Outside, beneath the window, quavering sounds rose.  The words were French, Canadian French, scarce distinguishable to an ear trained only in the Old World.  It was an old man singing, the air perhaps that of some old chanson of his own country, sung by villagers long before: 

  “Souvenirs du jeune age
  Sont gravis dans mon coeur,
  Quand je pense au village,
  Revenant du bonheur—­”

The old voice halted, at length resuming, idly:  “Quand je pense—­quand je pense.”  Then after humming the air for a little time it broke out as though in the chorus, bold and strong: 

  “Rendes-moi ma patrie, ou laisses-moi mourir!”

The words came to her with a sudden thrill.  What did they not mean to the alien, to the prisoner, to the outcast, anywhere in all the world!  “Give me back my country, or let me die!”

She stepped to the window and looked down.  An old man, brown, bent and wrinkled, was digging about the shrubbery, perhaps preparing some of the plants for their winter sleep.  He was clad in leather and linsey, and seemed ancient as the hills.  He resumed his song.  Josephine leaned out from the casement and softly joined in the refrain: 

  “Rendez-moi ma patrie, ou laissez-moi mourir!”

[Illustration:  An old man, brown, bent and wrinkled]

The old man dropped his spade. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, and looked all about, around, then at last up.

“Ah! Bon jour, Mademoiselle!” he said, smiling and taking off his old fur cap.  “You spik also my language, Mademoiselle?”

“Mais oui, Monsieur,” rejoined Josephine; and addressed him further in a few sentences on trivial topics.  Then, suddenly resolved, she stepped out of her own room, passed softly down the stair, out through the wide central hall, and so, having encountered no one, joined the ancient man on the lawn.  It chanced he had been at labor directly in front of one of the barred lower windows.  He now left his spade and stepped apart, essaying now a little broken English.

“You seeng my song al_so_, Mademoiselle?  You like the old song from Canadian village, aye?  I seeng heem many tam, me.”

“Who are you?” demanded Josephine.

“Me, I am Eleazar, the ol’ trap’ man.  Summers, I work here for Monsieur Dunwodee.  Verr’ reech man, Monsieur Dunwodee.  He say, ‘Eleazar, you live here, all right.’  When winter come I go back in the heel, trap ze fur-r, Madame, ze cat, ze h’ottaire, ze meenk, sometime ze coon, also ze skonk.  Pret’ soon I’ll go h’out for trap now, Mademoiselle.”

“How long have you been here, Eleazar?” she asked.

“Many year, Mademoiselle.  In these co’ntree perhaps twent’—­thirt’ year, I’ll don’ know.”

“Were you here when the lady lived here?” she demanded of him directly.

He frowned at this suddenly.  “I’ll not know what you mean, Mademoiselle.”