the same day on which Claude in Vermilionville left the
Beausoleils' tavern, the cabin on Bayou des Acadiens, ever in his
mind's eye, was empty, and in Grande Pointe his father stood on the
one low step at the closed door of Bonaventure's little frame
schoolhouse.

He had been there a full minute and had not knocked. Every movement,
to-day, came only after an inward struggle. Many associations crowded
his mind on this doorstep. Six years before, almost on this spot, a
mere brier-patch then, he and Maximian Roussel had risen from the
grassy earth and given the first two welcoming hand-grasps to the
schoolmaster. And now, as one result, Claude, who did not know his
letters then, was rising--nay, had risen--to greatness! Claude, whom
once he would have been glad to make a good fisherman and swamper, or
at the utmost a sugar-boiler, was now a greater, in rank at least,
than the very schoolmaster. Truly "knowledge is power"--alas! yes; for
it had stolen away that same Claude. The College Point priest's
warning had come true: it was "good-by to Grande Pointe!"--Nay, nay,
it must not be! Is that the kind of power education is? Power to tear
children from their parents? Power to expose their young heads to
midnight storms? Power to make them eager to go, and willing to stay
away, from their paternal homes? Then indeed the priest had said only
too truly, that these public schools teach every thing except morals
and religion! From the depth of St. Pierre's heart there quickly came
a denial of the charge; and on the moment, like a chanted response,
there fell upon his listening ear a monotonous intonation from within
the door. A reading-class had begun its exercise. He knew the words by
heart, so often had Claude and he read them together. He followed the
last stanza silently with his own lips.

"Remember, child, remember
That you love, with all your might,
The God who watches o'er us
And gives us each delight,
Who guards us ever in the day,
And saves as in the night."

Tears filled the swamper's eyes. He moved as if to leave the place.
But again he paused, with one foot half lowered to the ground. His
jaws set, a frown came between his eyes; he drew back the foot, turned
again to the door, and gave a loud, peremptory knock.

Bonaventure came to the door. Anxiety quickly overspread his face as
he saw the gloom on St. Pierre's. He stood on the outer edge of the
sill, and drew the door after him