not been to Quebec nor Detroit.”
“Oh, that is true enough,” laughingly. “Nor to France.”
Two customers paused at the door, and he said, “Run away, dear.” So she went obediently, watched Mère Lunde at her work awhile, then strolled out to the garden spot, where two hired slaves were working. What should make them so different from white people? Where was Africa and the Guinea Coast that she heard spoken of at the Renauds’? Their lips were so thick and red and their hair so woolly. But they seemed very merry, though she could not understand a word they said; it was a queer patois.
Uncle Gaspard came out presently. “Wouldn’t you like to have a flower garden?” he asked.
“What is here?” She put out her small moccasined toe toward a rather stiff-looking plot of green plants.
“Oh, that is Mère Lunde’s garden of herbs. All manner of things for potage, and the making of sundry remedies in which she has great faith. She will look after that.”
“And must I look after mine?”
“I will come and help you.”
“Oh, then, I will have a garden!” she cried joyfully.
CHAPTER IV – THE SOWING OF A THORN
It was only a short distance to the priest’s house, where the classes met. She ran off by herself. There was quite a throng of girls, though, as with most of the early Western settlers, education was not esteemed the one thing needful for girls. To make good wives was the greatest attainment they could achieve. Still, Father Lemoine labored with perseverance at the tillage of their brains on the two afternoons, and the tillage of their souls on Saturday.
After the two hours were over the restless children had a run up to the Fort. The Guions there were Madame Renaud’s relatives. There was a great thicket of roses that covered the line of palings, and some ladies were having refreshments under a sort of arbor, little cakes and glasses of wine much diluted with water.
“Oh, yes, come in,” exclaimed Sophie as Renée hung back. “You have been here before, you needn’t feel strange.”
That was true enough. Then she had been Sophie’s guest. Now she had a curious hesitation.
Elise was going around courtesying to the ladies, and answering their inquiries. Sophie stooped to play with the cat. An old lady nearest Renée handed her a plate of small spiced cakes.
“You have gone to Monsieur Denys,” she said in a soft tone. “He is – ” raising her eyes in inquiry.
“He is my uncle.” Renée made a graceful little courtesy as she said this, and thanked the lady for the cake.
“I suppose M. Denys means to settle down now,” said another. “It is high time. He ought to marry. There is nothing like a good wife.”
“That will come along,” and another nodded with a mysterious but merry smile. “That is why he is smartening up so. And he has brought some elegant stuffs from Canada to dress her in when he gets her. Madame Aubrey was in yesterday and bought of him a gown for Genevieve. He was showing her some finery that would adorn a bride. I think we shall hear before long.”
They all nodded and glanced sidewise from Elise to Sophie as if they might have something to do with it.
“I must go,” exclaimed Renée, her face flushing.
“No, wait, I am not ready,” said Sophie.
But Renée courtesied to them all and flashed through the rose-hung entrance. She ran swiftly down the street, turned the corner to her own home, and entered the gate. Mère Lunde sat at the doorway knitting.
“Where is Uncle Gaspard?” she cried breathlessly.
“In the shop chaffering. They have found him out, you see, and I hope the good Father of all will send him prosperity,” crossing herself devoutly.
Renée dropped down on the doorstep. Her child’s heart was in a tumult. Had not the house been planned for her, and the pretty room made especially? Where would he put a wife? His small place in the corner of the shop, hung about with curtains, was not fit, since the wife would be Ma’m’selle Barbe, whose pretty white bed had fringed hangings that she had learned to knot while she was in New Orleans.
“Why do you sigh so, little one?”
Renée could not contain her anxiety.
“O ma mère, do you think Uncle Gaspard will marry?” she cried with passionate vehemence. “Will he bring a wife here to live with us?”
“What has put such a thing in thy head, child? Surely the good priest would not venture to suggest that to thee!”
“It was in the Guions’ garden. I went there with the girls. And some one said he had fixed the house for that, and they smiled and I knew who they meant.”
She wiped some tears from her hot cheek.
“Who was it?” the dame asked simply.
“Who should it be but Ma’m’selle Barbe! Oh, I could guess who they thought would come.”
“Ma’m’selle is a pretty girl and sweet tempered. She has a dot, too,” said the placid woman. “But then I think – ”
Renée burst into a passion of tears, and springing up stamped on the ground.
“She shall not come here!” she cried vehemently. “She shall not have Uncle Gaspard! Oh, why did he go clear to Canada for me, why did he bring me here?”
“There was your gran’père – ”
“But he doesn’t want me. No one wants me!”
“Chut! chut! little one. Do not get in such a passion. Surely a child could not help it if it was to be so. But now that I think the matter over, he said I must come, as there would be no one here to look after you, and that your gran’père’s was no place for you. Truly, it is not, if the whispers about him are well grounded. It is said the river pirates gather there. And he goes away for weeks at a time. No, I do not believe M. Denys means to marry.”
“Oh, truly? truly?” Renée flung her arms about the woman’s neck. “Say again you do not believe it.”
Every pulse was throbbing, and her breath came in tangled gasps. The woman’s tranquillity rasped her.
“Nay, he would have planned different. And Ma’m’selle Barbe has young admirers. Ah, you should have seen her at Christmas and Epiphany! She was chosen Queen, she had one of the lucky beans. She would hardly want so grave a man. All young things love pleasure, and it is right; care comes fast enough.”
And now Renée remembered that a young man had spent evenings with his violin, and they two had sat out on the gallery. But she could not divest her mind of the curious sort of suspicion that Barbe cared very much for Uncle Gaspard.
“No, no,” went on Mère Lunde. “People gossip. They often mate two who have no such intention. Dry thy eyes, petite, and laugh again. There has a robin built in the beech near thy window, and now I think there are young ones in the nest. I heard them cry for food. And the father bird goes singing about as if he wanted to tell
