Marie Gourdon | Page 7

gold, parting every here and there, and showing glimpses of clear
translucent blue beyond.
And how quickly the whole panorama changes as the sun sinks to his
bed in the sea. Anon everything was golden and amethystine, like a
foreshadowing of the splendor of the New Jerusalem. A moment later
and all is a deep vivid crimson, flooding the scene with its rich radiance

and casting into shade even the tints of yon tall sumach tree in the
prime of its early autumn coloring. The old grey slate boulders on the
beach are illumined by it, and stand out in prominence from the yellow
sands.
All is still to-night, save for the beating of the waves against the rocks,
or ever and anon the sound of a gun fired from the distant light-house.
The light-house of Father Point stands out clear and distinct on a long
neck of rocky land running into the St. Lawrence.
All is still. But hark! A song comes faintly, carried on the evening
breeze, and presently it grows clearer, louder, more distinct.
The words now can be heard plainly. They are those of that old French
Canadian song so familiar to all dwellers in the Province of Quebec:
"A la claire fontaine, M'en allant promener, J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle
Que je me suis baigné. Il y a longtemps que je t'aime Jamais je ne
t'oublierai."
The voice was tuneful, strong, and full and clear, though lacking in
cultivation. It was that of a girl, who was sitting under the shadow of a
large boulder on the beach. She seemed about eighteen, though, in the
uncertain wavering light of the sunset, it was impossible to distinguish
her features clearly.
Her gown was of simple pink cotton, and on her head she wore a large
peaked straw hat, which gave her a quaint old-world appearance.
Her brown hair had escaped from beneath this large head-gear, and
blew about in pretty, untidy curls round her neck and shoulders. In her
hand was a roll of music, which she had just brought from the church,
where she had been practising for the morrow's mass.
The girl was Marie Gourdon, only daughter of old Jean Baptiste
Gourdon, fisherman of Father Point. As far as the educational
advantages of Father Point and Rimouski could take her Marie had

gone, but that was not saying much. Her father was fairly well-to-do for
that part of the world, and had sent her, at an early age, to the convent
of Rimouski. There she was brought up under the careful training of
Mother Annette, the superioress, and received enough musical
instruction to enable her to act as organist at the Father Point church,
and to direct the choir at Grand Mass.
Marie Gourdon was rather a lonely girl, although she had more outside
interests than many of her age. She had few companions, for most of
the young girls of the district obtained situations in Quebec, or some of
the large towns, finding the dullness of Father Point insupportable. Her
father and brother had this summer been on long fishing expeditions,
one taking them even so far as the Island of Anticosti, so that Marie
was left much to her own devices. Noël McAllister, it is true, was often
here, but neither his mother nor M. Bois-le-Duc seemed to like to see
him in Marie Gourdon's society.
This evening she had been thinking over these things after
choir-practice. Lately she had found time pass very slowly. Her father
and brother had come home early in the evening, but went off directly
after supper to skin the seals, and she would see no more of them that
night. In all probability in a few days they would go on another
expedition.
A quick footstep crunching the sand and a voice saying, "Good evening,
Marie," made the girl turn round to see Noël McAllister standing beside
her.
She sprang to her feet and exclaimed, with a certain glad ring in her
voice:
"Oh! Noël, is that you? I am so pleased you are back."
"Yes, Marie, it is I, not my ghost, though you look as if you had seen
one. And are you pleased to see me?"
"Of course I am. I think you need scarcely ask that question."

"And what have you been doing, my dear one, since I have been
away?"
"Oh! Noël, the time has seemed so long, so wearisome. There has been
no one here to speak to, except for a week or two when Eugène Lacroix
came home for his holidays. I used to watch him paint, and he talked to
me about his work at Laval."
"Marie, I don't like Eugène Lacroix. He is stupid, conceited,
impractical."
"Indeed, I think you are mistaken. M. Bois-le-Duc calls him a genius.
Eugène, too,