The dame greeted her cheerily, and set before her a simple breakfast that tasted most delicious. Loudac had gone up to the great house.

"For when the White Chief is away, Loudac has charge of everything. Once he saved the master's life, he was his servant then, and since that time he has been the head of all matters. The White Chief trusts him like a brother. But look you, both of them came from France and there is no mixed blood in them. Rough as Loudac seems his mother was of gentle birth, and he can read and write not only French but English, and is a judge of fine furs and understands business. He is shrewd to know people as well," and she gave a satisfied smile.

"The White Chief is away—"

"He has gone up to Michilimackinac, perhaps to Hudson Bay. But all goes on here just the same. Loudac has things well in hand."

"I would like to return to Detroit," ventured Jeanne, timidly, glancing up with beseeching eyes.

"That thou shalt, ma petite. There will be boats going down before cold weather. The winter comes early here, and yet it is not so cold as one would think, with plenty of furs and fire."

"And the—the queen—" hesitatingly.

The dame laughed heartsomely.

"Thou shalt see her. She is our delight, our dear mistress, and has many names given her by her loving chief. It is almost ten years ago that he found her up North, a queen then with a little band of braves who adored her. They had come from some far country. She was not of their tribe; she is as white almost as thou, and tall and handsome and soft of voice as the sweetest singing bird. Then they fell in love with each other, and the good pere at Hudson Bay married them. He brought her here. She bought the island because it seemed fortified with the great rocks on two sides of it. Often they go away, for he has a fine vessel that is like a palace in its fittings. They have been to Montreal and out on that wild, strange coast full of islands. Whatever she wishes is hers."

Jeanne sighed a little, but not from envy.

"There are two boys, twins, and a little daughter born but two years ago. The boys are big and handsome, and wild as deer. But their father will have them run and climb and shout and play ball and shoot arrows, but not go out alone in a boat. Yet they can swim like fishes. Come, if you can eat no more breakfast, let us go out. I do not believe Detroit can match this, though it is larger."

There was a roadway about the palisades with two gates near either end, then a curiously laid up stone wall where the natural rocks had failed. Here on this plateau were cottages and lodges. Canadians, some trusty Indians, and a sprinkling of half-breeds made a settlement, it would seem. There were gardens abloom, fruit trees and grapevines, making a pleasant odor in the early autumnal sun. There were sheep pasturing, a herd of tame, beautiful deer, cows in great sheds, and fowl domesticated, while doves went circling around overhead. Still another wall almost hid the home of the White Chief, the name he was best known by, and as one might say at that time a name to conjure with, for he was really the manipulator of many of the Indian tribes, and endeavored to keep the peace among them and deal fairly with them in the fur trading. To the English he had proved a trusty neighbor, to the French a true friend, though his advice was not always palatable.

"Oh, it is beautiful!" cried Jeanne. "Something like the farms outside of the palisades at home. Inside—" she made a pretty gesture of dissatisfaction,—"the town is crowded and dirty and full of bad smells, except at the end where some of the officers and the court people and the rich folk live. They are building some new places up by the military gardens and St. Anne's Church, and beside the little river, where everything keeps green and which is full of ducks and swans and herons. And the great river is such a busy place since the Americans came. But they have not so many soldiers in the garrison, and we miss the glitter of the scarlet and the gold lace and the music they used to have. Still the flag is beautiful; and most people seem satisfied. I like the Americans," Jeanne said proudly.

The dame shook her head, but not in disapprobation altogether.

"The world is getting much mixed," she said. "I think the English still feel bitter, but the French accept. Loudac hears the White Chief talk of a time when all shall live together peaceably and, instead of trying to destroy each other and their cities and towns, they will join hands in business and improvement. For that is why the Indians perish and leave so few traces,—they are bent upon each other's destruction, so the villages and fields are laid waste and people die of starvation. There are great cities in Europe, I have heard, that have stood hundreds of years, and palaces and beautiful churches, and things last through many generations. Loudac was in a town called Paris, when he was a little boy, and it is like a place reared by fairy hands."

"Oh, yes, Madame, it is a wonderful city. I have read about it and seen pictures," said Jeanne, eagerly.

"There are books and pictures up at the great house. And here comes Loudac."

"Ha! my bright Morning Star, you look the better for a night's sleep. I have been telling Miladi about our frightened refugee, and she wishes to see you. Will it please you to come now?"

Jeanne glanced from one to the other.

