"M. le Curé. Oh, you don't know I am stopping at the presbytery. I happened to meet the curate, Father Francis, in Montreal—we were school-boys together—and he was about the wildest, most mischievous fellow I ever met. We were immense friends—a fellow-feeling, you know, makes us wondrous kind. Judge of my amazement on meeting him on Notre Dame street, in soutane and broad-brimmed hat, and finding he had taken to Mother Church. You might have knocked me down with a feather, I assure you. Mutual confidences followed; and when he learned I was coming to St. Croix, he told me that I must pitch my tent with him. Capital quarters it is, too; and M. le Curé is the soul of hospitality. Will you give me a glass of wine after that long speech, and to fortify me for my homeward route?"
Grace rang and ordered wine. Doctor Danton drank his glass standing, and then drew on his gloves.
"Have you to walk?" asked his sister. "I will order the buggy for you."
"By no means. I rode up here on the Curé's nag, and came at the rate of a funeral. The old beast seemed to enjoy himself, and to rather like getting soaked through, and I have no doubt will return as he came. And now I must go; it would never do to be found here by these grand people—Captain and Miss Danton."
His wet overcoat hung on a chair; he put it on while walking to the door, with Grace by his side.
"When shall I see you again, Frank?"
"To-morrow. I want to have a look at our English beauty. By Jove! it knows how to rain in Canada."
The cold November blast swept in as Grace opened the front door, and the rain fell in a downpour. In the black darkness Grace could just discern a white horse fastened to a tree.
"That is ominous, Grace," said her brother. "Captain Danton and his daughter come heralded by wind and tempest. Take care it is not prophetic of domestic squalls."
He ran down the steps, but was back again directly.