The meal over, Jeannette sang her songs, sitting on the rug before the
fire,--Le Beau Voyageur, Les Neiges de la Cloche, ballads in Canadian
patois sung to minor airs brought over from France two hundred years
before.

The surgeon sat in the shade of the chimney-piece, his face shaded by
his hand, and I could not discover whether he saw anything to admire
in my protegee, until, standing in the centre of the room, she
gave as 'Ivry' in glorious style. Beautiful she looked as she rolled
out the lines,--

'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,--
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,--
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.'

Rodney sat in the full light now, and I secretly triumphed in his rapt
attention.

'Something else, Jeannette,' I said in the pride of my heart. Instead
of repeating anything I had taught her, she began in French:--

'"Marie, enfant, quitte l'ouvrage,
Voici l'etoille du berger."
--"Ma mere, un enfant du village
Languit captif chez l'etranger;
Pris sur mer, loin de sa patrie,
Il c'est rendu,--mais le dernier."
File, file, pauvre Marie,
Pour secourir le prisonnier;