Beaeve EON NE 
A Romance of the Restigouche 
BY F. L. HARDING 
ILLUSTRATED BY JEANETTE WETHERALD 
HALL we starve 
here, petite ché- 
rie, shall we 
starve like cat- 
tle all alone and 
not resist? Le 
Bon Dieu did 
not give life to 
lose it ‘as a 
white-hearted 
I can get him... the moose 

hare. 
. . . he flounders, so—I get him in the 
snow gullies and to-night our joli mai- 
son, Vivienne, once more will know the 
grand smell of the fat steak. Come, 
petite reine, let me go. Hold!” 
Broad and big, Gaspard d’Autigne, 
in caribou-hide moccasins, jersey, and 
wool trousers, swung from the clearing 
into the curtain of the forest. His rifle 
was tucked under his left arm, for his 
right was held aloft, fn adieu to Vivi- 
enne, the pretty village bride of the 
autumn days. 
. Lhe clouds hemmed in the earth with 
a frowning threat; the air tingled with 
extreme cold; the snow reached up the 
tree trunks that cracked with frost like 
fireworks. Though little past noon, 
the sun was giving up its attempt to 
pierce the sullen sky. The great rugged 
youth, in the full bloom of superb man- 
hood, pulled his skin cap about his ears 
and plodded on the fluffy snow up the 
hillside, his cross-gutted snowshoes 
swinging the long stride of the voy- 
ageur. 
The crude yet compact arrangement 
of hewn tree-trunks that meant home 
and shelter to these wilderness invaders, 
lay in an open cleared ground. The 
nearest neighbor might be reached in 
four hours’ walking, the railroad in a 
day, the great river in a short while, 
for it curved about the opposite base of 
the hill at whose foot the cabin snug- 
gled among the birches and hemlocks, 
now tesselated with pompons and 
fringes of driven snow. 
Vivienne turned back toward the 
door, sick at heart, her fair features 
drawn in hunger and foreboding. Their 
deer-meat had been all taken to the 
open fire to the last piece and eaten 
sparingly. Their cache of dried hams 
and shoulders had been cleanly rifled 
by the brazen wolf-pack, that braved 
the man as never before, for the winter 
had been cruel. ‘Now Primal Necessity 
walked with them, step for step. 
To leave her, with the dull storm 
again drawing in—it was a hard strug- 
gle for Gaspard the fond; but to be left 
was even harder. The high spirit that 
was her legacy from that unfortunate 
Marquis de Montrouge, noble of France, 
who sought to shake off a persecuting 
fortune in the new world, rebelled 
against her woman’s limitations. She 
should run at his side, shoulder to 
shoulder, she and her Gaspard! “The 
Blessed Virgin follow his every step,” 
she murmured, entering the massive 
doorway as the thin obscuring sheets of 
snow recommenced. “La neige,’ she 
sighed, “toujours la neige.” 
Hour to hour, Vivienne crouched by 
the wavering flame upon the rude 
hearth, adding fagots when forced to 
resuscitate the unsteady blaze. Then 
hour after hour she slept. Dreams of 
her father’s house, the Eglise, the rare 
ride over to Metapedia for store- 
fixings, disquieted her fitful rest. 