"Oh, you need not feel afraid, you that have escaped Indians and crossed the lake in the night. For Miladi, although the wife of the great White Chief, and grand enough when necessary, is very gentle and kindly; is she not, dame?"

The dame laughed. "Run along, petite," she said. "I must attend to the house."

Inside this inclosure there was a really beautiful garden, a tiny park it might be justly called. Birds of many kinds flew about, others of strange plumage were in latticed cages. The walks were winding to make the place appear larger; there was a small lake with water plants and swans, and beds of brilliant flowers, trees that gave shade, vines that distributed fragrance with every passing breeze. Here in a dainty nest, that was indeed a vine-covered porch, sat a lady in a chair that suggested a throne to Jeanne, who thought she had never seen anyone so beautiful. She was not fair like either English or French, but the admixture of blood had given her a fine, creamy skin and large brownish eyes that had the softness of a fawn's. Every feature was clearly cut and perfect. Jeanne thought of a marble head that stood on the shelf of the minister's study at Detroit that was said to have come from a far country called Italy.

As for her attire, that was flowered silk and fine lace, and some jewels on her arms and fingers in golden settings that glittered like the rays of sunrise when she moved them. There were buckles of gems on her slippers, and stockings of strangely netted silk where the ivory flesh shone through.

Jeanne dropped on her knees at the vision, and it smiled on her. No saint at the Recollet house was half as fair.

"This is the little voyager cast upon our shore, Miladi," explained Loudac with a bow and a touch of his hand to his head. "But Wanita did not wreck her, only left her in our safe keeping until she can be returned to her friends."

"Sit here, Mam'selle," and Miladi pointed to a cushion near her. Her French was musical and soft. "It is quite a story, and not such an unusual one either. Many maidens, I think, have been taken from home and friends, and have finally learned to be satisfied with a life they would not have chosen. You came from Detroit, Loudac says."

"Yes, Miladi," Jeanne answered, timidly.

"Do not be afraid." The lady laughed with ripples like a little stream dropping over pebbly ways. "There is a story that my mother shared a like fate, only she had to grow content with strange people and a strange land. How was it? I have a taste for adventures."

Jeanne's girlish courage and spirits came back in a flash. Yet she told her story carefully, bridging the little space where so much was left out.

"Owaissa is a courageous maiden. It is said she carries a dagger which she would not be afraid to use. She has some strange power over the Indians. Her father was wronged out of his chieftaincy and then murdered. She demanded the blood price, and his enemies were given up to the tribe that took her under their protection. Yet I wonder a little that she should choose Louis Marsac. The White Chief, my husband, does not think him quite true in all his dealings, especially with women. But if he trifled with her there would be a tragedy."

Jeanne shuddered. The tragedy had come so near.

Miladi asked some questions hard for Jeanne to answer with truth; how she had come up the lake, and if her captors had treated her well.

"It seems quite mysterious," she said.

Then they talked about Detroit, and Jeanne's past life, and Miladi was more puzzled than ever.

A slim young Indian woman brought in the baby, a dainty girl of two years old, who ran swiftly to her mother and began chattering in French with pretty broken words, and looking shyly at the guest. Then there was a great shout and a rush as of a flock of birds.

"I beat Gaston, maman, six out of ten shots."

"But two arrows broke. They were good for nothing," interrupted the second boy.

"And can't Antoine take us out fishing—" the boy stopped and came close to Jeanne, wonderingly.

"This is Mademoiselle Jeanne," their mother said, "Robert and Gaston. Being twins there is no elder."

They were round, rosy, sunburned boys, with laughing eyes and lithe figures.

"Can you swim?" queried Robert.

"Oh, yes," and a bright smile crossed Jeanne's face.

"And paddle a canoe and row?"

"Yes, indeed. Many a time in the Strait, with the beautiful green shores opposite."

"What strait, Mackinaw?"

"Oh, no. It is the river Detroit, but often called a strait."

"You can't manage a bow!" declared Robert.

"Yes. And fire a pistol. And—run."

"And climb trees?" The dark eyes were alight with mirth.

"Why, yes." Then Jeanne glanced deprecatingly at Miladi, so elegant, so refined, if the word had come to her, but it remained in the chaos of thought. "I was but a wild little thing in childhood, and there was no one except Pani—my Indian nurse."

"Then come and run a race. The Canadians are clumsy fellows."

Robert grasped her arm. Gaston stood tilted on one foot, as if he could fly.

"Oh, boys, you are too rough! Mam'selle will think you worse than wild Indians."

