Five days later, the doctor came back from Rimouski. Nancy, on the platform of the station, waited eagerly until he came in sight. Then she stepped back and hid her face. “It was all so like his life,” her father said, when they sat together in his room, that night; “brave and quiet and full of thought for us all. Once he rallied for a few hours, and we felt there was hope. At the very last, he gave me this for you. He said you would understand.” And the doctor laid in Nancy’s palm a tiny figure of the Good Sainte Anne, the exact duplicate of her own, save that its silver base bore the arms of St. Jacques and, beneath, two plain initials: N and H.
A week later, Nancy rose from her knees beside her father’s open trunk, and stood staring down into the courtyard. Wrapped to his ears, the old habitant still sat on his block in the corner, peeling potatoes without end. Far above his head, a stray shaft of sunshine gilded the gray wall and reminded Nancy of her resolution to take a final walk, that morning.
It was almost with a feeling of relief that Nancy saw the approaching end of her stay at The Maple Leaf. The past days had held some of the saddest hours she had ever known. Till then, she had never realized how the bright, brave personality of the sturdy little Frenchman had pervaded the place, how acutely she could mourn for a man of whom, less than six weeks before, she had never even heard. Forget him she could not. She and Brock talked of him by the hour, now laughing over the merry days they had spent together, then giving up to the sudden wave of loneliness which swept over them at the thought of the nevermore that separated them from their good comrade. As yet, it was too soon for them to take comfort from the doctor’s words, that the swift passing of Adolphe St. Jacques had been but the merciful forestalling of a pitiful, lingering death in life.
To one day, Nancy never made any allusion. That was the day she had spent alone, at the shrine of the Good Sainte Anne.
Now, as she stood before her mirror, fastening on her hat, her glance fell to the little figure of the good saint and, taking it up, she looked long at the symbols graven on its base. She hesitated. Then she gently slid it into the breast pocket of her coat. In loyalty to St. Jacques, it still should be her companion. His eyes now, in the clearer light, could see what had before been hidden from them. Adolphe St. Jacques was too unselfishly loyal to fail to understand the nature of the only love she could ever have given him and, understanding, to reject it.
Inside the city wall, the early snow had vanished; but it still lay white over the Cove Fields, over the ruins of the old French fortifications, and over the plains beyond. Beyond Saint Sauveur, the hills were blue in the sunshine, and the light wind that swept in from their snowy caps, was crisp and full of ozone. Nancy had left The Maple Leaf with slow step and drooping head; she went tramping along the Grand Allée as if the world were all before her, to be had for the mere sake of asking. Then, as she turned again and halted by the Wolfe monument, her buoyant mood forsook her. That simple shaft marked the end of one who died, victorious. It spoke no word of those others, Frenchmen, brave, true-hearted fellows who fell there in their hour of defeat. And not one of them was braver, more true-hearted than little Adolphe St. Jacques.
“Oh, Miss Howard.”
Impatiently she raised her head from the cold iron palings. Barth was standing close at her side. Even as she nodded to him, she felt a sudden shrinking from his inevitable question as to the cause for her tears. To her surprise, no question came.
“After all, he was a wonderfully good little fellow,” Barth said simply.
She nodded, without speaking. Barth let full five minutes pass, before he spoke again.
“I saw you go by the house,” he said then. “I fancied you would come out here. I knew you liked the place.”
“Yes.”
“And so I followed you. I wanted to see you, if I could. Miss Howard, I shall miss you.”
“I am glad of that. It would be dreary to feel that no one mourned for our departure.”
“Oh, yes,” Barth agreed. “Shall we go on for a little walk?”
With one last look at the shaft and its deathless words, Nancy turned and followed him back to the Grand Allée, back from the place of the dead to the haunts of the living.
“Do you go, to-morrow?” Barth asked, after another pause.
“To-morrow noon.”
“It is going to be very lonely,” he said.
“I am glad,” she repeated.
Even to Barth’s conservative mind, the conversation did not appear to be making much progress. He turned and peered into Nancy’s thoughtful face.
“Oh, Miss Howard, would you be willing to give me your address?” he asked abruptly.
“Of course, if you wish it,” she assented cordially.
“Rather! I might call on you, you know, if I ever went to The States.”
“That would be delightful. So you think you will come across the border?”
“Perhaps. I have often wondered, just lately, you know, what I would think of The States. What do you think?”
“That I love them,” Nancy said loyally.
“Oh, yes. But what do you think that I would think?”
Nancy laughed outright, as she met his anxious eyes.
“That it is never safe to predict. I advise you to come and see for yourself.”
Barth’s face cleared.
“Thank you, you know. And the address?”
“I haven’t any cards here.”
“Oh, but I have.” And Barth hastily took out his cardcase. Then, with infinite difficulty, he focussed upon a card the tip of the little gold pencil that dangled from his watchchain.
Nancy dictated the address.............