"Yes, yes, Noël; so Eugène Lacroix says too."
"Eugène Lacroix!" said Noël, starting; "I thought he was in Montreal."
"He has been here for the last week. He came down for a holiday, and is always with Marie Gourdon."
"Yes, yes, they are old friends. I do not care much for Eugène Lacroix. He seems to me a dreamy, impractical sort of person, and only thinks of his books and those absurd pictures he is always making."
"You think them absurd?" replied madame.
"M. Bois-le-Duc told me he had great talent. You know that, for a time the curé sent him to Laval at his own expense, and now talks of sending him to Paris."
"To Paris! and for what purpose?"
"Oh! the curé thinks he will make a great painter. He is always painting during his holidays. I'm sure I can't see the good of it."
"Well, my mother, M. Bois-le-Duc is a very clever man, and whatever he does is good, but I, for one, have no very high opinion of Eugène Lacroix."
While this conversation had been going on, Noël McAllister did ample justice to the good fare his mother set before him. Madame McAllister was nothing if not practical, and cooking was one of her strong points. Her bouillon, a sort of hotch-potch, was so good that a hungry Esau might well have bartered his birthright for it. Her pancakes and galettes were marvels of culinary skill.