"I should like to run with them, Miladi." Jeanne's eyes sparkled, and she was a child again.

"As thou wilt." Miladi smiled and nodded. So much of the delight of her soul was centered in these two handsome, fearless boys beloved by their father. Once she remembered she had felt almost jealous.

"I will give you some odds," cried Jeanne. "I will not start until you have reached the pole of the roses."

"No! no! no!" they shouted. "Girls cannot run at the end of the race. There we will win," and they laughed gayly.

They were fleet as deer. Jeanne did not mean to outstrip them, but she was seized with enthusiasm. It was as if she had wings to her feet and they would not lag, even if the head desired it. She was breathless, with flying hair and brilliant color, as she reached the goal and turned to see two brave but disappointed faces.

"I told you it was not fair," she began. "I am larger than you, taller and older. You should have had odds."

"But we can always beat Berthe Loudac, and she is almost as big as you. And some of the Indian boys."

"Let us try it again. Now I will give you to the larch tree."

They started off, looking back when they reached that point and saw her come flying. She was not so eager now and held back toward the last. Gaston came in with a shout of triumph and in two seconds Robert was at the goal. She laughed joyously. Their mother leaning over a railing laughed also and waved her handkerchief as they both glanced up.

"How old are you?" asked Robert.

"Almost sixteen, I believe."

"And we are eight."

"That is twice as old."

"And when we are sixteen we will run twice as fast, faster than the Indians. We shall win the races. We are going up North then. Don't you want to go?"

Jeanne shook her head.

"But then girls do not go fur hunting. Only the squaws follow, to make the fires and cook the meals. And you would be too pretty for a squaw. You must be a lady like maman, and have plenty of servants. Oh, we will ask father to bring you a husband as strong and nice and big as he is! And then he will build you a lodge here. No one can have such a splendid house as maman; he once said so."

"Come down to the palisade."

They ran down together. The inhabitants of the cottages and lodges looked out after them, they were so gay and full of frolic. The gate was open and Robert peered out. Jeanne took a step forward. She was anxious to see what was beyond.

"Don't." Gaston put out his arm to bar her. "We promised never to go outside without permission. Only a coward or a thief tells lies and breaks his word. If we could find Loudac."

Loudac had gone over to Manitou. The dame had been baking some brown bread with spice seeds in it, and she gave them all a great slice. How good it tasted! Then they were off again, and when they reached the house their mother had gone in, for the porch was hot from the sun.

Jeanne had never seen anything like it. The walls seemed set with wonderful stones and gems, some ground to facets. Long strips of embroidery in brilliant colors and curious designs parted them like frames. Here a border of wampum shells, white, pale grayish, pink and purple; there great flowers made of shells gathered from the shores of lakes and rivers. At the far end of the room were two Indian girls working on bead embroidery, another sewing rows of beautiful feathers in a border.

The boys were eager to rehearse their good time.

"If they have not tired you to death," said their mother.

Jeanne protested that she had enjoyed it quite as much.

"It is a luxury to have a new playfellow now that their father is away. They are so fond of him. Sometimes we all go."

"When will he return, Madame?"

"In a fortnight or so. Then he takes the long winter journey. That is a more dreary time, but we shut ourselves up and have blazing fires and work and read, and the time passes. There is the great hope at the end," and she gave an exquisite smile.

"But—Miladi—how can I get back to Detroit?"

"Must thou go?" endearingly. "If there are no parents—"

"But there is my poor Pani! And Detroit that I am so familiar with. Then I dare say they are all wondering."

"Loudac will tell us when he comes back."

Loudac had a budget of news. First there had been a marriage that very morning on the "Flying Star," the pretty boat of Louis Marsac, and Owaissa was the bride. There had been a feast given to the men, and the young mistress had stood before them to have her health drunk and receive the good wishes and a belt of wampum, with a lovely white doeskin cloak that was like velvet. Then they had set sail for Lake Superior.

Jeanne was very glad of the friendly twilight. She felt her face grow red and cold by turns.

"And the maiden Owaissa will be very happy," she said half in assertion, half inquiry.

"He is smart and handsome, but tricky at times, and overfond of brandy. But if a girl gets the man she wants all is well for a time, at least."

The next bit of news was that the "Return" would go to Detroit in four or five days.

"Not direct, which will be less pleasant. For she goes first over to Barre, and then crosses the lake again and stops at Presque Isle. After that it is clear sailing. A boat of hides and freight goes down, but that would not be pleasant. To-morrow I will see the captain of the 'Return.'"

