Here he was to forget and build anew; France, his mother, was dead, and here was his foster-mother, rugged and brave, opening her arms to him.

New France! Ah, well, there was here, somewhere, a niche for him, and the man in him vowed to fill it.

He did not yet say "With God's help." It was early, and the sting of his misfortune still stirred the poison in his soul.
"New France, Paul," cried the poet at his side.

The newness and strangeness of the scene had filled the poet's face with animation.

No problems beset his buoyant soul.
"Yes, lad; this is New France.