Chapter III: Part 3

"It so happened one night, that I was in an adjoining room when she supposed I was absent from the cottage, and she put many questions to Richard about me, but she could get no satisfaction from him. She then told him (oh, at the moment I thought I could never forgive her for it) she was sure I loved him. She said much in my favor, ma'am, that I cannot repeat, and tried with it all to put a veil over my poor ugly face, and then concluded with saying, for she was a thrifty woman, and never lost sight of the main chance, that I should not come empty handed. At this his spirit rose--he said, he would not be bought by all the gold in the king's coffers. My heart rose to my lips, but I held my breath, for his mother grew very angry, and said something from Solomon's proverbs, about my being the virtuous woman whose price was far above rubies. Then Richard burst into tears, and said he knew that, and he would go round the world to serve me, but he could not marry me. He confessed that he had already plighted his truth to Sally Wilton; and he declared that he never would marry any body but Sally Wilton. His mother lost all patience--she said he would make a beggar of himself for life--that the Wiltons were an idle race, and that none of the name had ever come to any good.

"A great deal more she said, but it seemed to me the more she talked, the firmer Richard was in his own mind.

"You may be sure ma'am I did not close my eyes that night; my love had been blasted, and my pride cast down. It was long before I could think of any one but myself, or compose my mind to any good thoughts; but when I began to see things in a right light, it seemed to me a pity we should all be miserable together; and I began to contrive some way to make Richard happy. He had just served his time with a shoemaker, but he had no capital to enable him to set up for himself. I knew Sally Wilton was a gay thoughtless thing; but so were most girls, and I believed that when she was married, she would do her duty; to me it seemed, that duty would be all pleasure with such a husband as Richard. I had some struggles with my own heart, but before the morning light dawned, I had made up my mind what to do. When I met Richard and his mother in the morning, I was far the happiest of the three. She was angry, he was sullen and downcast; but I had that feeling which I need not describe to you ma'am, who have so often the power and the will to make others happy. Immediately after our morning meal, I went and presented my draft to Mr. Leslie's agent, and received my hundred pounds. Half the sum I returned to him to invest for me, the other half I placed in the hands of the shoemaker, with whom Richard had served his time, and with whom he was a great favorite, and I requested him to lay it out in tools and stock for Richard. The purchase was made--a little shop hired, and every thing in readiness; and then I told Richard in the presence of his mother what I had done. At first he said he never could accept so much from me; but I told him, (and I smothered my feelings, and smiled when I said it,) that in spite of his mother's fancies, it was as a sister I loved him, and as a sister and older than himself too, I had a right to provide for him. He was far more grateful and happy than I expected. His mother gave her consent to his marriage, though grudgingly, for she was a set woman, and she had no faith in Sally Wilton. They were married. Richard was industrious, and we hoped would be prosperous, but as it proved Mrs. Barton's distrust of Sally was too well founded. She was idle and extravagant, and such a wife soon ruins a poor man. In five years Richard was reduced to such straits, that in a fit of desperation he enlisted. From the sorrowful day he came to take leave of us, for his regiment was soon after sent to the East-Indies, his mother never had a well day or a happy hour. After he went away, his wife led a vicious life; and four years after she came to our door to beg a crust of bread--a poor, wasted, sick, half-famished creature. We took her in. To be sure she had been a sad sinner, but she was Richard's wife, and besides it is always better to pity than condemn, and it is not for the like of us ma'am you know, who have no hope but because God's compassions fail not, to turn our backs upon a fellow-creature in sin and misery.

"For a whole year she laid in a distressing sickness. Mrs. Barton had become so old and feeble, that she could do nothing but pray for us, and I had as you may suppose a toilsome life of it; but I was as I trusted, doing my duty, and that makes a light heart, and according to my experience ma'am, no one can be very wretched that has enough to do, and that tries to do their duty faithfully, be that duty ever so humble. We never suffered. Sally had some help from the charitable; and when we had no other resource, I drew on my fifty pounds.

"It would have been a great comfort to us to have seen Sally take hold of religion, when every thing else failed; but the poor soul was racked with pains and coughing, and could only think of her suffering body, and she was perfectly deaf too, and could hear nothing that the clergyman said to her, though Mrs. Barton thought it right he should talk to her. Oh ma'am, I think there is not a more mournful sight on the earth than to see a young creature thus cut off by her sins.

"Richard returned to us two days before she died, but she did not know him, and could not hear his forgiveness, though he spoke it over and over again."

Mrs. Barton paused for a few moments, quite overcome by the recollection of that sad period, and then resumed her story.

