"It was ever like that. Is he well, my brother?"
"I hope it may be well with him soon."
The old woman looked at me earnestly with her small deep-set eyes, faded with having looked so long on the sunshine and shadows of life.
"He is dead, my brother?"
"No, not yet. Mr. Ewart wanted me to tell you just as it is." I gave her the details.
She sat quietly, her hand still in mine. Into her faded eyes there crept a shadow of some memory.
"I have not seen him for many years, mademoiselle."
"Was that when he made his voyage to Chicago?"
"Yes. On his return he spent the winter with me. We had comfort together. We could talk of old times; we knew Canada when we were young—that was long ago." She sat quiet, thoughtful. Then she spoke again.
"You will tell me when the seignior sends word?"