When we reached the lake, a tiny sheet of water with a Lilliputian island, we came to a halt. The Archbishop had evidently expressed some desire, or at least some readiness, to trust himself upon the waves. The boat was unmoored, and Frances Fenton and Ella Holrook rowed him carefully around the island, while the rest of us were drawn up on shore to witness the performance. We made, no doubt, a very nice picture in our white frocks and blue neck ribbons; but we were spectators merely, still far remote from any sense of companionship. When the boat was close to shore, the Archbishop refused to land. He sat in the stern, looking at us with a curious smile. He was strikingly handsome,--a long, lean, noble-looking old man,--and he had a voice of wonderful sweetness and power. It was said that, even at sixty-five, he sang the Mass more beautifully than any priest in his diocese. Therefore it was a little alarming when he suddenly asked:-- "My children, do you know any pretty songs?" "Oh, yes, your Grace," answered Madame Bouron. "Then sing me something now," said the Archbishop, still with that inscrutable smile. There was a moment's hesitation, a moment's embarrassment, and then, acting under instruction, we sang (or, at least, some of us did; there was no music in my soul) the "Canadian Boat-Song," and "Star of the Sea,"--appropriate, both of them, to the watery expanse before us. "_Ave Maria_, we lift our eyes to thee; _Ora pro nobis_; 'tis night far o'er the sea." The Archbishop listened attentively, and with an evident pleasure that must have been wholly disassociated from any musical sense. Then his smile deepened. "Would you like me to sing for you?" he said. "Oh, yes, if you please," we shrilled; and Madame Bouron gave us a warning glance. "Be very still, children," she admonished. "His Grace is going to sing." His Grace settled himself comfortably in the boat. His amused glance travelled over our expectant faces, and sought as usual the little girls, now close to the water's edge. Then he cleared his throat, and, as I am a Christian gentlewoman, and a veracious chronicler, _this_ is the song he sang:-- "In King Arthur's reign, a merry reign, Three children were sent from their homes, Were sent from their homes, were sent from their homes, And they never went back again. "The first, he was a miller, The second, he was a weaver, The third, he was a little tailor boy, Three big rogues together." "Can't you join in the chorus, children?" interrupted the Archbishop. "Come! the last two lines of every verse." "The third, he was a little tailor boy, Three big rogues together." Our voices rose in a quavering accompaniment to his mellifluous notes. We were petrified; but, even in a state of petrification, we did as we were bidden. "The miller, he stole corn, The weaver, he stole yarn, And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth, To keep these three rogues warm."