"And now came brighter days. Richard had endured many hardships, and past through many temptations, but he had not lost his integrity. He had come home in attendance on an officer who had obtained a furlough. Not many months passed over before Richard expressed a wish to marry me, though my little fortune was gone, and ten years had not as you may suppose improved my beauty. Our mother said, our wedding-day was the happiest of her life. She did not long survive it. Before my husband rejoined his regiment she had gone to her rest. From that time till Richard was taken prisoner by the Americans, we have never been separated, and he has proved faithful and kind to me, and being, as he is, all the world to me who have never known other kindred but my little ones, it cannot seem strange to you, ma'am, that the world is a lonely place without him; and that I should be willing to take the help of your blessed children to get on my way to him."

"Oh no indeed, my good friend," said Mrs. Sackville, "I am delighted that my children have found one so worthy of their assistance; you may rest assured that we shall not part from you till we arrive at Quebec. Come now Edward and Julia to your berths--and dream of the 'thousand isles,' or Mrs. Barton, or what you will." The children obeyed their mother, and doubtless had such sweet visions as hover about the pillow of youth, and health, and innocence.

Jemmy Chapman had not been an uninterested listener to this simple tale of patient virtue; and though Mrs. Barton had spoken so low that he had lost some parts of her narrative, he heard enough to touch his kind heart. As she rose from the bench near him, "Stop, stop, good woman," said he, and he jerked some tears from off his cheeks; "it is not much that such as I can pity you, but a drop is something in a gill-glass, and (turning his pockets inside out, and collecting a half handful of small change,) I should not be my mother's son if I did not feel for a woman in distress, and so will you just take this which may help to raise a little breeze for you when you are becalmed. Nay, don't haul off, but take it, and remember the poor sailors in a stormy night. It is good luck to us to have a friend a-shore to speak a good word for us when we have no time to speak for ourselves."

Jemmy's hearty kindness was irresistible, and Mrs. Barton received his gift, scarcely able to command her voice to utter her thanks.

* * * * *

The next morning found the steam-boat at the wharf at Ogdensburg. Edward undertook to settle with the captain for the passage of his protegees; but the captain would receive nothing, and persisted in declaring that he was amply compensated by Mrs. Barton's industry. The travellers parted from him and from our friend Jemmy with expressions of the esteem which their virtues even on this short acquaintance had not failed to produce; and then they proceeded to make arrangements for their passage down the St. Lawrence by chartering and provisioning a Durham boat.

While this was getting in readiness, Mrs. Sackville, whose curiosity, like that of a more celebrated traveller, 'extended to all the works of art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of past events,' walked with her children to view a rare curiosity on our continent--an _American_ antiquity. On a point of land at the junction of the Oswegatchie with the St. Lawrence, there is a broken stone wall, the remains of a French fortification. While they stood surveying with pleased attention this monument of the olden time, they were joined by a gentleman who appeared like them to have been attracted to the spot by curiosity. He took off his hat, bowed to Mrs. Sackville, and asked if he might take the liberty to inquire of her whether she resided at Ogdensburg.

When she replied in the negative, he begged her pardon, and said he had been extremely anxious to authenticate a traditionary story he had picked up in his journey through Canada, some of the events of which had been located at this place. He had hoped to find some record of it in Charlevoix's History, but he had searched in vain. Mrs. Sackville became in her turn the inquirer. She said she delighted in those traditionary tales, which, with the aid of a little fancy, reconstructed ruins, and enclosed within their walls living beings with affections and interests like our own; and she should hold herself very much obliged to the gentleman if he would enrich her with some interesting associations with this place. The stranger seemed highly gratified to have found so ready a sympathy in his feelings, and he related the following particulars.

"A commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages,) married a young Iroquois who was before or after the marriage converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by her people to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord--her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river often on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.

"On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions natural enough at a time when imminent dangers and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the tower and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;--the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm--again she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds. Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were 'household words' with him. He laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule, they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing hand in hand towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind Marguerite it was her husband's order that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of orders--she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, "I am my mother's body-guard you know." Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the events that followed rendered them memorable.

"The distance," continued the stranger, "from the fort to the place where the commandant moored his canoe was trifling, and quickly passed. Marguerite and Louis flew along the narrow foot path, reached the shore, and were in the arms of ---- Mecumeh and his fierce companions. Entreaties and resistance were alike vain. Resistance was made, with a manly spirit, by young Louis, who drew a knife from the girdle of one of the indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, who was roughly binding his wampum belt over Marguerite's mouth, to deaden the sound of her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him as if he recognised in the brave boy, a scion from his own stock.

"The indians had two canoes; Marguerite was conveyed to one, Louis to the other--and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of the river.

