“Why are the bells ringing so much, Denzil? Is it a Saint’s Day?” she asked.
He took off his hat. “Yes, ma’m’selle, it is a Saint’s Day,” and he named it. “There were lots of neighbours at early Mass, and some have gone to the Church of St. Anne de Beaupre at Beaupre, them that’s got sickness.”
“Yes, Beaupre is as good as Lourdes, I’m sure. Why didn’t you go, Denzil?”
“Why should I go, ma’m’selle—I ain’t sick—ah, bah!”
“I thought you were. You’ve been in low spirits ever since our election, Denzil.”
“Nothing strange in that, ma’m’selle. I’ve been thinking of him that’s gone.”
“You mean Monsieur Barouche, eh?”
“Not of M’sieu’ Barouche, but of the father to the man that beat M’sieu’ Barouche.”
“Why should you be thinking so much of John Grier these days?”
“Isn’t it the right time? His son that he threw off without a penny has proved himself as big a man as his father—ah, surelee! M’sieu’ left behind him a will that gave all he had to a stranger. His own son was left without a sou. There he is now,” he added, nodding towards the street.