Within the last few years there has come a glorious reaction. Every one sets his hand to the work and the Canadian can now say with Francis I, "All is lost save honor." I am far from believing, however, that all is lost. The cession of Canada was, perhaps, a blessing in disguise; for the horrors of '93 failed to touch this fortunate colony which was protected by the flag of Britain. We have gathered new laurels, fighting beneath the banner of England and twice has the colony been saved to England by the courage of her new subjects. In Parliament, at the bar, upon the field of battle, everywhere in his small sphere, the French Canadian has proved himself inferior to none. For a century have you struggled, O my countrymen, to preserve your nationality, and you behold it yet intact. The future perhaps holds for you another century of effort and struggle to guard it. Take heart and stand together, fellow-countrymen. Two detachments of the English army were disembarked at Rivière Ouelle, at the beginning of June, '79. Some of the _habitants_ of the parish, concealed in the skirts of the wood, received them with a sharp fire and killed several men. The commander, exasperated at this loss, resolved to take signal vengeance. The two detachments ascended the river and encamped toward evening beside a brook which empties in Bay Ste. Anne, southwest of where the college now stands. On the following morning the commander ordered one of the companies to get ready to march, and summoning the lieutenant gave him the following orders: "Every house you come across belonging to these dogs of Frenchmen, set fire to it. I will follow you a little later." "But," said the young officer, who was a Scotchman, "must I burn the dwellings of those who offer no resistance? They say there is no one left in these houses except old men, women, and children." "I think, sir," replied Major Montgomery, "that my orders are quite clear. You will set fire to every house belonging to these dogs of Frenchmen. I had forgotten your weakness for our enemies." The young man bit his lips till they bled, and marched his men away. The reader has, doubtless, recognized in this young man none other than Archie de Lochiel, who, having made his peace with the British Government, had recovered possession of his estates and had obtained a lieutenancy in a regiment which he had himself recruited among the Highlanders of his own clan. Archie marched off groaning and muttering all the curses he could think of in English, Gaelic, and French. At the first house where he stopped a young woman flung herself weeping at his feet, crying piteously: "Good sir, do not kill my poor old father. Do not shorten his days. He has but a little while to live." A little boy eleven or twelve years old grasped him about the knees and exclaimed: "Mister Englishman, do not kill grandpapa! If you only knew how good he is!"