Your affectionate sister,
Grace.
CHAPTER XVII.
"SHE TOOK UP THE BURDEN OF LIFE AGAIN."
The second train from Montreal passing through St. Croix on its way to—somewhere else, was late in the afternoon of the fifth of June. Instead of shrieking into the village depot at four P.M., it was six when it arrived, and halted about a minute and a half to let the passengers out and take passengers in. Few got in and fewer got out—a sunburnt old Frenchman, a wizen little Frenchwoman, and their pretty, dark-skinned, black-eyed daughter; and a young man, who was tall and fair, and good-looking and gentlemanly, and not a Frenchman, judging by his looks. But, although he did not look like one, he could talk like one, and had kept up an animated discussion with pretty dark eyes in capital Canadian French for the last hour. He lifted his hat politely now, with "Bon jour, Mademoiselle," and walked away through the main street of the village.
It was a glorious summer evening. "The western sky was all aflame" with the gorgeous hues of the sunset; the air was like amber mist, and the shrill-voiced Canadian birds, with their gaudy plumage, sang their vesper laudates high in the green gloom of the feathery tamaracks.
A lovely evening with the soft hum of village life, the distant tinkling cow-bells, the songs of boys and girls driving them home, far and faint, and now and then the rumbling of cart-wheels on the dusty road. The fields on either hand stretching as far as the eye could reach, green as velvet; the giant trees rustling softly in the faint, sweet breeze; the flowers bright all along the hedges, and over all the golden glory of the summer sunset.
The young man walked very leisurely along, swinging his light rattan. Wild roses and sweetbrier sent up their evening incense to the radiant sky. The young man lit a cigar, and sent up its incense too.
He left the village behind him presently, and turned off by the pleasant road leading to Danton Hall. Ten minutes brought him to it, changed since he had seen it last. The pines, the cedars, the tamaracks were all out in their summer-dress of living green; the flower-gardens were aflame with flowers, the orchard was white with blossoms, and the red light of the sunset was reflected with mimic glory in the still, broad fish-pond. Climbing roses and honeysuckles trailed their fragrant branches round the grim stone pillars of the portico. Windows and doors stood wide to admit the cool, rising breeze; and a big dog, that had gambolled up all the way, set up a bass bark of recognition. No living thing was to be seen in or around the house; but, at the sound of the bark, a face looked out from a window, about waist-high from the lawn. The window was open, and the sweetbrier and the rose-vines made a very pretty frame for the delicate young face. A pale and pensive face, lit with luminous dark eyes, and shaded by soft, dark hair.
The young man walked up, and rested his arm on the low sill.