But Gaspard had been unlucky. He lost all his family by smallpox, and
the priest made him burn his clothes, and ruinously fit himself with
new. There was no use in putting savings in the stocking any longer,
however; the children were gone. He could only buy masses for them.
He lived alone, the neighbors taking that loving interest in him which
French Canadians bestow on one another.

More than once Gaspard thought he would leave his farm and go into the
world. When Frontenac returned to take the paralyzed province in hand,
and fight Iroquois, and repair the mistakes of the last governor,
Gaspard put on his best moccasins and the red tasseled sash he wore
only at Christmas. "Gaspard is going to the fort," ran along the whole
row of Beauport houses. His neighbors waited for him. They all carried
their guns and powder for the purpose of firing salutes to Frontenac.
It was a grand day. But when Gaspard stepped out with the rest, his
countenance fell. He could not tell what ailed him. His friends coaxed
and pulled him; they gave him a little brandy. He sat down, and they
were obliged to leave him, or miss the cannonading and fireworks
themselves. From his own river front Gaspard saw the old lion's, ship
come to port, and, in unformed sentences, he reasoned then that a man
need not leave his place to take part in the world.

Frontenac had not been back a month, and here was the New England
colony of Massachusetts swarming against New France. "They may carry
me away from my hearth feet first," thought Gaspard, "but I am not to
be scared away from it."

Every night, before putting the bar across his door, the old habitant
went out to survey the two ends of the earth typified by the road
crossing his strip of farm. These were usually good moments for him.