features were admirable—­his expression and manner had actually no other fault than that of being too still and languid.  Maurice had brown hair, now a little tossed and disordered (for he had been busy all morning on board the boat), a pair of brown eyes of singular beauty, clear and true, and a tolerable set of features, which, like his manner, varied considerably, according to the humour he happened to be in.  Percy was a man of the world, understood and respected “les convenances,” and never shocked anybody.  Maurice knew nothing about the world, and having no more refined rule of conduct than the simple one of right and wrong, which is, perhaps, too lofty for every-day use, he occasionally blundered in his behaviour to people he did not like.  At present, indeed, for some reason, by no means clear to himself, he returned the Englishman’s glance in anything but a friendly manner.

Bob, the grey pony, trotted down the wharf with his load.  Half-a-dozen idlers rushed forwards to help the two girls out of the carriage, and into the boat.  Bob marched off in charge of a groom; the paddles began to turn, the flags waved, the band struck up, and the boat moved quickly away down, the stream.

Mrs. Bellairs, relieved from her watch, had sunk into a chair placed on deck, and sent her husband to bring the truants.  Maurice remained beside her, and when the rest of the group had a little separated, he bent down and said to her,

“Dear Mrs. Bellairs, don’t scold Lucia if the delay is her fault.  She had some objection to leaving her mother to-day, and even wanted me to excuse her to you.”

“She is a spoiled child,” was the answer.  “But, however, I will forgive her this once for your sake.”

Mr. Percy certainly had not listened, but as certainly he had heard this short dialogue.  He was rather bored; he did not find Cacouna very amusing, and had not yet found even that last resource of idle men—­a woman to flirt with.  He was in the very mood to be tempted by anything that promised the slightest distraction, and there was undeniably something irritating in the idea of there being in the neighbourhood one sole and unapproachable beauty, and of that one being given up by common consent to a boy, a mere Canadian boor!  Of course he could not understand that no one else could have seen this matter in the light he did; that everybody, or nearly everybody, thought of Maurice and Lucia as near neighbours and old playfellows, and no more.  So he felt a very slight stir of indignation, which, in the dearth of other sensations, was not disagreeable.  But then probably the girl was quite over-praised; no beauty at all, in fact.  People in these outlandish places did not appreciate anything beyond prettiness.  “Here she comes.”