"Not a word nor cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose, and when the canoe approached near the shore, he took off a military cap he wore, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged, where he meant it should, on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The indians had observed the boy's movement--they held up their oars for a moment, and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap; but after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water and proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed; hid their canoes behind some trees on the river's bank, and plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It seems to have been their intention to have returned to their canoes in the morning, and they had not proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire and prepared some food, and offered a share of it to Marguerite and Louis. Poor Marguerite, as you may suppose, had no mind to eat; but Louis, saith tradition, ate as heartily as if he had been safe within the walls of the fort. After the supper, the indians stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Marguerite to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of his uncle Mecumeh. Neither of the prisoners, as you may imagine, closed their eyes. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lighting; the moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her face convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held a crucifix to her lips, the other was on her rosary. The sight of his mother in such a situation, stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy--but he laid powerless in his uncle's naked brawny arms. He tried to disengage himself, but at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last the strong sleep, that in the depth of the night steeps the senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him--his arms relaxed their hold, and dropped beside him and left Louis free.

"He rose cautiously, looked for one instant on the indians, and assured himself they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the cord that bound his mother to the tree. Neither of them spoke a word--but with the least possible sound they resumed the way by which they had come from the shore. Louis in the confidence, and Marguerite with the faint hope of reaching it before they were overtaken.

"You may imagine how often the poor mother, timid as a fawn, was startled by the evening breeze stirring the leaves, but the boy bounded forward as if there were neither fear nor danger in the world.

"They had nearly attained the margin of the river, where Louis meant to launch one of the canoes and drop down the current, when the indian yell resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were missed, pursued, and escape was impossible. Marguerite panic-struck, sunk to the ground. Nothing could check the career of Louis. "On--on, mother," he cried, "to the shore--to the shore." She rose and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watch word of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice.

"The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband, infused new life into Marguerite. "Your father cannot see us," she said, "as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother advanced a few steps into the water and stood erect, where she could be distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was recognised, and at the same moment, the indians who had now reached the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood for a moment, as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air--but with his followers the aspect of armed men, and a force thrice their number, had its usual effect. They fled. He looked after them, cried, 'shame!' and then, with a desperate yell, leaped into the water and stood beside Marguerite. The canoes were now within a few yards--He put his knife to her bosom--"The daughter of Tecumseh," he said, "should have died by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand must she perish:" and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow pierced his own breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after Marguerite was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers, while his father's tears of pride and joy were poured like rain upon his cheek."

The stranger paused, and Edward breathed one long breath, expressive of the interest with which he had listened to the tale; and then said, "You have not told us, sir, how the commandant was so fortunate as to pursue in the right direction."

"He returned soon after Marguerite's departure, and of course was at no loss to determine that she had been taken in the toils of her brother. He explored the mouth of the Oswegatchie, thinking it possible that the savages might have left their canoes moored there, and taken to the land. Louis's cap and feather caught his eye, and furnished him a clue. You have now my whole story," concluded the stranger; "and though I cannot vouch for its accuracy, many similar circumstances must have occurred, while this country was a wilderness, and my tradition is at least supported by probability."

"You have not told us, sir," said Julia, "whether Mecumeh was really killed. I do not see how Marguerite could leave him without finding out, for after all, he was her brother."

"Marguerite," replied the stranger, "justified your opinion of sisterly duty. Mecumeh was conveyed to the fort--the arrow was withdrawn, and after a tedious illness, he recovered from the wound. There is too a tradition that the pious sister converted him to the catholic faith; but about this part of the story there seems to rest some uncertainty."

"And don't you know, sir," asked Edward, "what became of Louis afterwards?"

"I really do not," replied the gentleman, smiling; "but I doubt not that the man kept the promise of the heroic boy; and I think it extremely probable that he has led some gallant fellows to those deeds of high emprise which were achieved by the armies of Louis fourteenth."

"My dear children," said Mrs. Sackville, "you must really ask no more questions. You will be good enough to pardon," she added, turning to the stranger, "the eagerness of their youthful curiosity."

"Oh, madam," he replied, "the evidence of curiosity is the most grateful reward to a story-teller, and I feel that my acknowledgements are due to your children for their patient listening."

A few more courteous words passed, and the stranger bowed and departed.

"This was a lucky meeting, mother," said Edward; "this crazed leaning wall looks quite interesting to me now. I can almost fancy I see Marguerite and Louis issuing from the gate--Louis holding up the bow and arrow that was to do such memorable service that night."

"You have had a good lesson this morning, my children, on the pleasures of association. When we first saw that ruin, it looked to you like any other stone wall--mere mason-work: and you, Julia, afraid of being buried in its shadow, wondered what interest any one could feel in looking at it; and now, I see you are venturing on the most tottering part of it for a piece of moss, which I suppose is to be carefully treasured in your herbal."

