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Updated: May 8, 2025
'We will have tea together here, and when the wind goes down, old Antoine shall go back with you. Antoine was a French wood-cutter, whose cabin clung half-way down the fort-hill like a swallow's nest. Jeannette's eyes sparkled; I had never invited her before; in an instant she had turned the day into a high festival.
'You cannot go home now, Jeannette, I said, looking out through the little west window; our cottage stood back on the hill, and from this side window we could see the Straits, going down toward far Waugoschance; the steep fort-hill outside the wall; the long meadow, once an Indian burial-place, below; and beyond on the beach the row of cabins inhabited by the French fishermen, one of them the home of my pupil.
She climbed the stone-wall on the ridge behind her cabin, took an Indian trail through the grass in summer, or struck across on the snow-crust in winter, ran up the steep side of the fort-hill like a wild chamois, and came into the garrison enclosure with a careless nod to the admiring sentinel, as she passed under the rear entrance.
The summer came, sails whitened the blue straits again, steamers stopped for an hour or two at the island docks, and the summer travellers rushed ashore to buy 'Indian curiosities, made by the nuns in Montreal, or to climb breathlessly up the steep fort-hill to see the pride and panoply of war.
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