dows; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners. There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abun dance.” After traversing the village, they approached a house at the other end, which, though of the same simple construction, was larger and better than the others. Two or three of those tall poplar trees, which were so dear to the Acadians, grew in front. A massive porch was before the door, around which grew a honeysuckle. Two or three barns indicated the comfortable circumstances of the owner. As they drew near, they saw an old man sitting in the porch smoking, who looked at them, and rose with a pleasant smile. His figure was slightly bent, his hair, mustache, and beard quite gray, and his whole aspect venerable in the extreme. “It’s Benedict Bellefontaine!” exclaimed Bart. “I thought we’d find him, too. Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pre. Here he is, in life, dwelling on his goodly acres.” “No, it isn’t,” said Mr. Smith, with a laugh. “His name is Grousset, but he’ll do very well for Bellefontaine. At any rate, you can judge for yourselves, for I'm going to introduce you to him.” By this time they had reached the house, and Mr. Smith, after shaking hands with the old man, introduced the boys. Monsieur Grousset greeted each one with a paternal smile, and upon learning their errand, at once invited them all to stay at his house while they were in the village. At first the boys refused; but the old man was so urgent, and the prospect of seeing an Acadian home was so attractive, that they at length accepted the kind invitation. The resemblance which Bart had found between Mr. Grousset and “Benedict Bellefontaine” was, indeed, sufficiently striking to be marked even by one less imaginative. The old man, the house, and the surroundings, all might have stood for Longfellow’s description; for though there might be a difference in minor things, the general character was the same: “Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea, and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a foot path Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by a pent-house Such as the traveller sees in regions remote, by the road-side, Built o’er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. Farther down on the slope of the hill was the well, with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.