"Yes, mama, as a keep-sake for Marguerite and Louis."

* * * * *

We shall not condemn our readers to attend the travellers in their tedious passage down the St. Lawrence. Sometimes a favoring breeze filled the single sail of their little boat, and aided by the oars of the lazy boatmen, wafted them gently forward, till, coming to a more rapid descent in the river, their light vessel seemed urged on by an irresistible force to the 'rapids,' where the waves, fretting and foaming over the invisible rocks, threatened to engulph it. The boatmen threw themselves prostrate on the bottom of the boat to avoid the splashing of the waves; their oars lay useless beside them, while the pilot strained every nerve to guide the boat in safety through the perilous channel. These passages, like the brilliant events of life, are rare and brief, and are succeeded by the sleepy lakes of the river, bordered by shores uniformly low and monotonous, save where the green mountains of Vermont dimly define the eastern horizon.

Arrived at Montreal, Mrs. Sackville, from consideration for Mrs. Barton, determined to avoid delay, and therefore deferred the examination of this city, so singular and picturesque to an American eye, till their return from Quebec. There was, however, no boat to sail before the evening, and a half day of leisure afforded our industrious travellers an opportunity to visit the churches and convents of Montreal.

The churches are spacious, and decorated with gaudy tinselled ornaments, and indifferent pictures. Edward and Julia were dazzled and delighted with the seeming splendor. A little demure Presbyterian girl, who acted as their guide, smiled at the animated expressions of their wonder. "Notre Dame, is," she said, "as my grandmother often says, just fit for a baby-house for children."

This remark caused a sudden revulsion in Edward's mind. He had a truly manly, or rather boyish aversion to be suspected of a juvenile taste, and averting his eye from his conductor, it fell on a miserable, half-famished looking old woman, who was kneeling in one of the aisles absorbed in her devotions.

"Look there, mother," said he, pointing to the wretched object, "what a contrast to all this pomp.--It reminds me of an anecdote I have somewhere read of a pious pilgrim to whom one of the popes was ostentatiously displaying the decorations of the Vatican.

"Dites a ces ornemens," said the pilgrim, "de se changer en pain."[4]

[4] Command these decorations to be changed into bread.

Quite satisfied with this display of his superiority to the childishness indirectly ascribed to him by his conductor, though it was entirely lost on her, Edward left the church, and attended his friends to the Hotel Dieu, the convent of the black nuns. They were shown the different apartments by one of the sisterhood, a well-bred Irish lady, whose fine intelligent dark eyes, benevolent and happy expression of countenance, and short plump figure, made a delightful impression on Edward and Julia, who had always fancied a nun must be tall and thin, with a sad solemn face, condemned to wither under an immoveable veil. She led them to the hospital where the sick of every nation are received and treated with equal kindness according to the law of christian benevolence, which is of universal obligation.

"Do the rules of your order, (the order of St. Joseph I believe,") inquired Mr. Sackville of the sister, "impose on you the performance of severe penances?"

"No," she replied, "we are exempted from extraordinary penances, on account of the fatiguing and often loathsome offices that we have to perform for the sick; these are received as sufficient mortifications. We open our doors to the sick mendicant and wounded soldiers. We had in this apartment at one time during the late war seventeen American soldiers."

"My countrymen," replied Mr. Sackville, "had abundant reason to be grateful that they fell into your skilful and benevolent hands,--the beautiful order and neatness of your hospital prove with what fidelity your samaritan duties are performed."

While the nun, courteously bowing her head at this merited compliment, led the way to an adjoining ante-room appropriated to medicines, surgical instruments, &c. Mrs. Sackville said in a low voice to Edward, "Take notice, my dear son, that where the _precepts_ of the christian religion are strictly applied they produce the same fruits; no matter by what name the particular faith is called, Catholic or Protestant."

"Oh look there, mother," exclaimed Julia, pointing to large cases with glass doors which contained the medicines, "I am sure that in spite of your laws of association, those vials and gallipots look quite beautiful."

"And I suspect they contain nothing very disagreeable," replied her mother; "these sisters do not appear to deal in the harsh medicines of our daring doctors, but content themselves with emollients and palliatives. See those labels, 'eau hysterique'--'eau celeste;' even you, Julia, would have no objection to medicines that deserve such pretty appellatives."

From the Hotel Dieu they went to the chapel and sacristie. Julia pointed to the altars on which were standing vases filled with white lilies and carnations. "Every where, mother," she said, "we see these beautiful flowers, even in the churches."

"And they are certainly not inappropriate, Julia," replied her mother, "in His temple whose pencil paints and breath perfumes them."

