Spinning-wheels, improbable as it sounds to nineteenth century ears, are not yet out of date in this part of the country, and many a table-cloth and fine linen sheet, spun by the women of the district, find their way to the shops of Quebec and Montreal.  A quaint picturesque little village this; the houses are scattered and at uneven distances from each other.  Nearly all of them have large verandahs projecting far out on the roadside, which is covered with uneven planks,—­pitfalls in many places to the benighted traveller.  There are not many houses of importance here, but there is a fine convent, where the young women of the district are sent to be educated.  There is also a school for boys, which adjoins the house of M. le cure.  The shops—­picture it, ye dwellers in Montreal or Quebec!—­are three in number, and are carried on in the co-operative style.  Everything may be bought in them, from a box of matches or a pound of tobacco, to the fine black silk to serve for a Sunday gown for Madame De la Garde, the lady of the Seigneury.

Then, of course, there is the church, for in what village, however small, in Lower Canada is there not a church?  This particular one is not very interesting.  It is very large, and has the inevitable tin roof common to most Canadian churches, a glaringly ugly object to behold on a hot afternoon, taking away by its obtrusiveness the restful feeling one naturally associates with a sacred edifice.  This on the outside; inside, fortunately, all is different, and more like the Gothic architecture of Northern France than one would imagine from the exterior.

Next comes the railway station, a large ugly building painted a neutral brown.  Here everything was very quiet this afternoon, for except at the seasons of the pilgrimages to the church of the Good Saint Anne of Father Point, five miles lower down the line, there is as a rule little traffic going on.

Between Rimouski and Father Point (called by the French Pointe a Pere) is a long dusty road, very flat, and, except where the gulf comes in to the coast in frequent little bays, very uninteresting.

There are few houses on this road, and these are far apart.

At the doorstep of one of these cottages—­a well-kept, clean and neat little dwelling—­sat, this August afternoon, an old woman, spinning busily.  She, although some of her neighbors might be, was not asleep.  Oh, no!  Seldom was Madame McAllister caught napping, save at orthodox hours, between ten p.m. and six a.m.  In spite of her seventy-six years, was she hale and hearty, bright and active.  She was a brisk little body, and had a most intelligent face.  Her eyes were dark and bright with animation, and her coloring was brown and healthy, unlike that of her neighbors of the same age, for, as a rule, French Canadian women of the lower classes lead very hard-working lives, often marrying at sixteen or seventeen, and have scarcely any youth, entering, as they do, on the trials and duties of womanhood before an English girl of the same age has left the schoolroom.