"Oh, there you are, day-dreaming, no doubt, while I have been looking for you high and low. And where are those flowers that you were to cut for the table an hour ago--yes, two hours? What have you been doing all this time? A fine wife you will make for an honest habitant. Eh, _Mignonne_?" "No honest habitant for me," said Gabrielle, laughing gaily. "I should much prefer one of those brave officers of the Garrison." "For shame, Gabrielle! A red-coat and a heretic." "A red-coat, yes. I love red-coats, so bright, so gay. A heretic? Not at all. A good Catholic from the Highlands of Scotland, a brave, handsome soldier." "Gabrielle, do not think of him. He is not for you. Presently his regiment will be transferred and he will go away to make new conquests. Oh, I know them of old, those gay soldiers. They come, they conquer, and they march away, leaving broken hearts. Do not think of him, Gabrielle." "One must think of something, Mama. Who shall it be? Hormidas Vincent, perhaps? Or Isidore Bouchette? On the whole, I prefer Isidore--he has such glossy hair, so neatly parted in the middle, such adorable curls and such funny little silver rings in his ears. He has travelled, that one, in many parishes. I love peddlers--they have so many curious tales to tell, and so many that they do not tell. Such an air of mystery----" "Gabrielle, be still. For mercy’s sake stop your chatter. Do you know who is coming up the road?" "Who, Mama, who? A young man? Isidore? What bliss!" "Be tranquil, my dear, it is not Isidore." "Who then? I am dying to know." "It is monsieur the millionaire of Nevada." "That snake!" "Gabrielle, you are dreadful. Do not talk like that. It is a fine young man of an interesting type. His dress and manners are a little unusual, perhaps, but he is tall and handsome, with an air of melancholy quite engaging--like an artist or poet, I should say. And he is rich. Yes, a distinguished-looking young man, a personage. See, there he comes. Do not be rude to him, Gabrielle." Gabrielle had no thought of being rude to Pamphile. On the contrary, she did her best to amuse him while her mother was preparing the dinner and her father was still in the hayfield. They played croquet on the lawn, walked about in the garden, sat on the green bench of the verandah looking out on the river and the mountains, and all the while they talked of this and that, of the scenery, the parish, the neighbours, the tourists, of Beauport, Quebec and Montreal, of Chicago and the Far West, of Nevada and the gold mines, of travel and adventure, of politics even, and religion. Pamphile was nothing if not interesting, for he had travelled much with his eyes open, was by nature of a ready wit and tongue, and knew how to tell of what he had seen and had not seen with a realistic abandon that was well-nigh irresistible.