After all had been shown that is usually exhibited, the sister invited her visiters to go to the garden. Mrs. Sackville said that though she had heard it much extolled, their time would not permit them the pleasure of seeing it, but she said there was a farther trouble that she must venture on imposing. She understood the sisters sometimes permitted their visiters to buy specimens of their work; and she was anxious to carry some to their friends.

Their conductor seemed gratified with this hint, and directly left them, and returned with a large basket filled with embroidered needle-books, reticules, work-boxes, purses, scissor-cases, &c. &c.

Edward and Julia eagerly examined the beautiful productions of the taste and industry of the cloistered sisters. Edward was particularly struck with a sack or purse, made of birch bark, and wrought with porcupine quills of the richest dyes. On one side of it was an indian woman, carrying an infant according to the aboriginal fashion, laced to a board which was laid on her back; the little creature's head was just visible, peeping over her shoulder. A boy was standing beside her with a bow and arrow, on the reverse was a group of indians seated under an oak tree, smoking the long feathered and beaded pipe, which they call the calumet of peace, "Oh, mother," said Edward, holding up the sack, "is not this very valuable?"

"It is certainly very handsome," replied his mother.

"But that is not all, mother--it is certainly very valuable, as an illustration of indian customs.--I wish"----he added and paused.

"What do you wish, Ned?" asked his mother.

"Nothing, mama," he replied, sighing, laying down the sack, and turning away; "I only wish I had not seen it."

Julia was all this time looking at a very curious work-basket, which she thought a masterpiece. She turned it from side to side, examined the roses, carnations, jessamines, and violets, that had been wrought with such exquisite skill as to represent to the life the peerless flowers they were made to imitate; and for one moment she too wished that her five dollars was still at her own disposal. Mrs. Sackville read what was passing in the minds of her children. She took them aside: "My dear Ned and Julia," she said, "I fear you may be regretting your hasty benevolence, when you devoted to a charitable purpose all the money your father gave you for such gratifications as are now offered to you; you did it from a sudden impulse of generosity: you have, I believe, as yet expended but a small portion of your money, and if you now prefer to appropriate it to the purchase of these very tempting articles, I will myself assume the expense of getting Mrs. Barton to Quebec."

Edward and Julia looked at their mother, and at one another without replying a word. Mrs. Sackville returned to the table to make some selections for herself.

"What had we best do, Ned?" whispered Julia.

"Why do you ask me, Julia? you know as well as I. I should like to have something to show that I had been in Canada."

"So should I excessively--but then"--

"But what, Julia? I am sure mama says it shall make no difference to Mrs. Barton."

"No, that is true--it will make no difference to her; but it will make a great difference to us."

The last member of Julia's sentence was quite lost on Edward, for he had abruptly returned to the table, and to the examination of the coveted purse. Julia stood for one half instant wavering, and then walked to a window, and kept her eye steadily fixed on the garden it overlooked. Mrs. Sackville ventured one glance at her children. 'Ah,' thought she, 'Julia, you will prove faithful, but Ned I fear for you; 'he who deliberates is lost,'' Her mind was more intent on her children than on the little traffic she was making, and when she had set aside articles to a considerable amount, and was about to pay for them, the nun said, "I think, madam, you might make a better selection--allow me to exchange this basket for the awkward one you have there. I am a little vain of this, for I made it myself, and I should have begged your daughter to accept it when I saw her admiring it, but these articles are devoted to a specific object, and I have no control over them. I should, however, be particularly gratified if you would purchase this for Miss Julia, instead of that you have taken."

"You are very good," replied Mrs. Sackville, "but I have permitted my daughter to select for herself. Julia, do you hear what this lady says?"

"Yes, mama."

"Will you look at the basket, my love?"

"No, I thank you, mama."

This last reply was uttered in a faltering voice, and caught Edward's attention. He had just taken out his pocket-book to pay for the purse. He looked towards Julia, and then to his mother. Mrs. Sackville's eyes were fixed on Julia with an expression of love and approbation which flashed to Edward's heart; he dropped the purse, put up his pocket-book, and going up to his sister, whispered a proposal that they should return to the inn, without waiting for their mother to finish her business.

They then took a respectful, though rather a hurried leave of the kind sister, impatient to be out of sight of a temptation, which no one will deride as inconsiderable, when it is remembered that Edward was twelve, Julia ten years old.

"What upon earth ails the children?" asked Mr. Morris, who saw that something agitated them. Mrs. Sackville explained as far as she could without making a display of their charity. "They are good children, very good children," said Mr. Morris, "and I think you have tried them a little too far, sister; but, dear souls, it shall all be made up to them. Where is that purse poor Ned was fingering? and that basket for Julia? I'll buy them both; they shall have them."