"Thou wouldst not like a winter among us here?" inquired the dame. "It is not so bad, and the boys at the great house are wild over thee."

"Oh, I must go," Jeanne said, with breathless eagerness. "I shall remember all your kindness through my whole life."

"Home is home," laughed good-humored Loudac.

Very happy and light-hearted was Jeanne Angelot. There would be nothing more to fear from Louis Marsac. How had they settled it, she wondered.

Owaissa had said that she sent the child home under proper escort. Louis Marsac ground his teeth, and yet—did he care so much for the girl only to gratify a mean revenge for one thing?—the other he was not quite sure of. At all events Jeanne Angelot would always be the loser. The Detroit foundling,—and he gave a short laugh like the snarl of a dog.

Delightful as everything was, Jeanne counted the days. She was up at the great house and read to its lovely mistress, sang and danced with baby Angelique, taking hold of the tiny hands and swinging round in graceful circles, playing games with the boys and doing feats, and trying to laugh off the lamentations, which sometimes came near to tears.

"How strange," said Miladi the last evening, "that we have never heard your family name. Or—had you none?"

"Oh, yes, Madame. Some one took good care of that. It was written on a paper pinned to me; and," laughing, "pricked into my skin so I could not deny it. It is Jeanne Angelot. But there are no Angelots in Detroit."

Miladi grasped her arm so tightly that Jeanne's breath came with a flutter.

"Are there none? Are you quite sure?" There was a strained sound in her voice wont to be so musical.

"Oh, yes. Father Rameau searched."

Miladi dropped her arm.

"It grows chilly," she said, presently. "Shall we go in, or—" Somehow her voice seemed changed.

"I had better run down to the dame's. Good night, Miladi. I have been so happy. It is like a lovely dream of the summer under the trees. I am sorry I cannot be content to stay;" and she kissed the soft hand, that now was cold.

Miladi made no reply. Only she stood still longer in the cold, and murmured, "Jeanne Angelot, Jeanne Angelot." And then she recalled a laughing remark of Gaston's only that morning:—

"Jeanne has wintry blue eyes like my father's! Look, maman, the frost almost sparkles in them. And he says his came from the wonderful skies above the Arctic seas. Do you know where that is?"

No, Jeanne did not know where that was. But there were plenty of blue-eyed people in Detroit.

She ran down the steps in the light of the young crescent moon, and rubbed her arm a little where the fingers had almost made a dent.

The next day the "Return" touched at the island. It was not at all out of her way, and the captain and Loudac were warm friends. The boys clung to Jeanne and would hardly let her go.

"I wish my father could buy you for another sister," exclaimed Gaston hanging to her skirt. "If he were here he would not let you go, I am quite sure. It will take such a long while for Angelique to grow up, and then we shall be men."

Did Miladi give her a rather formal farewell? It seemed as if something chilled Jeanne.

Loudac and the dame were effusive enough to make amends. The "Return" was larger but not as jaunty as the "Flying Star," and it smelled strongly of salt fish. But Jeanne stepped joyously aboard—was she not going to La Belle Detroit? All her pulses thrilled with anticipation. Home! How sweet a word it was!



CHAPTER XVII.

A PAEAN OF GLADNESS.

Jeanne's little cabin was very plain, but the window gave a nice lookout and could be opened at will. They would cross the lake and go down to Barre on the Canada side, and that would give a different view. Was the ocean so very much larger, she wondered in her inexperienced fashion.

They passed a few boats going up. It was curiously lonely, with great reaches of stunted pines and scrubby hemlocks, then a space of rather sandy shore and wiry grasses that reared themselves stiffly. There was nothing to read. And now she wished for some sewing. She was glad enough when night came. The next morning the sky was overcast and there was a dull, threatening wind.

"If we can make Barre before it storms," said Captain Mallard. "There is a good harbor, and a fierce east wind would drive us back to the other side."

They fortunately made Barre before the storm broke in all its fierceness, but it was terrible! There was a roar over the lake as if a drove of bisons were tearing madly about. The great waves pounded and battered against the sides of the vessel as if they would break through, and the surf flew up from the point that jutted out and made the harbor. Gulls and bitterns went screaming, and Jeanne held her breath in very terror. Earth and lake and sky were one vast picture of desolation, for where the eye stopped the mind went on.

