"No, nothing much, my son. There is to be a great pilgrimage to the
shrine of the Good St. Anne next week. Hundreds of lame, blind and sick
folk are coming from all parts of the country--from Quebec, and even from
Gaspé. Oh, my son, it is wonderful what the Good St. Anne does for her
children."

"Yes, yes," said Noël, impatiently, "but I want to hear the news of the
people here. How is Marie Gourdon?"

"Marie Gourdon? Oh! much as usual--always singing or playing the organ
at the church, and M. Bois-le-Duc encourages her. I call it nonsense
myself," and the old lady shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly.

"But, my mother, she sings like an angel."

"Yes, yes, Noël; so Eugène Lacroix says too."

"Eugène Lacroix!" said Noël, starting; "I thought he was in Montreal."

"He has been here for the last week. He came down for a holiday, and is
always with Marie Gourdon."

"Yes, yes, they are old friends. I do not care much for Eugène Lacroix.
He seems to me a dreamy, impractical sort of person, and only thinks of
his books and those absurd pictures he is always making."

"You think them absurd?" replied madame.

"M. Bois-le-Duc told me he had great talent. You know that, for a time