Marie Gourdon | Page 9

how
decided she is. When she has once got an idea into her head, it is hard

to get it out."
"But, my dear sir," said the younger man, "it is such an utterly
ridiculous idea that she has got into her head now."
"Not quite so ridiculous as you think. It is a well-known fact that, about
the year 1754, Ivan McAllister, with a regiment of Scottish soldiers, did
embark for Canada, and landed at Quebec. It is just as well known that
a Scottish regiment was disbanded near Rimouski a few years later, and
we have every reason to believe, from our correspondence with the
Quebec Government, that Ivan McAllister settled in this district."
"I grant you all that, but he is dead long ago."
"Yes, but in all probability he has descendants living. If not, of course
the McAllister male line is extinct, and Lady McAllister's hopes will
receive a terrible blow."
"Poor Lady McAllister! she seems to have taken the thing very much to
heart. I hope she won't be disappointed, but I wish I hadn't come on this
wild-goose chase."
"You have come," said the elder, "so you had better make the best of
it."
"Well, a precious lucky fellow this McAllister will be, if he exists. Why,
Dunmorton Castle with its woods must be worth half a million
sterling."
"Umph!" said the old man. "There is a condition."
"Yes, yes, but not a very dreadful one. Still, I'm not sure that I'd like to
marry Lady Janet myself."
"My young friend, your speculation on the subject is idle, for you will
never get the chance."
"Well, it doesn't matter," said his young friend philosophically, and
with a sentimental air, "my heart is another's."

"Ah, indeed! And who may the un--" (he had nearly said unfortunate,
but corrected himself in time) "fortunate damsel be?"
"Miss Sally Perkins. Yes, she is the girl of my choice. Oh! that I had
never crossed the briny ocean, so far away from Clapham and my Sally.
The Sunday I broke the news of my departure to her I shall never forget.
It was at tea; we were eating shrimps and brown bread and butter. She
had just poured out tea, and had eaten only two shrimps, when I told
her I was going across the broad Atlantic. She could eat no more
shrimps that day. She was overcome."
"Poor Miss Perkins!" said his companion. "Sure devotion could no
further go. She must be very fond of you."
"She is; and I must go back to England."
"You have come, and now I advise you to wait till I return. And, let me
tell you that cabling is very expensive just now. You will only waste
your money for nothing, and besides will be snubbed for your pains by
Lady McAllister."
The speaker who gave this sage advice was a little old man, with a
wizened face like parchment. His keen blue eyes had a shrewd twinkle
in them, and altogether he gave one the impression that he could see
further into a stone wall than most people. He was the confidential
lawyer and intimate friend of Lady McAllister, of Dunmorton Castle in
Fife, and had served the family for more than forty years.
His companion was a young Londoner, somewhat of the Cockney
stamp, by name Thomas Brown, a youth chiefly celebrated for his
immense estimation of his own capabilities.
The two men had arrived a week before by one of the mail steamers,
and had, in accordance with Lady McAllister's commands, visited
nearly every churchyard in the district to discover the name of
McAllister.
Hitherto this had been a thankless task. Now, dispirited and fatigued,

they were leaning upon the rough wooden fence which divided the
burying ground of Father Point church from the road. This church,
dedicated to the Good St. Anne, had been built by the pious efforts of
pilots on the ships plying the River St. Lawrence and the Gulf. It was
intended to be a thankful recognition to their patron saint for their
deliverance from the perils of the deep.
And the church had become a noted place for pilgrimages. Indeed, it
was said that miraculous cures were effected by the agency of a sacred
relic of St. Anne, and many a sufferer was brought here in the hope that,
by performing his devotions at the shrine of St. Anne, he would be
cured of his maladies.
There was something very pathetic about the lonely little churchyard of
Father Point, with its borders of overgrown raspberry bushes straggling
in untidy clusters round the graves. At one end of the ground were five
graves, marked each by plain wooden crosses, painted a dull black,
with the Christian names in white of those who slept beneath. These
rough crosses