for to-morrow will be a gay day,” said Gaspard, kissing her. “Mère, see that she is well tucked in, for the night is cold.”
Alas! for all the precaution the little girl woke up with a strange hot feeling in her throat, and her head was heavy and seemed twice as large as ordinary. She tried to raise it, but everything in the room swam round. She gave a faint cry, but no one heard, for Mère Lunde was busy among pans and pots.
“Come, little laggard!” cried a cheery voice. “The children are here with their étrennes.”
These were little cakes with dried fruit dipped in maple syrup and thus coated over. The children carried them about to each other on Christmas morning.
The only answer was a low moan. Uncle Gaspard leaned over the small bed.
“Renée, Renée, what is it?” He raised her in his arms and was startled at her flushed face, her dulled eyes, her hot hands.
“O mère,” he cried. “Come, the little one is very ill.”
They looked at her, but she did not seem to know them, and moaned pitifully. “Something must be done. She has taken cold, I think, and has a hot fever.”
Very few people called in a doctor in those days. Indeed, it would have been difficult to find him this morning. There were many excellent home-made remedies that all housewives put up in the autumn, compounded of roots and barks, some of them learned from the Indian women.
“Poor child, poor petite, yes, she must be attended to at once. Get thy breakfast, m’sieu, while I make some comfort and aid for her. Yes, it is a fever.”
“But what shall I do for her?”
“Get me some ears of corn, good big ones.”
“And leave her?” aghast at the thought.
“Thou wilt not cure her by staring at her. She can take no harm for a few moments.”
There was always a big kettle standing on the coals with four short legs holding it up. Mère Lunde raked out the ashes and pushed the flaming brands under it. Gaspard exhumed an armful of corn from a big box in the shop.
“Drop them in,” she said. “A dozen or so.”
“Oh, yes, I know now.” He nodded in a satisfied fashion, for he had faith in the remedy.
Soon the water bubbled up and the fragrance of the steaming corn diffused itself about the room. Mère Lunde went to the bed and put a thick blanket under the child. Then the ears were laid about her and she was rolled up like a mummy. The woman raised her head a trifle and forced a potion down her throat that almost strangled her. Spreading blankets over her, she tucked her in securely, and, patting the top one, meant for love to the child, she turned away.
“Well people must eat for strength, and Christmas day is no time for fasting. Come.”
But Gaspard Denys was in no mood for eating. He had never thought of Renée being ill. He knew of some children who had died, and there was Monsieur Laclede who looked strong enough to live to a hundred years, who had gone out of life with a fever. Oh, he could not give up his little girl!
“Is that all?” he asked presently.
Mère Lunde understood.
“There’s no use running in and out like the mill stream, for it’s the flour that is getting ground,” she said sententiously. “Wait a bit.”
He had large patience with most events of life, but here was breathless with suspense. If she had been drooping for days, but she was so merry last night.
Rosalie came to the door. The children were going to Chouteau pond to skate and slide. Would not Renée join them?
“Alas! Renée was very ill.”
“But she must get better by to-morrow,” nodding hopefully and laughing.
After that Grandpère Freneau came up, which startled Gaspard, for he had never deigned to visit his grandchild. He was sober and comparatively well dressed, and had a little gift for her, a curious inlaid box, with a trinket a girl might like. She would be well again in a few days. Children were tough and sturdy, it was the old people who had to think about ills. As for him, he was strong enough yet.
Then he made a clumsy sort of bow and retreated.
“I hope it will bring no bad luck,” exclaimed Mère Lunde. “But he has not a good name. I should throw the gift into the fire!”
“I dare say it is of no great value.” He shook the box. “Some bits of silver with which he salves his conscience.”
Mère Lunde crossed herself.
He put it away in his desk. He was not superstitious, but he wished it had not happened this morning.
It was quite late, but he unbarred his shop door. There was no trade now. The fall business had lasted longer than usual on account of the fine, open weather. When the cold once set in it often lasted steadily for three months. But there was plenty of pleasure. The regular trappers had gone off, but hunting parties often sallied out and returned laden with game.
Mère Lunde stole in to look at her patient and shook her head, threw some more ears of corn in the kettle and answered the calls that came in a joyous mood and left in sorrow. For people were very sympathetic in those days, and cares were shared in true neighborly fashion.
Presently there was a little moisture about the edge of Renée’s hair, but the watcher did not like the dull purple of her cheeks nor the labored breathing. There might be a poultice for the throat; yes, she would make that. And if the good Father came and made a prayer! But that seemed as if one must be very ill indeed.
Gaspard had no mind for pleasure. He went in and stood by the child, who most of the time lay in a heavy sort of sleep. How strange she looked with her red, swollen face, quite unlike herself!
Yes, he would go for Dr. Montcrevier, though he had not much faith in him, for he seemed to think more of strange bugs and birds and fishes than human beings. However, his search was fruitless, perhaps it was as well.
“The fever is abating,” was Mère Lunde’s greeting in a joyous tone. “Great drops have come out on her forehead. Ah, I think we shall conquer with the good corn. And she has been awake.”
There was less pressure for breath, though the rattle in the throat was not a pleasant sound. But by mid-afternoon she was in a drench of perspiration, and then Mère Lunde rubbed her dry and rolled her in a fresh blanket.
“What is the matter? I feel so queer,” exclaimed the tremulous voice.
“You are ill, poor little child,” in a tender tone.
“Is it morning? The night was so long. It seemed as if the house was burning up.”
“It was the bad fever. Oh, yes, it is day, almost another night. Oh, little one, the good God be praised!”
Mère Lunde dropped down on her knees and repeated a short prayer.
Renée raised her head.
“Oh, it still feels queer. And I am so tired.”
She
