Although those wharves are idle and the warehouses empty, you need not think, however, that the products of America stop at home. No, they are carried by different ships, swift steel vessels that drop long trails of smoke behind them as they speed upon their way, they go out through different harbours, but, just the same, New England goods and New England men find their way to the very ends of the world. The hum of the spinning-wheel and the creak of the loom that once you could hear in the warm noontide, through the open cottage doors, has increased now a thousand-fold, for rows of great brick factories crown the hill and, far out to sea, the fishermen can see, hanging over Hopewell, the cloud of smoke from hundreds of spouting chimneys. The tiny log but where Goody Parsons planted her rose, the cottage where Samuel Skerry plied his trade, even the house with its white-painted doorway where Miles Atherton used to live, have all vanished to make room for newer, greater buildings. The little meeting house still stands, but is overshadowed by a great stone church, where a huge organ has taken the place of the droning psalm-singing, and where the pastor has now neither time nor need for planting potato fields to eke out his living. Yet amid all the stately buildings about it, schools, library, church and Court House, the old grey log house is the most precious of all, for it stands as a monument to the brave men who reared it and who carried their love of freedom into a new world. At the bend in the stream where the little Jesuit priest had built his woodland chapel and decked his altar, there is now a busy humming factory town, called by his name and driving its noisy spinning-wheels by means of the river that once babbled past his door. Rows of toiling men and women can look out through their tall windows down upon the grave of Jeremiah Macrae where the Indians set up a rough white stone at the bidding of their dearly loved French father.