All night and all the next day the storm continued beating and bruising. But at evening the wind fell, and Jeanne gave thanks with a hearty and humble mind, and slept that night. When she woke the sun was struggling through a sky of gray, with some faint yellow and green tints that came and went as if not sure of their way. By degrees a dull red commingled with them and a sulky sun showed his face.

"It is well we were in a safe port, Mam'selle, for the storm has been terrible," explained the worthy captain. "As it is, in the darkness we have lost one man overboard, and a day must be spent in repairing. The little town is not much, but it might be a rest to go ashore."

"Yes," said Jeanne, rather absently.

"If you have a good blanket—the cold has sprung up suddenly. It is squaw winter, which comes sooner you know, like a woman's temper, and spends itself, clearing the way for smiles again."

Dame Loudac had given her a fur cap with lappets that made a hood of it. She had Owaissa's blanket, and some warm leggings. The captain helped her ashore, but it was a most uncheerful outlook. A few streets with roughly built cottages, some shops at the wharf, a packing house with the refuse of fish about, and a wide stretch of level land on which the wind had swept the trees so fiercely that most of them leaned westward.

"Oh, how can anyone live here!" cried Jeanne with a shiver, contrasting it with the beautiful island home of the White Chief.

The inhabitants were mostly French, rugged, with dull faces and clumsy figures. They looked curiously at Jeanne and then went on with their various employments.

But the walk freshened her and dispelled the listlessness. She gathered a few shells on one strip of sandy beach, and watched many curious creeping things. A brown lizard glided in and out of some tufts of sedge grass; a great flock of birds high up in the air went flying southward. Many gulls ran along with their shrill cries.

Oh, if she were at home! Would she ever reach there? For now gay-hearted Jeanne seemed suddenly dispirited.

All the day kept cold, though at sunset the western sky blazed out with glory and the wind died down. Captain Mallard would not start until morning, however, and though the air had a keenness in it the sun gave out a promising warmth.

Then they made Presque Isle, where there was much unloading, and some stores to be taken on board. After that it grew warmer and Jeanne enjoyed being on deck, and the memory of how she had come up the lake was like a vague dream. They sailed past beautiful shores, islands where vegetation was turning brown and yellow; here marshes still a vivid green, there great clumps of trees with scarlet branches dancing in the sun, the hickories beginning to shrivel and turn yellow, the evergreens black in the shady places. At night the stars came out and the moon swelled in her slender body, her horns losing their distinct outlines.

But Jeanne had no patience even with the mysterious, beautiful night. The autumn was dying slowly, and she wondered who brought wood for Pani; if she sat by the lonely fire! It seemed months since she had been taken away.

Yes, here was the familiar lake, the shores she knew so well. She could have danced for very gladness, though her eyes were tear-wet. And here it narrowed into the river, and oh, was there ever such a blessed sight! Every familiar point looked beautiful to her. There were some boats hurrying out, the captains hoping to make a return trip. But the crowded, businesslike aspect of summer was over.

They pushed along to the King's wharf. It seemed to her all were strange faces. Was it really Detroit? St. Anne's bell came rolling down its sweet sound. The ship crunched, righted itself, crunched again, the rope was thrown out and made fast.

"Mam'selle," said the captain, "we are in."

She took his hand, the mute gratitude in her eyes, in her whole face; its sweetness touched him.

"I hope you will find your friends well."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, with a long drawn breath. "Yes, that is my prayer."

He was handing her off. The crowd, not very large, indeed, was all a blur before her eyes. She touched the ground, then she dropped on her knees.

"No, no," to some one who would have raised her. "I must say a prayer, for I have come back to my own loved Detroit, my home. Oh, let me give thanks."

"The saints be praised! It is Jeanne Angelot."

She rose as suddenly as she had knelt. Up the narrow street she ran, while the astonished throng looked after her.

"Holy Mother defend us!" and a man crossed himself devoutly. "It is no living being, it is a ghost."

For she had disappeared. The wondering eyes glanced on vacancy, stupefied.

"I said she was dead from the first. She would never have gone off and left the poor Pani woman to die of grief. She sits there alone day after day, and now she will not eat, though Dame Margot and the Indian woman Wenonah try to comfort her. And this is Jeanne's spirit come for her. You will find her dead body in the cottage. Ah, I have seen the sign."

"It was a strange disappearance!"

"The captain can tell," said another, "for if she was rescued from the Indians he must have brought her down."

"Yes, yes," and they rushed in search of the captain, wild with superstition and excitement.

