a good medicine.
“She has spoken. She is better,” was the mère’s greeting as Denys entered. “But she is asleep now. Do not disturb her.”
Yes, the dreadful purple was going out of her face. He took the limp little hand. It was cooler, though the pulse still beat hard and high. Ah, how much one could come to love and hardly know it until the threat of losing appeared. And he thought of her mother. He could never get it out of his mind but that she had died in cruel neglect, alone and heartbroken. He pressed the slim fingers to his lips, he studied the brow with its soft, light rings of hair, the almost transparent eyelids and long lashes, the dainty nose that had a piquant ending not quite retroussé but suggestive of it, and the small mouth, the lips wide in the middle that gave it a roundness often seen in childhood. She would be a pretty young girl, though it was her soft yet deep and wondering eyes that made her resemble her mother.
When she roused again Mère Lunde administered her potions. She made a very wry face over the bitter one. The good mère put another poultice on her throat and spread it well over her chest; rolling her up again like a mummy. She would have laughed if there had not been a great lump in her throat.
“I am like a papoose,” she said. “Uncle Gaspard, sit here and tell me some stories.”
He would not go away after she had fallen asleep, but wrapped himself in a blanket and leaned his head on the foot of her bed. Now and then she moaned a little, which gave him a pang, and after midnight she grew very restless. The fever was coming on again. Mère Lunde roused her and gave her another potion, and before daylight she had prepared the corn bath again. The fever did not seem to be as obstinate. By noon she was quite comfortable. Father Lemoine brought in the vicar general, who was going back to Ste. Genevieve. This was a great honor, and Mère Lunde brought out some wine that had come from the real vineyards of France.
Father Meurin heard the little girl’s story. He had known of Antoine Freneau, indeed, he had performed the first marriage and given the first baptism in the little town. That was in a tent, because there was no church. And the first services had been held in the fields, for the church had been built hardly ten years.
“She would be in poor hands if left to her grandfather,” he admitted. “And I hope she will be rightly brought up. If you had a wife, M. Denys.”
“I have rambled about so much I have had no time to marry,” he returned rather drily. “But now I shall settle down.”
“I hope so. It is what the towns need, steady occupancy. And you will deal rightly with the child and see that she is brought up as a daughter of the Church should be. You are quite sure her mother – ” he finished the question with his eyes.
“I saw the marriage register in the cathedral at Quebec. Then her mother was taken to France, where she died,” Denys answered.
The vicar nodded, satisfied. He repeated the prayer for the recovery of the sick and gave them all a kindly blessing with his adieu.
Gaspard Denys fell into a brown study. She was not his child, to be sure. Would it make any difference any time in the future? Ought there to be some woman different from Mère Lunde – bah! it would be years before Renée was grown up. And the little one wanted no one to share his love. He was glad – that would always be an excuse to himself. He never could put any one in the place he had hoped to set Renée Freneau.
CHAPTER VI – BY THE FIRESIDE
Renée mended slowly. She had indeed been very ill. She was so weak that it tired her to sit up among the pillows in her bed. And one day when she insisted upon getting up she dropped over into Mère Lunde’s arms.
“Where is all my strength gone to?” she inquired pettishly.
“Pauvre petite,” it was queer, and the good woman had no science to explain it.
But her throat improved and her voice cleared up, the fever grew lighter every day and she began to have some appetite. Friends came in to inquire and sympathize and bring delicacies. Madame Renaud offered her services, but no one was really needed, though the cordial, smiling face did Renée good. Ma’m’selle Barbe brought the two little girls, who looked awestricken at the pale face, where the eyes seemed bigger than ever.
Uncle Gaspard made a sort of settle on which they could put some cushions and blankets so that she could be brought out to the living room and watch Mère Lunde at her work. Then he improved upon it and made it into a kind of chair with a back that could be raised and lowered by an ingenious use of notches and wooden pins. He was getting so handy that he made various useful articles, for in those days in these upper settlements there were so few pieces of furniture that could be purchased, unless some one died and left no relatives, which was very seldom. Proud enough one was of owning an article or a bit of china or a gown that was a family heirloom.
“Oh,” he said one evening when she was comfortably fixed and the blaze of the great logs lighted up the room and made her pale face a little rosy, “I had almost forgotten – you have been so ill it drove most other things out of my mind. Your grandfather came up here on Christmas day and brought you a gift.”
“A gift! Oh, what was it?”
“Mère Lunde had not forgotten, but she had a superstitious feeling about it. I will get it for you,” Gaspard said.
He returned from the adjoining room with the box in his hand. It was very securely fastened with a twisted bit of deerskin, which was often used for cord.
“Open it,” she begged languidly.
He cut the cord but did not raise the cover. She held it some seconds in her hand.
“Uncle, do you remember you told me about a girl who opened a box and let troubles out all over the world?”
“But she was bidden not to. Grandpère Antoine did not leave any such word as that,” smilingly.
She raised the cover slowly. There was a bit of soft white fur in the bottom and on it lay a golden chain and a cross, with a pearl set where the arms and upright met. In the clasp was a smaller pearl. She held it up silently.
“The good saints must have touched his soul!” ejaculated Mère Lunde. “A beautiful cross! It is gold?” with a questioning glance at Denys.
Renée handed it to him.
“Oh, yes, gold of course. And your grandfather seemed quite moved with pity for you. I saw him again this morning, but he said, ‘Oh, I did not think she would die.’”
Renée’s eyes were wide open, with a startled light. “Did anybody think – that?” and her voice trembled.
“You may be sure I did not,” exclaimed Denys with spirit, almost with joyousness. “I would not have let you go.”
She held out both arms to him, and he clasped her to his heart.
“But people are compelled to sometimes,” said Mère Lunde gravely.
“We were not compelled. And now you are to get well as rapidly as possible. Everybody has been having a merry time with the king’s ball, and you have missed it. But there is next year.”
How far away next year seemed! Spring, and summer, and autumn.
“How long have I been ill? It is queer, but I don’t seem to remember clearly,” trying to think, and studying the leaping blaze that seemed like
