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We feel pledged, by the rules of honorable authorship, to satisfy any curiosity which may exist, respecting the remaining characters of our narrative; and if the reader’s interest is already wearied, he is at liberty to omit this brief, concluding paragraph.

De Valette embarked at Newfoundland, in a vessel bound for some English port, which was driven by stress of weather, on the Irish coast.  The crew barely escaped with their lives, and the young Frenchman, by a freak of fortune, was thrown upon the hospitality of a gentleman, who cultivated an hereditary estate in the vicinity.  The kind urgency of his host could not be resisted; and the attractions of an only child bade fair to heal the wounds which Lucie’s coldness had inflicted.  His stay was protracted from day to day; and in short with the usual constancy of despairing lovers,—­he soon learned to think the fair daughter of the “emerald isle” even more charming than the dark-eyed maiden of his own sunny clime.  Her smiles were certainly more encouraging; and, at the end of a few weeks, De Valette led her to the bridal altar.

La Tour was disappointed in his application to Sir David Kirk, and, for a time, his tide of fortune seemed entirely to have ebbed.  He again visited Boston, but did not meet with a very cordial reception, though a few merchants entrusted him with a considerable sum of money, on some private speculation.  This he disposed of, in his own way, and never took the trouble to render any account, or make the least restitution to the owners.  The death of D’Aulney, however, which happened in the course of a few years, reversed his prospects, and reinstated him in all his possessions.  He was firmly established in the sole government of Acadia; and, soon after, he contracted a second marriage with the object of his early affection,—­the still beautiful widow of M. d’Aulney.  With no rival to dispute his authority, his remaining life was passed in tranquillity; the colony, relieved from strife and contention, began to flourish, and his descendants for many years enjoyed their inheritance unmolested.

Arthur Stanhope, a few months after his union with Lucie, was appointed the agent of some public business, which required a voyage to Pemaquid.  The recollection of father Gilbert forcibly recurred to him, when he found himself so near the shores of Mount Desart,—­a place which the priest had frequented, probably for its very loneliness, or perhaps, from some peculiar associations.  It was possible he might again find him there, or hear some tidings which would relieve Lucie’s anxiety respecting him; and, in this hope, he one day sought its sequestered shades.  The sun was declining, when he moored his little bark, and proceeded alone through the same path, which he remembered, on a former occasion, to have trodden.  The open plain soon burst upon his view; and, to his surprise, the prostrate wooden cross was again erected