A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1

A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1

Project Gutenberg's A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1, by Mrs. Harry
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Title: A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1 A Novel
Author: Mrs. Harry Coghill
Release Date: March 16, 2006 [EBook #18002]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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CANADIAN HEROINE, VOLUME 1 ***

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A CANADIAN HEROINE.
A Novel.

BY
THE AUTHOR OF "LEAVES FROM THE BACKWOODS."
"Questa chiese Lucia in suo dimando, E disse: Or ha bisogno il tuo
fedele Di te, e io a te lo raccomando."--Inferno. Canto II.
"Qu'elles sont belles, nos campagnes; En Canada qu'on vit content!
Salut ô sublimes montagnes, Bords du superbe St. Laurent! Habitant de
cette contrée Que nature veut embellir, Tu peux marcher tête levée, Ton
pays doit t'enorgueillir."--J. Bedard.
IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I.
LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET.
STRAND. 1873. [All rights Reserved.]
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO., LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.

A CANADIAN HEROINE.
CHAPTER I.
It was near sunset, and the season was early summer. Every tree was in
full leaf, but the foliage had still the exquisite freshness of its first tints,
undimmed by dust or scorching heat. The grass was, for the present, as
green as English grass, but the sky overhead was more glorious than
any that ever bent above an English landscape. So far away it rose
overhead, where colour faded into infinite space, that the eye seemed to
look up and up, towards the Gate of Heaven, and only through mortal
weakness to fail in reaching it. Low down around the horizon there was
no blue, but pure, pale green depths, where clouds floated, magnificent
in deep rosy and golden splendour. Under such skies the roughest
landscape, the wildest forest, softens into beauty; such light and colour,
like fairy robes, glorify the most commonplace; but here, earth lent her
own charms to be decked by heaven.

Through a quiet landscape went the river--the grand silent flood which
by-and-by, many miles further on its course, would make Niagara. Here
it flowed calmly, reflecting the sunset, a giant with its energies untaxed
and its passions unroused--a kindly St. Christopher, yet capable of
being transformed into a destroying Thor. Far away, seen over a low
projecting point of land, white sails gleamed now and then, as ships
moved upon the lake from whence the river came; and nearer, upon the
great stream itself, a few boats were idling. In the bend formed by the
point, and quite near the lake, lay a small town, its wooden wharves
and warehouses lining the shore for some distance. Lower down, the
bank rose high, dropping precipitously to the water's edge; and nearer
still, the precipice changed to a steep, but green and wooded bank, and
here, on the summit of the bank, stood Mrs. Costello's cottage.
It was a charming white nest, with a broad verandah all embowered in
green, so placed as to look out upon the river through a screen of
boughs and flowers. If you had seen Mrs. Costello and her daughter
sitting upon the verandah, as they were tolerably sure to be found every
day while summer lasted, you would have owned that it would be hard
to find a prettier picture set in a prettier frame.
This evening they were there alone. Mrs. Costello had her work-table
placed at the end nearest the river, and her rocking-chair beside it.
Some knitting was in her hands, but she could not knit, for her ball of
wool was being idly wound and unwound round her daughter's fingers.
Sitting on a footstool, leaning back against her mother's knee, was this
daughter--a child loved (it could almost be seen at a glance) with an
absorbing, passionate love. A girl of seventeen, just between child and
woman, who seemed to have been a baby but yesterday, and who still,
in the midst of her new womanly grace, kept her caressing baby ways.
Something unusual, not only in degree but in kind, belonged to her
brilliant beauty, and set it off. The marvellous blackness of hair and
eyes was so soft in its depth, the tint of her skin so transparent in its
duskiness, her slight figure so flexible, so exquisite in its outlines, that
it was impossible not to wonder what the type was which produced so
perfect an