“Ay, ay, Pierre,” interrupted La Corne St. Luc, who looked on this little scene very admiringly, “good blood never lies. Look at Colonel Philibert there, with the King's epaulets on his shoulders. I have a sharp eye, as you know, Amélie, when I look after my pretty goddaughter, but I should not have recognized our lively Pierre in him, had Le Gardeur not introduced him to me, and I think you would not have known him either.” “Thanks for your looking after me, godfather,” replied Amélie, merrily, very grateful in her heart for his appreciation of Pierre, “but I think neither aunt nor I should have failed to recognize him.” “Right, my Amélie!” said the Lady de Tilly. “We should not, and we shall not be afraid, Pierre,--I must call you Pierre or nothing,--we shall not be afraid, although you do lay in a new stock of acquaintances in the capital, that old friends will be put aside as unfashionable remnants.” “My whole stock of friendship consists of those remnants, my Lady,--memories of dear friends I love and honor. They will never be unfashionable with me: I should be bankrupt indeed, were I to part with one of them.” “Then they are of a truer fabric than Penelope's web, for she, I read, pulled in pieces at night what she had woven through the day,” replied Lady de Tilly. “Give me the friendship that won't unravel.” “But not a thread of my recollections has ever unravelled, or ever will,” replied Pierre, looking at Amélie as she clasped the arm of her aunt, feeling stronger, as is woman's way, by the contact with another. “Zounds! What is all this merchant's talk about webs and threads and thrums?” exclaimed La Corne. “There is no memory so good as a soldier's, Amélie, and for good reason: a soldier on our wild frontiers is compelled to be faithful to old friends and old flannels; he cannot help himself to new ones if he would. I was five years and never saw a woman's face except red ones--some of them were very comely, by the way,” added the old warrior with a smile. “The gallantry of the Chevalier La Corne is incontestable,” remarked Pierre, “for once, when we captured a convoy of soldiers' wives from New England, he escorted them, with drums beating, to Grand Pré, and sent a cask of Gasçon wine for them to celebrate their reunion with their husbands.” “Frowzy huzzies! not worth the keeping, or I would not have sent them; fit only for the bobtailed militia of New England!” exclaimed La Corne. “Not so thought the New Englanders, who had a three days feast when they remarried their wives--and handsome they were, too,” said Philibert; “the healths they drank to the Chevalier were enough to make him immortal.”