“Sir, you are so like a gentleman I once knew.  Was any relation of yours ever in Canada?”

“My father was in Canada,” answered Bertram.

“Oh no,” she said then, very much affected, “the Captain Trevor I knew was killed in the Lake Campaign in 1814.  It must be a mistake, yet you put me in mind of him so strangely.”

Then Bertram protested that she must mean my father, for that he had been a captain in the —­th, and had been stationed at York (as Toronto was then called), but was badly wounded in repulsing the American attack on the Lakes in 1814.

“Not dead?” she asked, with her cheeks getting pale, and a sort of excitement about her, that made Bertram wonder, at the moment, if there could have been any old attachment between them, and he explained how my father was shipped off from England between life and death; and how, when he recovered, he found his uncle dying, and the title and property coming to him.

“And he married!” she said, with a bewildered look; and Bertram told her that he had married Lady Mary Lupton—­as his uncle and father had wished—­and how we four were their children.  I can fancy how kindly and tenderly Bertram would speak when he saw that she was anxious and pained; and she took hold of his hand and held him, and when he said something of mentioning that he had seen her, she cried out with a sort of terror, “Oh no, no, Mr. Trevor, I beg you will not.  Let him think me dead, as I thought him.  And then she drew down Bertram’s tall head to her, and fairly kissed his forehead, adding, “I could not help it, sir; an old woman’s kiss will do you no harm!”

Then he went away.  He never did tell us of the meeting till long after.  He was not a great letter writer, and, besides, he thought my father might not wish to have the flirtations of his youth brought up against him.  So we little knew!

But it seems that the daughter and son-in-law were just as much amazed as Bertram, and when he was gone, and the poor old lady sank into her chair and burst out crying, and as they came and asked who or what this was, she sobbed out, “Your brother Hester!  Oh! so like him—­my husband!” or something to that effect, as unawares.  She wanted to take it back again, but of course Hester would not let her, and made her tell the whole.

It seems that her name was Faith Le Blanc; she was half English, half French-Canadian, and lived in a village in a very unsettled part, where Captain Trevor used to come to hunt, and where he made love to her, and ended by marrying her—­with the knowledge of her family and his brother officers, but not of his family—­just before he was ordered to the Lake frontier.  The war had stirred up the Indians to acts of violence they had not committed for many years, and a tribe of them came down on the village, plundering, burning, killing, and torturing those whom they had known in friendly intercourse.

Faith Le Blanc had once given some milk to a papoose upon its mother’s back, and perhaps for this reason she was spared, but everyone belonging to her was, she believed, destroyed, and she was carried away by the tribe, who wanted to make her one of themselves; and she knew that if she offended them, such horrors as she had seen practised on others would come on her.