At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed commander-in-chief of all the British forces in America.  He was a man of ability, and a skilful soldier.  A plan was now formed for accomplishing that object, which had so long been the darling wish of the New Englanders, and which their fathers had so many times attempted.  This was the conquest of Canada.

Three separate armies were to enter Canada, from different quarters.  One of the three, commanded by General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake Ontario, and proceed to Montreal.  The second, at the head of which was Sir Jeffrey Amherst himself, was destined to reach the River St. Lawrence, by the way of Lake Champlain, and then go down the river to meet the third army.  This last, led by General Wolfe, was to enter the St. Lawrence from the sea, and ascend the river to Quebec.  It is to Wolfe and his army that England owes one of the most splendid triumphs, ever written in her history.

Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and told how Wolfe led his soldiers up a rugged and lofty precipice, that rose from the shore of the river to the plain on which the city stood.  This bold adventure was achieved in the darkness of night.  At day-break, tidings were carried to the Marquis de Montcalm, that the English army was waiting to give him battle on the plains of Abraham.  This brave French general ordered his drums to strike up, and immediately marched to encounter Wolfe.

He marched to his own death.  The battle was the most fierce and terrible, that had ever been fought in America.  General Wolfe was at the head of his soldiers, and while encouraging them onward, received a mortal wound.  He reclined against a stone, in the agonies of death; but it seemed as if his spirit could not pass away, while the fight yet raged so doubtfully.  Suddenly, a shout came pealing across the battle-field—­“They flee! they flee!” and, for a moment, Wolfe lifted his languid head.  “Who flee?” he inquired.  “The French,” replied an officer.  “Then I die satisfied!” said Wolfe, and expired in the arms of victory.

“If ever a warrior’s death were glorious, Wolfe’s was so!” said Grandfather; and his eye kindled, though he was a man of peaceful thoughts, and gentle spirit.  “His life-blood streamed to baptize the soil which he had added to the dominion of Britain!  His dying breath was mingled with his army’s shout of victory!”

“Oh, it was a good death to die!” cried Charley, with glistening eyes.  “Was it not a good death, Laurence?”

Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned within him, as the picture of Wolfe, dying on the blood-stained field of victory, arose to his imagination; and yet, he had a deep inward consciousness, that, after all, there was a truer glory than could thus be won.

“There were other battles in Canada, after Wolfe’s victory,” resumed Grandfather; “but we may consider the Old French War as having terminated with this great event.  The treaty of peace, however, was not signed until 1763.  The terms of the treaty were very disadvantageous to the French; for all Canada, and all Acadia, and the island of Cape Breton, in short, all the territories that France and England had been fighting about, for nearly a hundred years—­were surrendered to the English.”