"I know not. It must be so. You speak like a priest."
"Think," he said, "and pray to Him about it, and hope a little for
François. He loves you. It would be so cruel to him to lose you."
Henri's voice broke joyously out of the shrubbery:—
"Good at all times
Is sweet bread,
But specially when
With sugar spread."
Chrysler moved away, and passing through the trees stood on the bank, looking down on the beach and the sunny surface of the River. He had helped to right one little matter anyway, in Dormillière.
A guttural call in a low voice startled him,—a subdued longdrawn "Hoioch!—hoioch!—hoioch!" followed by a few words of instructions rapidly uttered in what seemed a kind of patois—and on turning he saw below, along the shore at the left, the little figure of the Bonhomme rapidly pulling in one end of a net through the water, while the other end was managed by a younger fisherman attired as rudely and queerly. It needed a close glance to see that the second man was François, assisting his father. Together they suggested that strange caste—the fishers of the great river—a caste living in the midst of a civilization, yet as little of it as the gipsies—families handing down apart among themselves from generation to generation manners, customs, haunts, unique secrets of localities, and sometimes apparently a marvellous skill. These are the true geographers and unboasting Nimrods. You who have ever seen the strange sight of the spearing under the flame of immense torches in the rapids of the Buisson, where no straining of your own eyes could ever discern the trace of a fish; and you with whom it was an article of faith that certain death waited in every channel, swirl and white horse of the thundering Lachine Rapids, until one day some one speculated how the market boats of the lake above could turn up every morning safe and regular at the Bonsecours Market,—will be ready to understand.
However, it was not long before the net was drawn up and Chrysler stood beside them, the greetings were over and all three were duly seated, each on his chosen boulder under the green poplar saplings, talking:
"François," said the Bonhomme to his son, "Monsieur does not think it probable that Cuiller will marry Josephte."
The young man's unconquerable cheerfulness faded for a moment. He was silent.
"Why is it Mr. Benoit will not accept you?"—Chrysler asked, very interested.