The more Derek watched Fawnie, the more he thought of her as the completest human being he had ever known. Her days were a circle of unthinking happiness, from the moment when she put her baby to her breast in the morning, to the time when she warmed her bare feet before the open fire, before she went to bed. She could not write; she could not read. Derek, after a few attempts at lessons, when her docility and utter lack of receptiveness almost put him asleep, gave it up. Why disturb that happy serenity? Her ignorance was astonishing. The king lived "up at a place called England"—some village, doubtless, about the Georgian Bay. She had heard that rich people had no chance of going to Heaven, but "us poor folk can pass right through." Then, remembering that she herself was now rich, she said she didn't mind. The poor might have it all to themselves.
She warned Derek that American hordes were liable at any time to advance on them from Niagara. It was well to be on the watch. This did not worry her in the least, but merely added to the zest of her days. As a matter of fact, she did not worry about anything. She just lived. That alone kept her happy and busy.
She would spend hours sitting in her little gilt chair before the pier glass, arranging, with meticulous care, the convolutions of burnished hair that enfolded her placid brow. She was always cheerful, she was usually good-
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