It was really Jeanne Angelot. She had been rescued and left at Bois Blanc, and then taken over to another island. A pretty, sweet young girl and no ghost, Jeanne Angelot by name.

Jeanne sped on like a sprite, drawing her cap over her face. Ah, the familiar ways and sights, the stores here, the booths shut, for the outdoors trade was mostly over, the mingled French and English, the patois, the shouts to the horses and dogs and to the pedestrians to get out of the way. She glanced up St. Anne's street, she passed the barrack, where some soldiers sat in the sunshine cleaning up their accouterments. Children were playing games, as the space was wider here. The door of the cottage was closed. There was a litter on the steps, dead leaves blown into the corners and crushed.

"O Pani! Pani!" she cried, and her heart stood still, her limbs trembled.

The door was not locked. The shutter had been closed and the room was dark, coming out of the sunshine. There was not even a blaze on the hearth. A heap of something at the side—her sight grew clearer, a blanketed bundle, oh, yes—

"Pani! Pani!" she cried again, all the love and longing of months in her voice—"Pani, it is I, Jeanne come back to you. Oh, surely God would not let you die now!"

She was tearing away the wrappings. She found the face and kissed it with a passion of tenderness. It was cold, but not with the awful coldness of death. The lips murmured something. The hands took hold of her feebly.

"It is Jeanne," she cried again, "your own Jeanne, who loves you with all her heart and soul, Jeanne, whom the good God has sent back to you," and then the tears and kisses mingled in a rain on the poor old wrinkled face.

"Jeanne," Pani said in a quavering voice, in which there was no realizing joy. Her lifeless fingers touched the warm, young face, wet with tears. "Petite Jeanne!"

"Your own Jeanne come back to you. Oh, Pani, you are cold and there is no fire. And all this dreary time—but the good God has sent me back, and I shall stay always, always—"

She ran and opened the shutter. The traces of Pani's careful housekeeping were gone. Dust was everywhere, and even food was standing about as Wenonah had brought it in last night, while piles of furs and blankets were lying in a corner, waiting to be put up.

"Now we must have a fire," she began, cheerily; and, shivering with the chill herself, she stirred the embers and ashes about. There was no lack of fuel. In a moment the flames began a heartsome sound, and the scarlet rays went climbing and racing over the twigs. There was a fragrant warmth, a brightness, but it showed the wan, brown face, almost ashen color from paleness, and the lack-luster eyes.

"Pani!" Jeanne knelt before her and shook back the curls, smiled when she would fain have cried over the pitiful wreck, and at that moment she hated Louis Marsac more bitterly than ever. "Pani, dear, wake up. You have been asleep and dreamed bad dreams. Wake up, dear, my only love."

Some consciousness stirred vaguely. It was as if she made a great effort, and the pale lips moved, but no sound came from them. Still the eyes lost some of their vacancy, the brow showed lines of thought.

"Jeanne," she murmured again. "Petite Jeanne. Did some one take you away? Or was it a dream?"

"I am here, your own Jeanne. Look at the fire blaze. Now you will be warm, and remember, and we will both give thanks. Nothing shall ever part us again."

Pani made an attempt to rise but fell back limply. Some one opened the door—it was Margot, who uttered a cry of affright and stood as if she was looking at a ghost, her eyes full of terror.

"I have come back," began Jeanne in a cheerful tone. "Some Indians carried me away. I have been almost up to the Straits, and a good captain brought me home. Has she been ill?" motioning to Pani.

"Only grief, Mam'selle. All the time she said you would return until a week or so ago, then she seemed to give up everything. I was very busy this morning, there are so many mouths to feed. I was finishing some work promised, there are good people willing to employ me. And then I came in to see—"

"Jeanne has come home," Pani exclaimed suddenly. "Margot has been so good. I am old and of no use any more. I have been only a trouble."

"Yes, yes, I want you. Oh, Pani, if I had come home and found you dead there would have been no one—and now you will get well again."

Pani shook her head, but Jeanne could discern the awakening intelligence.

"Mam'selle!" Margot seemed but half convinced. Then she glanced about the room. "M. Garis was in such haste for his boy's clothes that I have done nothing but sew and sew. Marie has gone out to service and there are only the little ones. My own house has been neglected."

"Yes. Heaven will reward you for your goodness to her all this dreadful time, when you have had to work hard for your own."

Margot began to pick up articles and straighten the room, to gather the few unwashed dishes.

"Oh, Mam'selle, it made a great stir. The neighbors and the guards went out and searched. Some wild beast might have devoured you, but they found no trace. And they thought of Indians. Poor Pani! But all will be well now. Nay, Mam'selle," as Jeanne would have stopped her, "there will be people in, for strange news travels fast."

That was very likely. In a brief while they had the room tidy. Then Jeanne fixed a seat at the other side of the fireplace, spread the fur rug over it, and led the unresisting Pani thither, wrapped her in a fresh blanket, and took off the cap, smoothing out the neglected hair that seemed strangely white about the pale, brown face. The high cheek bones left great hollows underneath, but in spite of the furrows of age the skin was soft.

The woman gave a low, pleased laugh, and nodded.

"Father Rameau will come," she said.

"Father Rameau! Has he returned?" inquired the girl.

"Oh, yes, Mam'selle, and so glad to get back to Detroit. I cannot tell you all his delight. And then his sorrow for you. For we were afraid you were no longer living. What a strange story!"

"It has happened before, being carried away by Indians. Some time you shall hear all, Margot."

The woman nodded. "And if you do not want me, Mam'selle—" for there was much to do at home.

"I do not need you so much just now, but come in again presently. Oh, I can never repay you!"

"Wenonah has done more than I."

In the warmth of the fire and the comfortable atmosphere about her, Pani had fallen asleep. Jeanne glanced into the chamber. The beds were spread up, and, except dust, things were not bad, but she put them in the olden order. Then she bathed her face and combed the tangles out of her hair. Here was her blue woolen gown, with the curious embroidery of beads and bright thread, that Wenonah had made for her last winter, and she slipped into it. Now she felt like herself. She would cook a little dinner for herself and Pani. And, as she was kneeling on the wide hearthstone stirring some broth, the woman opened her eyes.

"Jeanne," she said, and there was less wandering in her voice, "Jeanne, it was a dream. I have been asleep many moons, I think. The great evil spirits have had me, dragged me down into their dens, and I could not see you. Pani's heart has been sore distressed. It was all a dream, little one."

"Yes, a dream!" Jeanne's arms were about her neck.

"And you will never go away, not even if M. Bellestre sends for you!" she entreated.

"I shall never go away from La Belle Detroit. Oh, Pani, there may be beautiful places in the world," and she thought of the island and Miladi, "but none so dear. No, we shall stay here always."

But the news had traveled, and suddenly there was an influx; M. De Ber going home to his midday meal could not believe until he had seen Jeanne with his own eyes. And the narrow street was filled as with a procession.

Jeanne kept to the simple story and let her listeners guess at motives or mysterious purposes. They had not harmed her. And a beautiful Indian maiden with much power over her red brethren had gained her freedom and sent her to a place of safety. Captain Mallard and the "Return" had brought her to the town, and that was all.

It was almost night when Father Rameau came. He had grown strangely old, it seemed to her, and the peaceful lines of his face were disturbed. He had come back to the home of years to find himself curiously supplanted and new methods in use that savored less of love and more of strict rule. He had known so much of the hardness of the pioneer lives, of the enjoyment and courage the rare seasons of pleasure gave them, of the ignorance that could understand little of the higher life, of the strong prejudices and superstitions that had to be uprooted gently and perhaps wait for the next generation. Truth, honesty, and temperance were rare virtues and of slow growth. The new license brought in by the English was hard to combat, but he had worked in love and patience, and now he found his methods condemned and new ones instituted. His heart ached.

But he was glad enough to clasp Jeanne to his heart and to hear her simple faith in the miracle that had been wrought. How great it was, and what her danger had been, he was never to know. For Owaissa's sake and her debt to her she kept silence as to that part.

Certainly Jeanne had an ovation. When she went into the street there were smiles and bows. Some of the ladies came to speak to her, and invited her to their houses, and found her extremely interesting.

Madame De Ber was very gracious, and both Rose and Marie were friendly enough. But Madame flung out one little arrow that missed its mark.

"Your old lover soon consoled himself it seems. It is said he married a handsome Indian girl up at the Strait. I dare say he was pledged to her."

"Yes. It was Owaissa who freed me from captivity. She came down to Bois Blanc and heard the story and sent me away in her own canoe with her favorite servant. Louis Marsac was up at St. Ignace getting a priest while she waited. I cannot think he was at all honest in proposing marriage to me when another had the right. But there was a grand time it was said, and they were very happy."

Madame stared. "It was a good thing for you that you did not care for him. I had a distrust for him. He was too handsome. And then he believed nothing and laughed at religion. But the Marsacs are going to be very rich it is said. You did not see them married?"

