"He was great--she was an angel, P'tite Louison!" "Attends! what love--what history--what passion!--the perfect P'tite Louison!" cried Emile, the youngest, the most sentimental.

"Ah, Moliere!" he added, as if calling on the master to rise and sing the glories of this daughter of romance.
Isidore's tale was after this fashion: "I ver' well remember the first of it; and the last of it--who can tell?
He was an actor--oh, so droll, that! Tall, ver' smart, and he play in theatre at Montreal.

It is in the winter.

P'tite Louison visit Montreal.
She walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she slip on the snow and fall.

Out from a door with a jomp come M'sieu' Hadrian, and pick her up.
And when he see the purty face of P'tite Louison, his eyes go all fire, and he clasp her hand to his breast.
"'Ma'm'selle, Ma'm'selle,' he say, 'we must meet again!' "She thank him and hurry away queeck.