"Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or Garotte the lime-burner-and the rest?" "Of course not," she answered. "Is he like the Cure, or Monsieur De la Riviere, or Monsieur Garon, or Monsieur Medallion?" "He's different," she said hesitatingly. "Better or worse?" "More--more"--she did not know what to say--"more interesting." "Is he like the Judge Honourable that comes from Montreal, or the grand Governor, or the General that travels with the Governor?" "Yes, but different--more--more like us in some things, like them in others, and more--splendid. He speaks such fine things! You mind the other night at the Louis Quinze. He is like--" She paused. "What is he like?" Parpon asked slyly, enjoying her difficulty. "Ah, I know," she answered; "he is a little like Madame the American who came two years ago. There is something--something!" Parpon laughed again. "Like Madame Chalice from New York--fudge!" Yet he eyed her as if he admired her penetration. "How?" he urged. "I don't know--quite," she answered, a little pettishly. "But I used to see Madame go off in the woods, and she would sit hour by hour, and listen to the waterfall, and talk to the birds, and at herself too; and more than once I saw her shut her hands--like that! You remember what tiny hands she had?" (She glanced at her own brown ones unconsciously.) "And she spoke out, her eyes running with tears--and she all in pretty silks, and a colour like a rose. She spoke out like this: 'Oh, if I could only do something, something, some big thing! What is all this silly coming and going to me, when I know, I know I might do it, if I had the chance! O Harry, Harry, can't you see!'" "Harry was her husband. Ah, what a fisherman was he!" said Parpon, nodding. "What did she mean by doing 'big things'?" he added. "How do I know?" she asked fretfully. "But Monsieur Valmond seems to me like her, just the same." "Monsieur Valmond is a great man," said Parpon slowly. "You know!" she cried; "you know! Oh, tell me, what is he? Who is he? Where does he come from? Why is he here? How long will he stay? Tell me, how long will se stay?" She caught flutteringly at Parpon's shoulder. "You remember what I sang the other night?" he asked. "Yes, yes," she answered quickly. "Oh, how beautiful it was! Ah, Parpon, why don't you sing for us oftener, and all the world would love you, and--" "I don't love the world," he retorted gruffly; "and I'll sing for the devil" (she crossed herself) "as soon as for silly gossips in Pontiac." "Well, well!" she asked; "what had your song to do with him, with Monsieur Valmond?" "Think hard, my dear," he said, with mystery in his look. Then, breaking off: "Madame Chalice is coming back to-day; the Manor House is open, and you should see how they fly round up there." He nodded towards the hill beyond.