R. I. P."
In his later days Ivan McAllister had, under the influence of the cure of
Rimouski, become a devout Roman Catholic.
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.
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