"No, my dear brother, you must not indeed interpose your kindness--you will spoil all. The result has proved that I did not try them too far, though I confess I was at one time a little afraid I had done what I have often seen children do, pulled up the flower in trying to ascertain whether it had taken root. I have now more confidence that their hearts have that good soil into which the roots of virtue may strike deeply; and they now know the full cost of a charitable action which is performed by the voluntary and deliberate sacrifice of personal indulgence."

"You are right, perfectly right my dear," said Mr. Sackville.

"Yes, I believe you are right," said Mr. Morris, reluctantly replacing the articles, "but it's deuced hard upon the children."

"It is more blessed to give than to receive," said the nun, in a sweet tone of voice, and added, "I assure you madam, I never missed a sale of our little wares with so much satisfaction."

The visiters then took leave of the amiable sister, and in the course of the evening embarked on board the steam-boat. When they arose in the morning, they had already reached the mouth of the Sorrel. It was one of the most beautiful of all the bright days of summer. A gentle west wind tempered the sun's heat, and if, as saith the good book, 'a cheerful countenance betokeneth the heart in prosperity,' it might be inferred from the happy faces of our friends, that their minds were as bright and clear as the cloudless sky. Even Mrs. Barton had lost her downcast despondent look, and the pleasant light of gratitude and hope was diffused over her honest countenance. Edward and Julia were unusually animated, and their mother observed their joyous step as they bounded over the decks, their sparkling glances, and their gleeful chatterings which fell like music on her ear: she traced their uncommon spirits to the little struggle and victory of the preceding day, and rightly, for it is active goodness that commands the secret spring of joy--virtue that opens all the sweet fountains of happiness within us.

It was late in the afternoon when the level and uniform shores of the river, studded with an unbroken line of white-washed houses, or only broken where they clustered around a catholic church, as children gather under the wing of a parent, began to assume more picturesque forms. Bold promontories stretched into the river, and beautiful hills presented their verdant and graceful slopes to the clear mirror. There was a band of musicians on board the boat, who at the command of the captain, (who understood the laws of international courtesy,) had been playing yankee doodle. Edward was far enough from home to feel grateful for this tribute from the English captain, and when the music suddenly changed, at a signal from him, to a mournful requiem, Edward inquired with a look of disappointment, the cause of the transition.

"Look there," he replied, "my young friend, at that pretty grassy point. It is called Cape Laboniere; just above the point you see a thicket of tall trees, which extend their shadows now beyond the church. Under those trees were buried three beautiful girls, the daughters of the honourable Mrs. Laboniere. The young ladies were called by the villagers, 'Les s[oe]urs de la charite;' and are now, I am told, reckoned as their guardian saints by these poor catholic peasants. I happened to be there when the last was buried. You know the catholics have great pomp and expense at their funerals; but I believe the childless parents had no heart for this, for though the father is seignior of the place, and a man of great wealth, he granted the request of the poor villagers who went in a body to him, to beg permission to bury their beloved benefactress. I saw the procession--every one in it was a mourner. The girls strewed the grave with white roses, and all, even the old men and the little children, shed tears on the turf that covered it; and I could not but think how much better than their consecrated water were these tears of gratitude. We call the place the 'Three sisters,' now," concluded the captain, "and I never pass it without some tribute of respect."

* * * * *

Before nine o'clock the steamboat was gliding along under the heights of Quebec. Having, as Mr. Morris (who kept strict note of time) remarked, achieved a sail of 180 miles in 18 hours. Edward stood on the deck beside his mother, straining his eyes to the proud summit of Cape Diamond, where the British flag waved in a flood of moonlight. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "what a kind friend the moon has been to us."

"She has indeed," replied Mrs. Sackville; "and I am very glad that you notice and enjoy her favors; her pale crescent was reflected in the waters of Ontario--her beams revealed to us some of the secret places of the 'thousand isles'--the glittering spires of Montreal sent back her silver rays, and now she pours a flood of light from her full orb, upon these fortified heights. But, come, dear Ned, I believe it is time for us to leave the moon, and attend to our sublunary concerns. Your uncle has gone to settle our bill, and you had best attend to yours." Julia poured the contents of her purse into Edward's, and he left them, and returned in a few moments holding a single shilling between his fingers; "here is all we have left," he said; "what is to be done now, mother? I cannot bear to turn poor Mrs. Barton adrift the moment we arrive."

