"One Sunday afternoon--it was about the Day of St. Michel, when we went in to pay the seigneur his rents--Zotique was at the presbytere with me and his brother the Honorable, and all of us playing cards with Pere Galibert. Zotique had come down from the city with a new keg of wine for the Sacrament, and they were discussing the disappearance. Mouton was there, and he says never a word. "Let it alone," says Zotique, and he looks around and takes up the inkbottle carelessly from the shelf and goes off to the kitchen and down into the cellar, where he puts away the wine, and then he comes back to us, upstairs. Mouton disappears in a moment. Zotique pretends to play,--but he is calculating the seconds. Presently he says, "Monsieur le Cure, you and I are too good players. Let Mouton take my place, and do you play against Benoit and my cousin," and without waiting for any answer he flies out to the kitchen, and cries sharply: "Mouton, Messire wants you!" adding, "Quick, quick, tete de Mouton!" Mouton rushes upstairs, brushing his mouth. There he stands before us, solid as the image of tallow; but his mouth was as black as an oven's, _and his features indistinguishable with ink_." The circle, all eagerly listening, burst forth: "How did Zotique do it?" they cried. "Voila the mystery." "What was done to Mouton?" "Pere Galibert boiled him down into tapers, and sold him to the congregation." The old man put his pipe, which had gone out, once more to his lips and nonchalantly repeated the operation of lighting it between his hands. Spoon, his low felt hat tipped over his eyes made Josephte blush crimson with his attentions. Her glances and smiles were to Francois. Chrysler as he watched her, saw that it was she whose spiritual expression had attracted him at church. Near at hand, he took notes of her appearance. She was of modest face, regular and handsome in features, though not striking, and her cheek wore just a suggestion of color. Dressed in black, her apparel and demeanor were quietly perfect. The fine sweep of view from the gallery across the water attracted him, and his eyes rested upon the leafy monarchs shadowing the river-bank before them. "Your house is well placed," he said in admiration. "Yes, Monsieur," replied the old man, simply, and he pointed out the various parishes whose spires could be descried across the water. Thus conversing and observing, the Ontarian spent an instructive and delightful hour. When he rose to go, calm and rested, the hospitality again became profuse. "The gentleman will not walk!" shrilly protested highly-pleased mater familias. "Go Francois," turning to young Le Brun: "row Monsieur to the Manoir, you and Mr. Cuiller. Take the rose _chaloupe_, and Josephte shall go too."