“This is my husband,” the bashful maid said to Madame Bourdon; “I promised him before the others spoke, and he had but gone to the merchant’s.” The soldier stared at the beaten suitors; he led his bride to the notary. All around the hall laughter rising to a shout drove Picot and Jean Debois out of the door through which the soldier had come in, the wood-ranger bearing himself in retreat with even less bravado than the habitant. “Was there ever such improvidence as among our settlers!” sighed Madame Bourdon, feeling her unvented disapproval take other channels as she gazed after the couple seeking marriage. “They spend their last coin for finery that they may deck out their wedding, and begin life on the king’s bounty. But who could expect a jilt and trifler to counsel her husband to any kind of prudence?” [Illustration: “Choose now between these two men,” said Madame Bourdon, sternly.] Dollard presented his man’s credentials to Madame Bourdon, and she heard with satisfaction of their haste. It was evident that the best of the cargo would be demanded by this suitor; so she led them up one of those pinched and twisted staircases in which early builders on this continent seemed to take delight. Above this uneasy ascent were the outer vestibule, where bride traffic went on as briskly as below, and an inner sanctum, the counterpart of the first flagged hall, to which the cream of the French importation had risen. “Here are excellent girls,” said Madame Bourdon, spreading her hands to include the collection. “They bring the best of papers from the curés of their own parishes.” In this hall the cobwebby dimness, the log-fire, and the waiting figures seemed to repeat what the seekers had glanced through below; though there was less noise, and the suitors seemed more anxious. “Here’s your fate, Jacques,” whispered Dollard, indicating the fattest maid of the inclosure, who sat in peaceful slumber with a purr like a contented cat. Jacques, carrying his cap in both hands, craned around Dollard. “No, m’sieur. She’s a fine creature to look at, but a man must not wed for his eyes alone. His stomach craves a wife that will not doze by his fire and let the soup burn.” “Here, then, my child, behold the other extreme. What activity must be embodied in that nymph watching us from the corner!” “Holy saints, m’sieur! There be not eels enough in the St. Lawrence to fill her ribs and cover her hulk. I have a low-spirited turn, m’sieur, but not to the length of putting up a death’s-head in my kitchen. A man’s feelings go against bones.” “These girls here have been instructed,” said Madame Bourdon at the ear of the suitor. “These girls are not canaille from the streets of Paris.” “Do they come from Rouen, madame?” inquired Jacques. “Some of them came from Rouen. See! Here is a girl from Rouen at this end of the room.”