d geese over
the long, placid reaches, sometimes bounding like stags down the rough
rapids and foaming saults.

Master Jean La Marche, clean as a new pin and in his merriest mood, sat
erect as the King of Yvetot in the bow of the long canoe which held the
Lady de Tilly and her family. His sonorous violin was coquettishly fixed
in its place of honor under his wagging chin, as it accompanied his
voice while he chanted an old boat-song which had lightened the labor of
many a weary oar on lake and river, from the St. Lawrence to the Rocky
Mountains.

Amelie sat in the stern of the canoe, laying her white hand in the cool
stream which rushed past her. She looked proud and happy to-day, for the
whole world of her affections was gathered together in that little bark.

She felt grateful for the bright sun; it seemed to have dispelled every
cloud that lately shaded her thoughts on account of her brother, and she
silently blessed the light breeze that played with her hair and cooled
her cheek, which she felt was tinged with a warm glow of pleasure in the
presence of Pierre Philibert.

She spoke little, and almost thanked the rough voyageurs for their
incessant melodies, which made conversation difficult for the time, and
thus left her to her own sweet silent thoughts, which seemed almost too
sacred for the profanation of words.

An occasional look, or a sympathetic smile exchanged with her brother
and her aunt, spoke volumes of pure affection. Once or twice the eyes
of Pierre Philibert captured a glance of hers which might not have been
intended for him, but which Amelie suffered him to intercept and
hide away among the secret treasures of his heart. A glance of true
affection--brief, it may be, as a flash of lightning--becomes, when
caught by the eyes of love, a real thing, fixed and imperishable
forever. A tender smile, a fond word of love's creation, contains a
universe of light and life and immortality,--small things, and of little
value to others, but to him or her whom they concern more precious and
more prized than the treasures of Ind.

Master Jean La Marche, after a few minutes' rest, made still more
refreshing by a draught from a suspicious-looking flask, which, out of
respect for the presence of his mistress, the Lady de Tilly, he said
contained "milk," began a popular boat-song which every voyageur in New
France knew as well as his prayers, and loved to his very finger-ends.

The canoe-men pricked up their ear