had a friend like M. Fille.
Since the terrible day when he found that his wife had gone from
him--not with the master-carpenter who only made his exit from Laplatte
some years afterwards--he had had no desire to have a woman at the Manor
to fill her place, even as housekeeper. He had never swerved from
that. He had had a hard row to hoe, but he had hoed it with a will not
affected by domestic accidents or inconveniences. The one woman from
outside whom he permitted to go and come at will--and she did not
come often, because she and M. Fille agreed it would be best not to do
so--was the sister of the Cure. To be sure there was Seraphe Corniche,
the old cook, but she was buried in her kitchen, and Jean Jacques
treated her like a man.

When Zoe was confirmed, and had come back from Montreal, having spent
two years in a convent there--the only time she had been away from her
father in seven years--having had her education chiefly from a Catholic
"brother," the situation developed in a new way. Zoe at once became
as conspicuous in the country-side as her father had been over so many
years. She was fresh, volatile, without affectation or pride, and had
a temperament responsive to every phase of life's simple interests. She
took the attention of the young men a little bit as her due, but yet
without conceit. The gallants had come about her like bees, for there
was Jean Jacques' many businesses and his reputation for wealth; and
there was her own charm, concerning which there could be far less doubt
than about Jean Jacques' magnificent solvency.

Zoe had gone heart-whole and with no especial preference for any young
man, until the particular person came, the Man from Outside.

His name was Gerard Fynes, and his business was mumming. He was a young
lawyer turned actor, and he had lived in Montreal before he went on the
stage. He was English--that was a misfortune; he was an actor--that was
a greater misfortune, for it suggested vagabondage of morals as well
as of profession; and he was a Protestant, which was the greatest
misfortune of all. But he was only at St. Saviour's for his
convalescence after a so-called attack of congestion of the lungs; and
as he still had a slight cough and looked none too robust, and as, more
than all, he was simple in his ways, enjoying the life of the parish
with greater zest than the residents, he found popularity. Undoubtedly
he had a taking way with him. He was lodging with Louis Charron, a
s