Dr. Leonard O'Doull seemed to unfold like a carpenter's rule as he got out of the Ford. Seeing Lucien and Georges, he waved to them and came sauntering over. If the cold, nasty drizzle bothered him, he gave not a sign. "How does it go?" he called around the cigar in his mouth.

"It goes well," Lucien answered. "And with you, how does it go?"

"Well enough," his son-in-law said. "Today is Saturday, so I have only a half day to put in at the hospital. I thought I would stop by and say good day before I drove up to town, to Nicole and little Lucien."

"And I am glad to give you good day as well," Lucien said. He glanced toward Georges. They both nodded, ever so slightly. No day on the farm was a half day. Leonard O'Doull was a first-rate fellow. The longer Galtier knew him, the more he thought of him. But one thing O'Doull was not and could never be: a farmer. He did not understand-by the nature of things, he could not understand-how hard the folk of his family by marriage worked.

Georges obliquely referred to that: "With but a half-day's work today, how can it go only 'well enough' for you?"

"Well, for one thing, what does the last day of October mean to you?" O'Doull asked.

Georges scratched his head. So did Lucien Galtier. At last, Lucien said, "It is the even of All Saints Day: all very well, but not a holiday to speak of alongside Easter or the festival of our Lord's birth."

"The Eve of All Saints Day." O'Doull nodded. "We call it Halloween in English. We have a custom of celebrating it with costumes and masks and carved pumpkins and parties-and sometimes pranks, too. It is a jolly time, a time of pretended fright."

"We do not do this here in Quebec," Georges said.

"I know," O'Doull said. "I miss it."

"Halloween." Galtier let the English word roll off his tongue. "I remember, when I was in the Army, the English-speakers had this holiday. But Georges is right: we do not do this in Quebec. I would be amazed if I had thought of it three times in all the years since I came home to my farm."

O'Doull looked unhappy. "Last year, I carved a pumpkin into a jack-o'-lantern"-another English word-"and put it in the window with a candle inside. I won't do that again. All my neighbors thought I was a pagan. It's a good thing Bishop Pascal knows about the custom, or there would have been a lot bigger stink than there was."

"You did not tell me about this then," Lucien said. "Nicole did not speak of it, either."

"I think we both felt foolish about it," O'Doull said. "And it was my own fault."

"I know men who go their whole lives without ever saying those words," Lucien remarked.

"They aren't doctors." His son-in-law spoke with great assurance. "Every doctor in the world knows he has buried patients he should have saved."

"It could be so," Galtier said. "If it is so, why would any man want to become a doctor?"

"Because we also save patients who would be buried without us," Leonard O'Doull said. With what sounded like considerable effort, he changed the subject: "And Tuesday is also a day different here from what it will be in the United States."

"And why is that?" Lucien's acquaintance with American holidays had begun only with the U.S. occupation of Quebec. He knew it remained incomplete.

"Because on Tuesday, we will vote for our president" O'Doull replied, "and, for the first time in longer than I have been alive, I think the election will be very close." He kicked at the dirt. "And here I am, a resident alien in the Republic of Quebec. All I can do is wait to see what my country does."

"How can the Americans not elect Roosevelt again?" Georges asked. "Behind him, they won the war. Without him, who knows what might have happened?"

"You have reason," O'Doull said. "But the war has been over almost three and a half years now. For me, the war was very fortunate, for without it I would not have met Nicole-nor any of you other fine Galtiers, I make haste to add. But many were hurt, and many who now can vote lost loved ones in the fighting. And there has been endless labor strife since. People may vote for Roosevelt, certainly. But then again, they may not. And no one has ever won a third term as president of the United States."

"For whom would you vote, if you were back in the United States?" Galtier inquired.

"I am not really sure," O'Doull said slowly. "With Roosevelt, I know exactly what the country would be getting. If the Socialists had run Debs again, I would also know what we were getting. But with Sinclair, it is harder to tell. He has the energy of a young man, and, from what I can tell from up here in Quebec, a lot of people think he would lead the United States in a new direction. Maybe that would be good. As I say, it is hard to be sure."

"It will be as it will be," Galtier said with a shrug. "However it is, the United States will still be a large country and the Republic of Quebec a small one. I hope you are not unhappy, having left your country to make your home here."

"Unhappy?" O'Doull shook his head. "It was only a lifetime ago that my ancestors left Ireland for the United States. We have pulled up stakes before, the O'Doulls. I have done it again, that's all."

Galtier scratched his head. His ancestors had lived not merely in Quebec but on the ground on which he stood since the seventeenth century. Even having his daughter remove to Riviere-du-Loup seemed an uprooting. He could not comprehend how O'Doull talked about one place as if it were good as the next. For him, that would have been a manifest-indeed, an unimaginable- untruth. His son-in-law took it for granted, as a fact of life.

O'Doull said, "Well, I had better head back to town, or Nicole will wonder what has become of me. I hope you get the chance to come up before too long, before the weather gets too bad." He touched the brim of his fedora, then hurried back to his automobile. It roared to life. He drove away.

"American politics," Georges said with a shrug. "I care very little for American politics."

"Had you said this in 1910, you might have shown some sense," his father replied. "In 1910,1 knew very little of American politics, but they were important to us even then. Saying it now… well, I chaffed you before for senselessness. If American politics were different, would we have had a war? If American politics were different, would we be living in the Republic of Quebec? If American politics were different, would you have the nephew you have?"

"If American politics were different, I would still have a father who lectures me more than the schoolmasters ever did," Georges said. Lucien made an exasperated noise, but then started to laugh. Georges was as he was. The right wife might whip him into shape, but, on the other hand, he was liable to stay as he was even married to the most somber girl in the neighborhood.

Not that Lucien and Marie intended saddling Georges with the most somber girl in the neighborhood. For one thing, Beatrice Rigaud would bring only a small bridal portion with her. And, for another, Lucien did not think it right to do such a thing to his fun-loving younger son. That reason, though, ran in second place behind the other.

Halloween came and went, unremarked, uncelebrated. Galtier wondered whether Dr. Leonard O'Doull carved a pumpkin for his own family. He would not put it in the window this year- he'd made that very plain.

Two days later, the American elections also came and went. They produced no fanfare that reached Galtier's farm. Had Lucien not had an American son-in-law, he would not have known on which day they took place. Eventually, he would find out who won: if the news hadn't got to his farm before then, he'd learn when he went into town.

Marie said, "I have heard that not all American women can vote: it is for them, poor dears, as it was for us in the days before the Republic."