Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.

Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,

And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.

"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as the foot

steps paused on the threshold,

“Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle

Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;

Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;

Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling

Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams

Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."

Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside :-

"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!

Ever in cheerfulest mood art thou, when others are filled with

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before

them.

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued :—

"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors

Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.

What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded

On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the meantime

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."

Then made answer the farmer:-"Perhaps some

friendlier purpose

Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England

By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."

"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said,

warmly, the blacksmith,

Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued :—

"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal.

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of

to-morrow.

Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer :

"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the

ocean,

Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon,

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no

shadow of sorrow

Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the

night of the contract.

Built are the house and the barn.

lads of the village

The merry

Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.

René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"

As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,

And as they died on his lips the worthy notary

entered.

B

III.

ENT like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,

Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;

Shocks of yellow hairs, like the silken floss of the

maize, hung

Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom

supernal.

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred

Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.

Four long years in the time of the war had he languished a captive,

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;

For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,

And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened