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eral Wolfe afterward breathed his last, and it was quite late when they returned to Quebec. As they were returning, they met a priest, on whose face there was an expression of sadness. He held in his hands a crucifix which he kissed occasionally, while tears started from his eyes.

"Holy father, wherefore are you so sad?" asked M. De Vere.

"I have just been at the bedside of a dying sinner," the priest answered, "and my soul is filled with grief. Oh, 'tis heart-rending to witness the

death of such an one!"

"Could you not give him absolution?" asked Adele.

"Sweet daughter, I exhausted all the church's prayers; yet it was unavailing;" the priest answered.

"Surely he was a hardened sinner," said the mademoiselle.

"He was a convict, and he died cursing the men who had made him a slave."

Then, holy father, there is no help for his soul." "None."

The priest sobbed, crossed himself reverently, and went on, while Adele and her father stood gazing after him. The bright eyes of the fair Acadian were sad for a moment, then, turning them inquiringly upon her father, she asked:

"What are convicts?"

In her simple, innocent life, the word was a stranger to her vocabulary. Her father explained as well as he could the meaning of the term, and she sighed as she said:

"Must all be doomed to that eternal death?"

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No; there is hope for the vilest who will accept absolution from the holy fathers."

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Father, might not a convict be innocent?"

The father, after a painful silence, answered: "Many are.

Human justice is short-sighted." "If one should be innocent, would it not be cruel to confine him with others?"

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Certainly; but, my child, this is a painful subject; let us change it to something more agreeable. Look at the landscape and blue hills over beyond the river. Was ever scenery more enchanting?"

"It is beautiful, my father. I never knew any more lovely, unless it be our dear Acadia. Those murmuring pines and hemlocks bearded with moss, which, in green garments, stand like giant sentinels in the indistinct twilight of forest shades are grand, father; but our Acadian land is the only place I can ever call home.”

"'Tis true, my child, of all who once inhabit the charmed vale of Acadia. The foe is in our land, but let us return for the day wanes and is almost gone."

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The governor, having thrown off his official cares, greeted his friend and old acquaintance anew. As is always the case when old friends meet after a long separation, there were many things to talk about. They recalled the happy days of long ago in sunny old France, and the many changes that were coming about.

They talked late into the night, and Adele, being tired with climbing the hills about Quebec, retired to bed and slept profoundly. The boom of the morning gun awoke her and, for a moment, she was confused. Starting up, she gazed out of the window to see the sun rising like Venus, all radiant with light and beauty, from the sea. Already, the heights of Abraham were tipped with a golden sheen, while the soft gray rocks in the deeper shades were changed to a purple hue. The river below was white with skimming sails, and the odd barks of the voyageurs glided hither and thither in the water, while each dimpled wavelet laughed in the morning sunlight.

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Oh, holy morn!" the girl cried, hastily making her toilet. Then she joined her father, Governor Vaudreuil and Madame Vaudreuil in the great old hall, and all went to breakfast.

The governor was never more jolly than on this morning. Adele was thoughtful, and he rallied her on her lack of spirits.

"Of what are you thinking, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Of the song of the voyageur, which I heard on yester-morn, the last refrain of which is, 'L'amour me réveille.'"

The governor, laughing, said:

"Has love never awakened in you, mademoiselle?"

"No, governor."

"Then, by the mass! you will not long remain unloved in Quebec, where there are so many gallant officers and noble men of old France."

After breakfast, the governor said he would have the day to spend with his friends and proposed to show them about Quebec. In the course of their wandering over the city, they came upon the place where a chain gang of criminals were cutting away the hard stone to build into the walls of a fort. There were forty-three in the gang, and all were fastened together by a chain. Never had Adele gazed upon more miserable specimens of humanity. As one man, they raised their great, heavy picks and struck the solid wall of rock. Their features were hardened with suffering and crime, until there was something low, sensual and barbarous in the expression of their faces. Not one of the forty-three deigned to look up for a single moment, or ceased delivering their blows on the

ponderous rock. Stationed at convenient places to guard them, were soldiers with muskets and bayonets.

The young maid gazed pityingly on the men for a few moments and then, fixing her eyes on the governor, asked:

แ Who are these men?"

Galley slaves," he answered.

"Men who have lost their immortal souls?"

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"By my patron saint! I hope not," the governor answered; "yet few of them will have absolution from the chaplain. Many are vile Protestants, who deny the power of the holy father to forgive sins."

She paid little heed to what the governor was saying, for her gaze was fixed on one of the convicts. He was a young man, with a face, fresh and fair, and a frank, manly, open countenance, which seemed a stranger to outlawry. Once or twice, in raising his heavy pick, his face was turned so that his eyes met hers. Those blue eyes were clear and bright, and, despite his felon's garb, there was something interesting and familiar in his face.

Where had she seen it before? Closing her eyes to outward objects, her memory recalled a bright dream of the night, before, in which this face had appeared to her in a most extraordinary light, bright as the sun, while on her sleeping senses floated the soft refrain:

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