In the Van; or, The Builders

by John Price-Brown

"Oui, oui, Bateese!" she replied, the tears running on each side down her face, "but don't be so fooleesh."

The Englishmen were not so demonstrative. Hardman extended his hand to help his wife to terra firma, she vowing that she would "never sleep on that old thing again"; while Bond chaffed his wife good-naturedly for "rasin' such a din in the fo'castle of the bloomin' boat."

By this time it was daylight. The bugle sounded the men to mess, and the day promising to be fine, orders were given to push the barracks for the men, and to occupy them the coming night. All of which by diligent effort they were able to accomplish.

Having followed our heroine and the officers and soldiers of the two companies of the 100th through their long and arduous march, locating them finally at Penetang, and watching with interest their efforts at the establishment of a fort, we must bid them adieu for a time and return to the east in order to record other incidents which have an important bearing upon our story.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Only twice did Maud Maxwell receive letters from Dr. Beaumont during the months that followed that memorable morning when the companies started out on their long march. One was from Quebec, in which he gave details of the journey and an account of the dance at the Citadel, but he made no mention of his meeting with the beautiful Louise de Rochefort. On the whole, the letter, to Maud's mind, seemed cool. At this she felt piqued, more than she cared to acknowledge to herself. The devotion declared by the ardent lover on leaving, notwithstanding the coolness with which she had received it, seemed scarcely to be adequately sustained. Why so sudden a change? Had he forgotten her already? Was he contented to woo nature in the wild woods of the west, in place of the maiden to whom he had so recently declared his passion?

But the next letter from Montreal was more cheering, for although the canny Scotch, inherited from his mother, seemed, in the first part of the letter, to have thrown a damper upon his passion, the conclusion was in better form. There was a warmer ring—a plea for the future—a touch of genuine sentiment. "You may not think of me," he said, "or if you do, only as one whose presence is not missed; but I think of you as my guiding star, my beacon light, urging me onward through the forest—over ice and snow—along river and lake—to a little spot in the west which is to be my home and, please God, yours also." Then he signed himself: "By all that is holy," as one "who will ever be true."

The coolness of the one letter, followed by the renewed passion in the other, had a good effect upon Maud. Although she read the latter a little indignantly and laid it aside, before long she took it up and read it again.

"He has no business to write me in that strain," she commented to herself. "So cool at first, and, then almost as if we were betrothed; when there is really nothing between us. Still, I do not dislike him. He is such an independent fellow, and so strong and true." And, although her eye flashed, she heaved a little sigh.

It was the beginning of April—the very time that the men were pitching their first camp on the bay of Penetang, and she speculated much about the Doctor and Mrs. Manning.