Baby stopped short, and as they greeted the newcomers their attention was
drawn to the stage-coach from St. Croix coming over the little hill near
by.

"Here's M'sieu' Nic now--and who's with him?" said Baby, stepping about
nervously in his excitement. "I knew there was something up. M'sieu'
Nic's been writing long letters from Montreal."

Baby's look suggested that he knew more than his position as postmaster
entitled him to know; but the furtive droop at the corner of his eyes
showed also that his secretiveness was equal to his cowardice.

On the seat, beside the driver of the coach, was Nicolas Lavilette,
black-haired, brown-eyed, athletic, reckless-looking, with a cast in his
left eye, which gave him a look of drollery, in keeping with his buoyant,
daring nature. Beside him was a figure much more noticeable and unusual.

Lean, dark-featured, with keen-glancing eyes, and a body with a faculty
for finding corners of ease; waving hair, streaked with grey, black
moustache, and a hectic flush on the cheeks, lending to the world-wise
face a wistful look-that, with near six feet of height, was the picture
of his friend.

"Who is it?" asked the miller, with bulging eyes. "An English
nobleman," answered Baby. "How do you know?" asked Gatineau.

"How do I know you are a fat, cheating miller?" replied the postmaster,
with cunning care and a touch of malice. Malice was the only power Baby
knew.