Christopher J. Molitor


st Chrissy and her father were standing on the south shore of the river with Colonel By, who was superintending a large staff of workmen engaged in the construction of the Rideau Canal. On the eastern point was a pretty villa built of boulders, and surrounded with a low, wide veranda, and which, when completed, was designed to be the residence of the gallant Colonel. Surrounding it were the tents of the officers of two companies of Sappers and Miners, whose smart uniforms added to the picturesqueness of the scene. On the adjacent cliff three stone barracks were being built. "It is a magnificent site—a magnificent site!" said the Colonel, then dreamily added: "It would not surprise me to see a fortress like the Castle St. Louis on that bluff some day." A busy scene presented itself between the two cliffs, where scores of men with picks, shovels, hand-drills, wheel-barrows, and stone drays, were busily excavating. Stone-masons, with their mallets and chisels, were compelled to stop every few minutes to wipe the perspiration from their brows with their shirt-sleeves. Irish and Scotch they were mostly, their coarse homespun shirts contrasting with the neat undress uniform of the officers who were supervising the building of the barracks and assisting in the works. Two men, with muskets, from one of the back settlements then accosted the Chief in an excited state of mind, and asked if it were another American invasion that they were preparing for. "We heard the sound of your cannon," they said, "miles away, and we followed in the direction from whence the sound came, and when we saw the soldiers and the men engaged on the defences we were convinced that we had good grounds for our fears." The Colonel enjoyed the joke immensely, as did the workmen, who had a hearty laugh at the expense of the backwoodsmen. Mr. MacKay, the contractor, observing the embarrassment of the poor fellows, said: "I trust that our men always will be as ready to take up arms in defence of their count




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Could it be possible that the cripple before her was George—her long-lost George? A smile of recognition crossed Morrison's face as he caught sight of Chrissy. She uttered a scream

of delight—"O George! George! Is it you? is it you?" For a time the two were too overcome to be able to utter a word. The expression of peace and joy and hope which Chrissy possessed eve

n as a girl in the old convent days was more noticeable now, not only in her face but in her whole manner. It was the same sweet, modest face, the same ear

nest love-lit eyes which had so long reigned in George's heart, kindling within him the resignation and hope which had sustained him through years of suffering, that greeted him as he st

ood on the beach. What did it matter to them that the c

urious gaze of scores of

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