pt for an annual visit from his bishop, and occasionally
one from a pilot or sea captain, M. Bois le-Duc seldom heard news of the
outer world. On the whole, his life was not an unhappy one, and certainly
not idle. Most of the hours not spent in parish work were occupied in
perfecting the education of several of the young men in whom he was
interested. With Noel McAllister he took special pains. Whether the
results were satisfactory in this particular case may be doubted; still
he did what he considered best, and left the issue to Providence.

In Marie Gourdon, too, he took a great interest. Her mother had died when
she was scarcely six months old. Her father had never troubled his dull
head about her; and, after she left the convent at Rimouski, she led a
very lonely life for so young a girl.

There was much to interest even such a cultivated man as M. Bois-le-Duc
in Marie Gourdon. She had inherited from her mother a remarkable talent
for music, such as many of the French Canadians have strongly developed.
Her soprano voice was powerful, clear and flexible, and her ear was very
correct. The good cure judged that, if given proper training, and the
advantages Paris alone could afford, the little Canadian girl might
become an artist of the first rank. But how send her to Paris? The thing
seemed impossible. Where was the money to come from? True, M. le cure had
been well paid for his last review in the Catholic Journal, but he had
exhausted this money in sending Eugene Lacroix, another _protege_, to
Laval for a twelvemonth. Alas now his treasury was empty; his cupboard
was bare!

This evening he was thinking all these matters over, when suddenly he was
roused from his meditations by the voice of Julie, his old housekeeper,
calling out:

"M. le cure, there is a gentleman asking for you at the door."

"For me, Julie, at this hour? Who is he?"

"Not a Frenchman, that is very certain, monsieur; I should think not,
indeed; his accent is execrable;" and the good woman lifted her hands
with a gesture of despair.

"Could you not understand what he wanted?" asked the priest.

"No, monsieur; the only word I could make out was '_la coore_,' so I
thought that might mean you."

"Well, well," said M. Bois-le-Duc, laughing, "the best thing is for me to
see him myself."

He went out into the tiny dark passage where Mr. Webster and his clerk
were standing.

"Good-evening," he said, in his polished courtly manner. "I must
apolo