"Goodby, Mère Guillardeau."
"Goodby, mademoiselle. You will come again and tell me of my brother?"
"Yes; so soon as I have any word."
She stood in the porch to watch me down the road. I went on to the village. As I neared the steamboat landing, I noticed a large river sloop, tacking in the light breeze to the bank. I stopped to watch it. Soon it was abreast of me. I walked rapidly on to keep up with it. It came to anchor nearly opposite the cabaret. Its white hull was filled with apples. There must have been a ton or two—early harvest apples, red, yellow, and green; Astrachan, Porters and early Pippins.
Surely this was the apple-boat which Jamie delighted in and described with such enthusiasm! I walked to the bank. A low trestle, laid in a width of two boards, gave passage to the boat. What a picture it made! The low green bank, the white sloop, the blue lively waters of the St. Lawrence, and, beyond, the islands stacked with the second cutting of hay!
I went on board; bought a few apples; promised to come for a bushel or two the next day, and asked a few questions of the owner and his wife, French both of them.
"How long do you stay?"
"Only a week. This cargo is perishable. We sell here, then we go back for the harvest of winter apples. We come again in October."
She showed me with pride her cabin and the bunk under the companionway, wherein lay her eighteen-months-old baby. "We could not leave him," she said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his forehead. "The others are at home; they take care of themselves."
The little cabin was absolutely neat.