"Jean, my son," said the good mother, "I am disappointed, of course, but that is nothing. If you do not wish it I do not wish it. It is your happiness that I desire, Jean, my lad, nothing else." The same evening Jean made his explanations to Father Paradis. The curé was sorry, for he had entertained ambitions for the lad, whom he regarded as a son, but he did not try to make him change his mind. On the contrary, he said: "Jean, an ecclesiastical career without a vocation is terrible. I have known several of those unhappy priests, and I would not have you among the number. It is well that you have discovered the mistake before it is too late." As Jean walked homeward in the evening twilight his joyous voice awoke the echoes of the hills as he sang over and over that fine old song about the prisoner of Nantes and the gaoler’s daughter who set him free. That gentle maiden, was her name by any chance Gabrielle? Possibly, but it is not given in the song. Besides, the Gabrielle of whom he was thinking was only a little girl of ten years, and Jean himself was a mere boy as yet. But with the passing of the years what changes might one not see? Be that as it might, one had to sing the song as it was written: "Que Dieu beniss’ les filles, Qui Dieu beniss’ les filles, Surtout cell’ du geôlier, gai, faluron, falurette, Surtout cell’ du geôlier, gai, faluron, dondé. "Si je retourne à Nantes, Si je retourne à Nantes, Oui, je l’épouserai! gai, faluron, falurette, Oui, je l’épouserai! gai, faluron, dondé." *CHAPTER II* *THE MIGRATION* "What a big fool, that Jean Baptiste Giroux!" said Mère Tabeau, gossip and wise woman, as she sat on the doorstep of her cabin at the crossroads, smoking a black pipe and talking volubly to all the passers-by. "What a fool he is to let slip a chance like that! Such chances do not come every day. _Mon Dieu_, what folly! To be a priest, that is well worth while; to live in a large, comfortable house, to receive tithes, to have everything that one could wish, plenty of good bread and butter, pea soup every day, potatoes, onions--all that. _Sapré_, I should like that, me. And what does he do? How does he earn his living? He prays all the time. An easy life, that. If only I could have what I want by saying prayers! _No, de nom_! I say prayers, too, but what do I get? Some pieces of black bread, some morsels of fat pork, and this miserable hut."