"Then I have to tell you, Jean, that you are the same species of fool as your father. What a damn fool he was, that man! I rejoice to think of it. What courage! What determination! What resolve! A hero, a knight without fear and without reproach. Such a man was your father, Jean, my son. Never forget it! Jean Baptiste, son of Toussaint Giroux, I salute you!" *CHAPTER XIX* *MOTHER SAINTE ANNE* It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the shadows of the tall houses of the Rue des Jardins reached already the middle of the narrow street, as an old gentleman in the garb of half a century ago passed along the shady side and entered the open gate of the Ursuline Convent. He was a tall man, not handsome, but of an erect bearing and distinguished appearance; and the fashion of his frock coat of fine homespun, his beaver hat and black stock, together with his carefully trimmed grey hair and whiskers, proclaimed him a country dandy of a former generation, dressed for Church, or to pay a visit of importance to his lady love. It was more than forty years since he had last paid such a visit, and the costume of that occasion had reposed in the bottom of an old cedar box during all those years. But now he wore it with pride and dignity; and carried his light malacca cane with something of the swagger of former days, when he had thought himself as good as any of the young bloods of Quebec, not excepting the army officers, who trusted overmuch in the grandeur of their red uniforms to win the ladies’ hearts. Was he not a cadet of a good family; son of the seigneur of Ste. Famille on the Island; and had he not the right to hold up his head among the best? Indeed, whether he had the right or not, he was accustomed to do so by virtue of his consciousness of personal merit and his strong right hand. Evidently, the old gentleman had been a force to be reckoned with; and even now the memory of a bygone glory seemed to linger about him, commanding the respect and deference of all the passers-by. Crossing the paved courtyard with an active stride remarkable in one of his years, he pulled the door-bell and waited until the portress came, a sister of mature age and sober mien. "May I have the honour of an interview with the Reverend Mother Superior?" The sister hesitated. "It is somewhat unusual," she began, but immediately added: "I dare say that the Reverend Mother will see you. Will Monsieur be so kind as to give his name?"