"No, dear Ned," replied his mother; "she shall be cared for still further. I had too much respect for good examples," she continued, smiling, "to spend all my money for fancy articles, and I shall take Mrs. Barton to the City Hotel with us, till she can make some provisions for herself. I confess I have not much expectation that the governor will think proper to do any thing for her, but your father has letters to him, and he will call at the Chateau to-morrow, and say and do what he can in her behalf." Mrs. Barton received this additional kindness with unfeigned gratitude; "But after to-morrow, ma'am," she said, "I will trouble you no further, for I am sure to find some acquaintance here, who will help me to shift for myself."

The next morning passports were procured to visit the fortifications. Edward, who had a great regard to our own heroes and patriots, had previously sallied forth in quest of the spot where the gallant Montgomery fell in our cause; and his father, after awaiting his return for some time, proceeded without him, leaving a note of directions how he should follow him.

Edward obeyed the directions. He reached Cape Diamond without meeting his friends, and he was biting his lips with vexation, that he should have come to this celebrated fortification alone, without any one to explain it to him, and must leave it as ignorant as he had entered; when he was accosted by a good natured looking soldier, who, doffing his military cap and making a slight bow, said, "This is a pleasant place, young gentleman, of a sunny summer's day."

Edward turned his bright glance on the man, delighted to have found any one who could answer the questions that were rushing to his lips. "Is not that," he said, pointing to the island opposite, "the island of Orleans?"

"The very same, sir: and the point there, is point Levi, which Wolfe fortified, and destroyed from it all the lower town of Quebec: but brave as he was, I think he never would have come within the rampart, if Montcalme had not been the fool to go out and meet him on the Plains of Abraham--once there, you know, we beat of course; for, other things being equal, one Englishman is as good as two Frenchmen any day--and that's what every English soldier knows."

"But," replied Edward, with a smile, "what every French soldier does not admit I suspect."

"No--no--not exactly--for you know they are a bragging nation."

"Well," said Edward, "they seem to have something to brag of about you here in these beautiful villages:" and he pointed towards Beauport and Charlebourg, whose white houses, green fields, and churches, seem to promise every thing that poets have dreamed of village simplicity, peace, and contentment.

"Yes, sir," said the soldier, "those have a decent genteel appearance from here, but if you were once to go to them, and see the houses like painted pigeon-holes--white without, but within full of all manner of uncleanliness; the bits of gardens with little but onions in them; whole fields overrun with Canada thistles; and then the little bits of dowdy images that they worship; and slivers of wood set in frames, that they call pieces of the true cross, and there are enough of them, as I have heard said, to build a seventy-four. If you were to see all this, my young master, you would agree with me, they were but a set of poor ignorant superstitious deluded creatures, far enough behind us English, or even the Americans." The soldier then proceeded to point out and name the most attractive objects from this commanding point of view. The deep black ravine, through which the Montmorenci, after taking its graceful and wondrous leap, passes into the St. Lawrence; and the indentation of the shore beyond the Plains of Abraham, called Wolfe's Cove, where he landed his forces on the morning of his victory and death. Edward found it very difficult to tear himself from a spot which has so much natural beauty, and historic interest, but anxious to follow his friends, he offered the soldier a few pieces of change, and asked him if he was willing to show him the fortification, and then guide him to the Plains of Abraham, whither his father had gone.

The soldier civilly, and indeed thankfully assented, and they proceeded together. The man, evidently pleased with the intelligent questions put to him by Edward, which he answered in a way that indicated a knowledge of his profession quite unusual in a common soldier. Edward inquired the design of the Martello towers, of the bastions, scarps and counterscarps, of this fosse, that glacis, &c. &c. at last, stopping suddenly, while his dilating form and beaming face expressed the youthful heroism that glowed in his breast, he said, "It is a strong place, a very strong place indeed; but I do think _we_ could take it."

"_We!_" exclaimed the soldier, darting at him a look of eager inquiry; "who are _we_?"

"Why, we Americans."

"Americans!" echoed the soldier, and then starting back and dashing the silver Edward had given him to the ground. "Have I," he said, "served my king four and twenty years, to be bribed by an American boy at last? has it come to this, Richard Barton?"

"Richard Barton!" echoed Edward in his turn.

"Yes, my young man, Richard Barton; a poor name, but an honest one, thank God."

"Richard Barton!" again repeated Edward. "But it cannot be the Richard Barton I mean."

"I don't know who you mean, sir, but I shall take care and report you to my officer, and clear myself of all blame."

"Do not be so hasty, my good friend," said Edward, with an expression of innocence and good nature, that went far to remove the honest soldier's suspicions; "it is true I have troubled you with a great many questions, but I had no motive but curiosity; we yankees, you know, are a curious race. Come, I shall hold you to your agreement; take up the money and go along with me."

"No--no--I never will touch the money; but I will go with you, there can be no harm in that."

