"Oh, I must say a word about Lieutenant Smith! He is such a retiring fellow that I knew little about him, although we had travelled together all the way from the London docks. But after he was shot, our sleigh being very comfortable, I proposed to Harold that he should have a seat with me whenever it was not occupied by himself. The consequence is that I have only had an occasional word with my particular friend, Captain Cummings, since the day of the battle, and not a single drive. I was quietly killing two birds with one stone, though nobody knew it. But Mr. Smith's arm is better now—and, forsooth, we may return to the old order of things—unless some other member of the staff should be similarly unlucky.
"Smith is so young a fellow that I felt like mothering him. Fortunately, it was his left arm, and as I sit on the left side of the sleigh the sore arm was between us, protecting it from the pressure of the buffalo robe and also from the cold. The boy is of good family, has high ideals, and wants to win his way to fame. Just the kind of fellow I would like for a friend. And if I am to make my home in Penetang without a single lady to stand by me, and without relatives either, except my dear husband, I may need a true, disinterested friend some time. Who knows? Yes, and guileless, gentle, brave Lieutenant Smith, the man who was wounded in our first battle, shall be the man.
"Talking of men, there is some one else I want to take right through with us, and that is Bateese. The jolly, genial, conceited, whimsical, but reliable, habitant. But if we take him we must take his wife also. For days before we arrived here he could talk of little else than his 'femme,' but there was a sad tone about his musical jargon that was unusual.
"'Madame,' he exclaimed one day, after a long silence. 'You not know, Emmiline, mine vife. She live wid me in Kebeck.'
"'I didn't know you had a wife, Bateese.'
"'Oh, oui, married dis two year.' His tone was persuasive.
"'I would like to know her,' I replied.
"'Vell, I will bring her to you. She vas ma fille, bootiful, petite, so young. Den de curé at Kebeck marry us—seem long tam—still only two year. Den she grow into grand jolie femme. Bime-by she have twins—wan garçon, wan wee leetle gal, petite an' putty as you nevare see. Mus' I tell you de story? Eet no laughin', eet sad.'
"'Yes, tell me,' I could not but acquiesce.
"'Oh, sacré!' he exclaimed, giving the lazier horse an extra touch of the whip. 'When de hot summare com, Bateese was away drivin' de carryall along de revare down by de sea, de leetle Emmile go sick and die. An' Emmiline was full of broken heart. Den when de fall came, scarlet fevare steal like de diable after ma leetle Louis—ma cher fils—he die, too. Ah, mon Dieu! Et nearly kill ma femme, an' it drive Bateese clean crazee. Didn't care a sacré if Yankees lick Cannayans—didn't care how soon I die—didn't care for nuffin! But dat no do. Poor Emmiline lay sick four week in bed—Doctor said nevare get well no more. So Bateese shake hisself and forget de dead babies to tend his leetle wife—say his pater nostra ten times a day—go to church every tam de priest tell him, give medicine all de whole tam. And, by gar, she get well at last. Den Bateese had to leave her an' go on dis long trip to Halifax—an' has not seen her again sence wintare cam.'