not risen.

"Come, play-mamma!"

"I will wait here till you come back, Rosemarie."

But the child was coaxingly insistent, holding out her hand.

"I think it is because she has been so lonely all her life," suggested
Farr. "Now that she has found friends she wants them to be with her
in her little pleasures. May I presume enough to add my invitation to
hers?"

She came and the child walked between them, holding their hands.

"One papa and my play-mamma!" she said, looking up at them in turn.

Mother Maillet came to the kitchen door and waved adieu with her
dish-towel.

"Ah, the family!" she cried. "Yesterday it was not--to-day it is. And
grandpere marching off ahead!"

"Old folks and children--they say embarrassing things," remarked Farr
when they were on their way.

"One must be silly along with them to be disturbed by such chatter,"
said Zelie Dionne, tartly.

They followed old Etienne through his little door and walked along the
canal bank where the waters were still and glassy, for the big gates
had been closed and power lay motionless and locked in the sullen depths
till morning. The sunset behind the big mills glowed redly through the
myriad windows.

They walked slowly because little Rosemarie found marvels for childish
eyes at every step, and even the cool carpet of the grass provided
unfailing delight as she set slow and cautious footsteps into its
yielding luxuriance. The old man plodded ahead, muttering and frowning
as he peered down at the flotsam in the motionless waters.

The silence between the two who accompanied the child continued a long
time and Farr found it oppressive.

"I have never been in Canada," he said. "I am sorry you did not care to
have Etienne talk about your home. I would like to know more about that
country."

"He was talking about me instead of my home in Tadousac. I am not so
important that I am to be talked about."

"Where is Tadousac?"

Her vivacity returned, her dark eyes glowed. "Ah, m'sieu', you should go
there. It is in the country of the good habitants where the St. Lawrence
and the Saguenay meet. And now, as the sun is setting, the people are
resting under the wide eaves of the little white houses, looking up
where the hills are all so blue, or off across the wide bay. The white
houses are very small and they crowd along the road, and the farms are
narrow, and there is not much money in the homespun clothes or in the
old clock, but the good world is wide