them. Since her return they had laughed and talked as of old when they
had met, though her own heart was aching, and he was bitter against the
Seigneur. She had kept him and the whole parish in good humour by her
unconventional ways, as though people were not beginning to make
pilgrimages to Pontiac to see her--people who stared at the name over
the blacksmith's door, and eyed her curiously, or lay in wait about the
Seigneury, that they might get a glimpse of Madame and her deformed
husband. Out in the world where she was now so important, the newspapers
told strange romantic tales of the great singer, wove wild and wonderful
legends of her life. To her it did not matter. If she knew, she did not
heed. If she heeded it--even in her heart--she showed nothing of it
before the world. She knew that soon there would be wilder tales still
when it was announced that she was bidding farewell to the great working
world, and would live on in retirement. She had made up her mind quite
how the announcement should read, and, once it was given out, nothing
would induce her to change her mind. Her life was now the life of the
Seigneur.

A struggle in her heart went on, but she fought it down. The lure of a
great temptation from that far-off outside world was before her, but she
had resolved her heart against it. In his rough but tender way her
father now understood, and that was a comfort to her. He felt what he
could not reason upon or put into adequate words. But the confidence
made him happy, and his eyes said so to her now.

"See, big smithy-man," she said gaily, "soon will be the fete of St. Jean
Baptiste, and we shall all be happy then. Louis has promised me to make
a speech that will not be against the English, but only words which will
tell how dear the old land is to us."