"Oh, yes; at once."
"I will pray for him. I will have masses said for his soul."
"Your grandfather was born in the seigniory of Lamoral, so André said."
"Yes; and my father, and I, and my brothers and sisters. My grandfather's seignior was French. Afterwards, the English seigniors had no love for the place. It is our seignior, the Canadian, who cares for it. He carries it on his heart—and us, too, mademoiselle. You know this land is mine now?"
"Yes; I am so glad for you. It should have been yours long ago."
"Yes, it is mine now for a little while; afterwards it will be my daughter's."
"Do you know the old manor well? Have you ever lived there?"
"Yes, I have lived at the manor house."
"When was that, mother?"
"Let me think.—It was ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before André spent that winter with me. It was a hard one; he helped me as a brother should. It was then he was shriven. I was in one of the pews in our church, waiting my turn. There were hundreds come for the shriving. The priest stood in the aisle, the great middle aisle, and all the time there were two kneeling besides him, one confessing, the other waiting his turn."