st then, and pausing to take up the cudgels for his country.
"He's not an Englishman, but I don't like your prejudice; he's not a
Frenchman either, for that matter, so you can't claim him."

"What is he, then?" demanded the little Frenchman.

"He's a Canadian."

"Canadian, ah! What's his name?"

"Lacroix."

"Oh! he's half French at any rate," said the little artist triumphantly,
"and I know he studied in Paris. Well, this is a masterpiece I know, no
matter who painted it."

The picture which had caused so much discussion was a very large one,
covering some five feet of canvas. In the foreground was a long sandy
road, on which was a procession of all manner of vehicles of different
kinds. Hay-carts, calashes, buck-boards, and rude specimens of cabs were
being driven by French-Canadian habitants along the road. In the middle
distance was a churchyard crowded with people, most of them looking very
ill, and many of them leaning on crutches. The invalids seemed to be
attended by their relatives or friends, whose strongly-knit frames and
sun-burned faces contrasted vividly with those of the pilgrims.

The wonderful thing about this picture was the distinct manner with which
each of the many faces was brought out on the canvas. In a marvellous
way, too, the interior of the church just beyond the graveyard was
portrayed. Through the door, flung widely open, and crowded with an eager
multitude, could be seen the High Altar, the candles brightly burning in
honor of the Holy Sacrament, and at the rail were lines of pilgrims
awaiting the approach of the officiating priest.

The priest, an imposing figure clad in the gorgeous vestments of the
Roman Catholic church, was bending down and allowing the worshippers to
touch a relic of the Good St. Anne, in whose miraculous power of healing
they so firmly trusted.

A well-put together picture, the critics said, and a new scene which in
these days is much to be desired. The manner in which Lacroix had
arranged to show both the exterior and interior of the church was a
clever hit, every one agreed. Outside, with the clear blue sky for
background, the spire of the church was clearly defined, and on a niche
just above the main doorway stood an exquisitely carved statue of the
patron St. Anne, holding by the hand her little daughter, the Blessed
Virgin. And beyond the church and the mass of sorrowing, suffering human
life at its doors was the great River St. Lawrence, a molten silver