Numbersoftourists，ofanationalitythatshoweditselfsuperiortoeverydistinctionofrace，werestrollingvaguelyandnotalwaysquitehappilyabout；buttheymadenoimpressionontheproperlocalcharacter，andtheairthroughoutthemorningwasfullofthesentimentofSundayinaCatholiccity。Therewastheapparentlymeaninglessjanglingofbells，withprofoundhushesbetween，andthenmorejubilantjangling，andthendeepersilence；therewasthedevouttroopingofthecrowdstothechurches；andtherewasthebeginningofthelongafternoon’sloungingandamusementwithwhichthepeopleofthatfaithrewardtheirmorning’sdevotion。Littlestandsforthesaleofknottyapplesandchoke-cherriesandcakesandcidersprangmagicallyintoexistenceafterservice，andpeoplewerealreadyeatinganddrinkingatthem。Thecarriage-driversresumedtheirchaseofthetourists，andtheunvoicefulstirofthenewweekhadbegunagain。Quebec，infact，isbutapantomimicreproductionofFrance；itisasiftwocenturiesinanewland，amidsttheprimevalsilencesofnatureandthelonghushoftheNorthernwinters，hadstilledthetonguesofthelivelyfolkandmadethemtaciturnasweofagraverrace。Theyhavekepttheancestralvivacityofmanner；theeleganceoftheshrugisintact；thetalkinghandstakepartindialogue；theagitatedpersonwillhaveitsshareofexpression。Buttheloudandeagertoneiswanting，andtheirdumbshowmystifiesthebeholderalmostasmuchastheSouthernarchitectureundertheslantingNorthernsun。ItisnotAmerica；ifitisnotFrance，whatisit？
OfthemanybeautifulthingstoseeintheneighborhoodofQuebec，ourwedding-journeyerswereindoubtonwhichtobestowtheironepreciousafternoon。ShoulditbeLorette，withitscataractanditsremnantofbleachedandfadingHurons，ortheIsleofOrleanswithitsfertilefarmsanditsprimitivepeasantlife，orMontmorenci，withtheunrivaledfallandthelongdrivethroughthebeautifulvillageofBeauport？Isabelchosethelast，becauseBasilhadbeentherebefore，andithadtoitthepoetryofthewastedyearsinwhichshedidnotknowhim。Shehadpossessedherselfofthejournalofhisearlytravels，amongtheotherportionsandparcelsrecoverablefromthedreadfulpast，andfromtimetotimeonthisjourneyshehadreadhimpassagesoutofit，withmingledsentimentandirony，and，whethershewasmockingoradmiring，equallytohisconfusion。Now，astheysmoothlybowledawayfromthecity，shemadehimlistentowhathehadwrittenofthesameexcursionlongago。
Itwas，tobesure，asadfarragoofsentimentaboutthevillageandtheruralsights，andespeciallyagirltossinghayinthefield。Yetithadtouchesofnatureandreality，andBasilcouldnotutterlydespisehimselfforhavingwrittenit。“Yes，“hesaid，“lifewasthenathingtobeputintoprettyperiods；nowit’ssomethingthathasrisksandaverages，andmaybeinsured。“
Therewasregret，fanciedorexpressed，inhistone，thatmadehersigh，“Ah！ifI’donlyhadalittlemoremoney，youmighthavedevotedyourselftoliterature；“forshewasatrueBostonianinherhonorofourpoorcraft。
“O，you’renotgreatlytoblame，“answeredherhusband，“andIforgiveyouthelittlewrongyou’vedoneme。IwasquitswiththeMuse，atanyrate，youknow，beforeweweremarried；andI’mverywellsatisfiedtobegoingbacktomyapplicationsandpoliciesto-morrow。“