed. The window beside it looked into a mass of trees. Oh, those orchard slopes of Iberville! I made intimate acquaintance with them for the next four weeks. I worked hard. I was up at five to help Madame Jean with the breakfast and the housework, what there was of it; then we were all off to the orchards to pick the wholesome, beautiful fruit--Northern Spies, Greenings, Baldwins and Russets. To use Jamie's expression, their "fragrance is in my nostrils" as I write of them. At noon we had lunch--bread and butter, with jerked beef, cheese, apples, washed down with the sweetest of sweet cider from the mill. There was no stint of the simple fare. Then at work again--all the children joining, except the baby who roamed at will among the orchard grass with two small pigs that scampered wildly to and fro. It was work, work--picking, sorting, packing, till the shadows were long on the grass and the apple-cart was piled high with windfalls. The barrels were filled with picked fruit of the choicest. And after supper, regularly every evening, we sang the _Angelus_. This life was beneficial to me. I made no plans. I was glad to work hard in order to drown thought, to keep my body, as it were, numb. I really dared not think of _what was_, for then I could not sleep; could not be ready for the next day's work. To forget myself; this was my sole desire. Madame Duchêne watched my work with ever increasing admiration. Monsieur Duchêne wanted to engage me for another season. "But you must not leave us this winter, mademoiselle. We need you," he said one day, after nearly four weeks had passed. He was preparing to set out on his return voyage down the Sorel to Richelieu-en-Bas. "Others may need me, Monsieur Duchêne. I have been so content in your home; it has done me good." "Mademoiselle has some sorrow? Can we help, my wife and I?" "You have helped me by trusting me, by letting me make one of your family all these weeks." "But you will keep the house till we return?" "I should like to do this for you, but I cannot stay so late here in the country. I must find employment for the winter." "We cannot afford to pay you, mademoiselle, but you shall have your keep, if you will, for your help and your company, while you stay." Madame Duchêne spoke earnestly. "I cannot, dear Madame Duchêne; it is time for me to go."