There was much to interest even such a cultivated man as M. Bois-le-Duc in Marie Gourdon.  She had inherited from her mother a remarkable talent for music, such as many of the French Canadians have strongly developed.  Her soprano voice was powerful, clear and flexible, and her ear was very correct.  The good cure judged that, if given proper training, and the advantages Paris alone could afford, the little Canadian girl might become an artist of the first rank.  But how send her to Paris?  The thing seemed impossible.  Where was the money to come from?  True, M. le cure had been well paid for his last review in the Catholic Journal, but he had exhausted this money in sending Eugene Lacroix, another protege, to Laval for a twelvemonth.  Alas now his treasury was empty; his cupboard was bare!

This evening he was thinking all these matters over, when suddenly he was roused from his meditations by the voice of Julie, his old housekeeper, calling out: 

“M. le cure, there is a gentleman asking for you at the door.”

“For me, Julie, at this hour?  Who is he?”

“Not a Frenchman, that is very certain, monsieur; I should think not, indeed; his accent is execrable;” and the good woman lifted her hands with a gesture of despair.

“Could you not understand what he wanted?” asked the priest.

“No, monsieur; the only word I could make out was ‘la coore,’ so I thought that might mean you.”

“Well, well,” said M. Bois-le-Duc, laughing, “the best thing is for me to see him myself.”

He went out into the tiny dark passage where Mr. Webster and his clerk were standing.

“Good-evening,” he said, in his polished courtly manner.  “I must apologize for having kept you waiting so long.  Pray come into my study.  I fear Julie was somewhat brusque and rude to you.  She is a good soul, though.  Please be seated, gentlemen.”

“M. la coore,” said Webster, struggling hard with his one French word, and breaking down lamentably.

“I can speak English,” said the priest, “if that will help you.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Webster, drawing a deep sigh of relief; “thank Heaven for that.”

M. le cure smiled benignly.

“Well, sir,” went on the lawyer, “I’ve come to ask you whether you knew a family called McAllister, supposed to be living in these parts.”

“McAllister!  Why, of course I do.  I have known them for years.”

“Oh, my good sir, you have relieved my mind of a heavy burden.  For the last three weeks my clerk and I have been searching every churchyard round about here for the name, and have hitherto failed to find it.  To-night the idea entered my head that you might know.”

“My head, if you please,” murmured young Brown sotto voce.

“I shall be most happy to be of any service to you,” said M. Bois-le-Duc.  “Madame McAllister, with her son Noel, lives about three miles down the road.  You cannot mistake the cottage.  It is a plain white one with a red-tiled roof—­the only red-roofed cottage on the road.”