"Well," said Edward, picking up the pieces, "if you won't take it, I know a Richard Barton that will, and he shall have it too; and now, if I was not afraid you would take me to the guard-house, I would put some more questions to you."

"Oh, put them and welcome, young man; now I know that you are an American, I can use my discretion in my answers. You do not look as if you could do wrong yourself, or tempt another: but I have lived long enough to know that it is not all gold that glitters, though I think nothing but true metal can bear the stamp that is on your face."

"We are friends again then, are we? Can you tell me where the 40th regiment is stationed now?"

"That I cannot; they have been gone from here three years this July."

"Had you any acquaintance in that regiment?"

"Indeed had I. I served with them more than twenty years."

Edward stopped, jumped at least three feet from the ground, (as the soldier afterwards averred) clapped his hands, and exclaimed, "It must be--it must be."

"Why, what is the matter now?" asked the soldier, amazed at his emotion.

"Tell me," continued Edward, with all the calmness he could summon, "why you are here, if your regiment has returned?"

"I got myself transferred to this regiment, to finish my term of service in America, in the hope of then finding my wife and little boy, who followed me to the States when I was a prisoner."

There was no longer any room in Edward's mind for doubt that his companion was the husband of Mrs. Barton. His natural and first impulse was, to make known to the husband the happiness that was in store for him. He began to speak, half laughing, half crying; then checked himself, and considered what a beautiful surprise it would be if they should meet without any preparation: he took the soldier's hand, and said, "I see my friends; you need go no farther; but come in one hour to the City Hotel, and my mother will tell you good news of your wife."

"News of my wife! are you an angel from heaven?"

"Oh, no," replied Edward, laughing; "nothing but an _American boy_."

"God bless you, my lad, tell me now--tell me now," said the soldier, and tears of joy had already gathered in his eyes.

"No, not another word now," said Edward, bounding away from him; "in one hour you shall know all."

The soldier gazed after Edward with an intense curiosity: vague expectations of some good, and then more defined hopes filled his mind. 'That boy never could have deceived me,' he said, to himself: 'what did he mean by exclaiming when he first heard my name? what, by saying he knew another Richard Barton? Is it possible that he has seen my wife and boy?' The result of all his deliberations was, that he would go instantly to the Hotel--to wait an hour was impossible--an hour was an age. In the mean time, Edward joined his party, who were already on the return, and was chid for his delay; without giving the least heed to the rebuke, he drew Julia aside, and communicated his discovery to her. They then laid their heads together, and concerted a fine plan for a denouement.

They would first show Barton the little girl; he could not remember her of course, for she had been born some months after he was separated from his wife; but then he might find her out from her resemblance to her mother; Julia remembered many stories she had read of similar discoveries, and Edward affirmed his belief in natural affection, though he allowed that his father said, that Dr. Franklin and many other philosophers laughed at the idea. If the little girl proved an insufficient clew, Dickey was to be brought into the room, as if accidentally, and with many cautions by no means to tell his name; and finally the door was to be thrown open, and good Mrs. Barton, all unprepared for the sight, was to behold her long-lost husband. Mrs. Sackville saw in the truth-telling faces of her children, that something in their view very important was in agitation; but she seemed to take no notice of their whisperings, and hurried pace, till Mr. Morris called out, "Fall back children, one would think we were walking for a wager; remember we carry weight of years."

"Oh," whispered Julia, "uncle Morris is such a snail; but there is no use in our hurrying, because you know we should lose half the pleasure if papa and mama and uncle were not there." Edward assented, and patience had her perfect work while the children made their feet, which seemed suddenly to have been furnished with the wings of Mercury, to keep time with the dignified movements of their parents.

When they turned into St. John's-street, and came in sight of the hotel, Edward saw the soldier standing by the step to the front entrance, and looking eagerly towards him, "there he is!" said he to Julia, and they both involuntarily changed their pace from a walk to a run, but before they reached the hotel, the soldier sprung into the door, and disappeared from their sight. He had caught the sound of his wife's voice, and their first joyful recognition had passed before the children entered the door.

* * * * *

Our youthful readers have, we trust, been entire strangers to those joys that are preceded by suffering, and which remind us of some clouds that send down their showers after the sun has broken through. They would have been as much surprised as were Edward and Julia, if they had seen, instead of smiles and ecstasies, the deathlike paleness of Mrs. Barton, her husband dashing the tear from his eyes that he might gaze upon his children; Dickey looking timidly at him, and the little girl burying her face in her mother's gown. Yet this was joy--joy that no words could express; the joy of kind and faithful hearts--joy with which a stranger cannot intermeddle; and Mrs. Sackville felt it to be such, for when she saw the family group, she drew her children into the parlour, and left their humble friends to themselves.