The light-house of Father Point stands out clear and distinct on a long
neck of rocky land running into the St. Lawrence.

All is still. But hark! A song comes faintly, carried on the evening
breeze, and presently it grows clearer, louder, more distinct.

The words now can be heard plainly. They are those of that old French
Canadian song so familiar to all dwellers in the Province of Quebec:

"A la claire fontaine,
M'en allant promener,
J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle
Que je me suis baigné.
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."

The voice was tuneful, strong, and full and clear, though lacking in
cultivation. It was that of a girl, who was sitting under the shadow of
a large boulder on the beach. She seemed about eighteen, though, in the
uncertain wavering light of the sunset, it was impossible to distinguish
her features clearly.

Her gown was of simple pink cotton, and on her head she wore a large
peaked straw hat, which gave her a quaint old-world appearance.

Her brown hair had escaped from beneath this large head-gear, and blew
about in pretty, untidy curls round her neck and shoulders. In her hand
was a roll of music, which she had just brought from the church, where
she had been practising for the morrow's mass.