ing; for Grandfather had touched her sympathies more
than he intended.

"To think of a whole people, homeless in the world!" said Clara, with
moistened eyes. "There never was any thing so sad!"

"It was their own fault," cried Charley, energetically. "Why did not they
fight for the country where they were born? Then, if the worst had
happened to them they could only have been killed and buried there. They
would not have been exiles then!"

"Certainly, their lot was as hard as death," said Grandfather. "All that
could be done for them, in the English provinces, was to send them to the
alms-houses, or bind them out to task-masters. And this was the fate of
persons, who had possessed a comfortable property in their native country.
Some of them found means to embark for France; but though it was the land
of their forefathers, it must have been a foreign land to them. Those, who
remained behind, always cherished a belief, that the king of France would
never make peace with England, till his poor Acadians were restored their
country and their homes."

"And did he?" inquired Clara.

"Alas, my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "it is improbable that the
slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia ever reached the ears of Louis the
Fifteenth. The exiles grew old in the British provinces, and never saw
Acadia again. Their descendants remain among us, to this day. They have
forgotten the language of their ancestors, and probably retain no
tradition of their misfortunes. But, methinks, if I were an American poet,
I would choose Acadia for the subject of my song."

Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the most famous of American
poets has drawn sweet tears from all of us, by his beautiful poem of
Evangeline.

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the Thanksgiving fire-side,
by a story that made the children feel the blessing of a secure and
peaceful hearth, Grandfather put off the other events of the Old French
War till the next evening.

Chapter X

In the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the red beams of the fire were
dancing upon the wall, the children besought Grandfather to tell them what
had next happened to the old chair.

"Our chair," said Grandfather, "stood all this time in the Province House.
But, Governor Shirley had seldom an opportunity to repose within its arms.
He was loading his troops through the forest, or sailing in a flat-boat on
Lake Ontario, or sleeping in his tent, while the awful