His son inherited his little savings, and lived on at the farm, situated between Father Point and Rimouski, and the McAllisters continued there from father to son up to the year 1877, when my story opens.

Madame McAllister, sitting at the doorstep this summer afternoon was the widow of a Robert McAllister, who had died two years ago, leaving one son, a promising young man of three-and-twenty.  Just now she was waiting for the home-coming of her son Noel, who had been absent on a long fishing expedition to the north shore of the St. Lawrence.

Suddenly the old lady lifted her head, for her quick ear heard the sound of an approaching footstep.  She rose hurriedly, as her son drew near, and cried out in her pretty French voice:  “Oh, Noel, my son, is that you?—­is it indeed you?  How long you have been away! and, oh! how I have missed you!  Noel, my son, it is good to see you again.”

“Yes, my mother, it is I. We landed at Father Point early this morning.  We have had such good sport, and very hard work.  I am hungry, though, my mother, for the walk up to Rimouski gave me an appetite.”

“Yes, my son, you must be.  For three days, at this hour I have had a meal prepared for you, and yet you did not come.  I was beginning to get anxious, though the Gulf is like glass, and the cure said there were no signs of a storm.  To-night also your supper awaits you, so come in.”

The old lady led the way into the house, which was small, but exquisitely neat and well kept.  The first apartment, which opened from a tiny hall, served as sitting and dining room.  Like most other French Canadian houses, Madame McAllister’s was carpeted in all the rooms with a rag carpet of three colors—­red, white and blue.  This carpeting is extensively woven by the good nuns at Rimouski Convent, and is pretty and effective, besides having the advantage of being cheap.

On the walls of Madame McAllister’s sitting room hung the inevitable pictures of the Good St. Anne, the mother of the Blessed Virgin, and of Pope Pius IX.  Indeed, it would be difficult to find a house in the district which did not possess one or more of these engravings.

Through a half-opened door could be seen a glimpse of madame’s bedroom—­a dainty interior.  The wooden floor was snowy white, with here and there a bright-colored mat spread on it; the brown roughly-hewn bedstead was covered with a quilt of palest pink and blue patchwork, the patient result of the old lady’s years of industrious toil.

Madame McAllister busied herself getting supper ready, all the while talking to her son.

“Well, Noel, my son, what did you get this time?  I trust a great quantity.”

“Yes, my mother, we did very well.  The first day we captured a fine porpoise, and after that six large seals.”

“Ah! that was good,” replied madame.

Both mother and son spoke French in the Lower Canadian patois, rather puzzling to English ears trained to understand only Parisian French.  For, not only is the pronunciation different, but several Scotch words are used by the inhabitants of this district, and one puzzles hopelessly over their derivation, until remembering the origin of the people.