be with Mr. Arbuton, but now she did not see how she could take her
natural tone with him. She wondered at her daring lightness at the
breakfast-table; she waited for him to say something, and he said, with
a glance at the gray heaven that always overhangs the Saguenay, that it
was beginning to rain, and unfurled the slender silk umbrella which
harmonized so perfectly with the London effect of his dress, and held it
over her. Mrs. Ellison sat within the shelter of the projecting roof,
and diligently perused her book with her eyes, and listened to their
talk.

"The great drawback to this sort of thing in America," continued Mr.
Arbuton, "is that there is no human interest about the scenery, fine as
it is."

"Why, I don't know," said Kitty, "there was that little settlement round
the saw-mill. Can't you imagine any human interest in the lives of the
people there? It seems to me that one might make almost anything out of
them. Suppose, for example, that the owner of that mill was a
disappointed man who had come here to bury the wreck of his life
in--sawdust?"

"O, yes! That sort of thing; certainly. But I didn't mean that, I meant
something historical. There is no past, no atmosphere, no traditions,
you know."

"O, but the Saguenay _has_ a tradition," said Kitty. "You know that a
party of the first explorers left their comrades at Tadoussac, and came
up the Saguenay three hundred years ago, and never were seen or heard of
again. I think it's so in keeping with the looks of the river. The
Saguenay would never tell a secret."