Nor can it be said that his talents were entirely thrown away, for from
time to time some highly polished poem or literary critique would find
its way from the lonely little house on the banks of the St. Lawrence
to a standard French magazine; and old schoolmates of the cure would
shrug their shoulders and say, "Oh, here is a capital thing by Rene
Bois-le-Duc. I thought he was dead and buried long ago."
And he was, indeed, so far as men of his own standing and education were
concerned. Except for an annual visit from his bishop, and occasionally
one from a pilot or sea captain, M. Bois le-Duc seldom heard news of the
outer world. On the whole, his life was not an unhappy one, and certainly
not idle. Most of the hours not spent in parish work were occupied in
perfecting the education of several of the young men in whom he was
interested. With Noel McAllister he took special pains. Whether the
results were satisfactory in this particular case may be doubted; still
he did what he considered best, and left the issue to Providence.
In Marie Gourdon, too, he took a great interest.
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