Their most difficult problem was that of provisions, for a veritable famine held sway in all the country-side. The little grain which the _habitants_ had harvested was for the most part eaten boiled, in default of mill to grind it. The sole remaining resource lay in fishing and hunting, but M. d'Egmont and his servant were rather old to indulge in such exercises during the severe weather. Uncle Raoul, lame as he was, took charge of the commissariat. He set snares to catch rabbits and partridges, and his fair niece helped him. Blanche made herself a sort of hunting costume; and simply ravishing she looked in her half-savage garb, her petticoat of blue cloth falling half-way below the knee, her scarlet gaiters, her deer-hide moccasins worked with beads and porcupine quills in vivid colors. Lovely, indeed, she looked as she returned to the house on her little snow-shoes, her face delicately flushed, her hands laden with her spoils. During the famine the _habitants_ frequented Trois Saumons Lake in great numbers; they had beaten a hard road over the snow, which enabled Uncle Raoul to visit the lake on a sledge drawn by a huge dog. He always returned with an ample provision of trout and partridge. On such fare they got through the long winter. In the spring a veritable manna of wild pigeons came to the salvation of the colony; they were so innumerable that they could be knocked down with a stick. When Captain D'Haberville returned to his _seigneurie_ he was utterly ruined, having saved nothing but the family plate. He did not care to come down on his impoverished tenants for their arrearages of rent, but rather hastened to their aid by rebuilding his mill on the Trois Saumons River. In this mill he lived several years with his family, till able to build a new manor house. A poor lodging, truly--three narrow chambers in a mill--for a family once so wealthy as the D'Habervilles! But they bore their misfortunes cheerfully. Only Captain D'Haberville, toiling with tireless energy, seemed unable to reconcile himself to his losses. His grief gnawed at his heart, and for six years there was never a smile upon his lips. It was not till the manor was rebuilt and the household restored to a certain degree of comfort and prosperity that he regained his native cheerfulness. It was the 22d of February, 1762, and about nine o'clock in the evening, when an ill-clad stranger entered the mill and begged shelter for the night. As was his custom when not occupied in work, Captain D'Haberville was seated in a corner of the room, his head hanging dejectedly on his breast. The voice of the stranger made him tremble without knowing why. It was some moments before he could answer, but at last he said: "You are welcome, my friend; you shall have supper and breakfast here, and my miller will give you a bed for the night." "Thank you," said the stranger, "but I am very tired; give me a glass of brandy."