ngry, though, my
mother, for the walk up to Rimouski gave me an appetite."

"Yes, my son, you must be. For three days, at this hour I have had a
meal prepared for you, and yet you did not come. I was beginning to get
anxious, though the Gulf is like glass, and the cure said there were no
signs of a storm. To-night also your supper awaits you, so come in."

The old lady led the way into the house, which was small, but exquisitely
neat and well kept. The first apartment, which opened from a tiny hall,
served as sitting and dining room. Like most other French Canadian
houses, Madame McAllister's was carpeted in all the rooms with a
rag carpet of three colors--red, white and blue. This carpeting is
extensively woven by the good nuns at Rimouski Convent, and is pretty
and effective, besides having the advantage of being cheap.

On the walls of Madame McAllister's sitting room hung the inevitable
pictures of the Good St. Anne, the mother of the Blessed Virgin, and
of Pope Pius IX. Indeed, it would be difficult to find a house in the
district which did not possess one or more of these engravings.

Through a half-opened door could be seen a glimpse of madame's bedroom--a
dainty interior. The wooden floor was snowy white, with here and there a
bright-colored mat spread on it; the brown roughly-hewn bedstead was
covered with a quilt of palest pink and blue patchwork, the patient
result of the old lady's years of industrious toil.

Madame McAllister busied herself getting supper ready, all the while
talking to her son.

"Well, Noel, my son, what did you get this time? I trust a great
quantity."

"Yes, my mother, we did very well. The first day we captured a fine
porpoise, and after that six large seals."

"Ah! that was good," replied madame.

Both mother and son spoke French in the Lower Canadian _patois_, rather
puzzling to English ears trained to understand only Parisian French. For,
not only is the pronunciation different, but several Scotch words are
used by the inhabitants of this district, and one puzzles hopelessly over
their derivation, until remembering the origin of the people.

"Where did you leave your boat?" questioned madame.

"At Father Point light-house with Jean Gourdon. He is to drive up with the
pilot to-morrow, and by that time will have skinned the seals."

"Surely the steamer is late this week?"

"Yes, but she will pass Father Point early to-morrow morning; she was
telegraphed from Matane, wher