"Oh, no." Jeanne laughed with a bitterness she had not meant to put into her voice. "He was away when Owaissa came to me and heard my plight. And then there was need of haste. I had to go at once, and it would not have been pleasant even if I could have waited."

"No, no. Men are much given to make love to young girls who have no one to look after them. They think nothing of it."

"So it was fortunate that it was distasteful to me."

Jeanne had a girl's pride in wanting this woman to understand that she was in no wise hurt by Marsac's recreancy. Then she added, "The girl was beautiful as Indian girls go, and it seems a most excellent marriage. She will be fond of that wild northern country. I could not be content in it."

Jeanne felt that she was curiously changed, though sometimes she longed passionately for the wild little girl who had been ready for every kind of sport and pleasure. But the children with whom she had played were grown now, boys great strapping fellows with manners both coarse and shy, going to work at various businesses, and the girls had lovers or husbands,—they married early then. So she seemed left alone. She did not care for their chatter nor their babies of which they seemed so proud.

So she kept her house and nursed Pani back to some semblance of her former self. But often it was a touch of the childhood of old age, and she rambled about those she had known, the De Longueils and Bellestres, and the night Jeanne had been left in her arms.

Jeanne liked the chapel minister and his wife very much. The lady had so many subjects to converse about that never led to curious questions. The minister lent her books and they talked them over afterward. This was the world she liked.

But she had not lost her love for that other world of freedom and exhilaration. After a brief Indian summer with days of such splendor that it seemed as if the great Artist was using his most magnificent colors, winter set in sharp and with a snap that startled every one. Snow blocked the roads and the sparkling expanse of crust on the top was the delight of the children, who walked and slid and pulled each other in long loads like a chain of dogs. And some of the lighter weight young people skated over it like flying birds. In the early evening all was gayety. Jeanne was not lacking in admirers. Young Loisel often called for her, and Martin Lavosse would easily have verged on the sentimental if Jeanne had not been so gay and unconscious. He was quite sore over the defection of Rose De Ber, who up in one of the new streets was hobnobbing with the gentry and quite looking down on the Beesons.

Then the minister and his wife often joined these outdoor parties. Since he neither played cards, danced, nor drank in after-dinner symposiums, this spirited amusement stirred his blood. Pani went to bed early, and Margot would bring in her sewing and see that nothing untoward happened.

Few of the stores were open in the evenings. Short as the day was, all the business could be done in it. Now and then one saw a feeble light in a window where a man stayed to figure on some loss or gain.

Fleets were laid up or ventured only on short journeys. From the northern country came stories of ice and snow that chilled one's marrow. Yet the great fires, the fur rugs and curtains and soft blankets kept one comfortable within.

There were some puzzling questions for Jeanne. She liked the freedom of conscience at the chapel, and then gentle Father Rameau drew her to the church.

"If I had two souls," she said one day to the minister, "I should be quite satisfied. And it seems to me sometimes as if I were two different people," looking up with a bright half smile. "In childhood I used to lay some of my wildnesses on to the Indian side. I had a curious fancy for a strain of Indian blood."

"But you have no Indian ancestry?"

"I think not. I am not so anxious for it now," laughing gayly. "But that side of me protests against the servitude Father Gilbert so insists upon. And I hate confession. To turn one's self inside out, to give away the sacred trusts of others—"

"No, that is not necessary," he declared hastily.

"But when the other lives are tangled up with yours, when you can only tell half truths—"

He smiled then. "Mademoiselle Jeanne, your short life has not had time to get much entangled with other lives, or with secrets you are aware of."

"I think it has been curiously entangled," she replied. "M'sieu Bellestre, whom I have almost forgotten, M. Loisel—and the old schoolmaster I told you of, who I fancy now was a sad heretic—"

She paused and flushed, while her eyes were slowly downcast. There was Monsieur St. Armand. How could she explain this to a priest? And was not Monsieur a heretic, too? That was her own precious, delightful secret, and she would give it into no one's keeping.

She was very happy with all this mystery about her, he thought, very simple minded and sweet, doing the whole duty of a daughter to this poor Indian woman in return for her care. And when Pani was gone? She was surely fitted for some other walk in life, but she was unconsciously proud, she would not step over into it, some one must take her by the hand.

"But why trouble about the Church, as you call it? It is the life one leads, not the organization. Are these people down by the wharves and those holes on St. Louis street, where there is drunkenness and gambling and swearing, any the better for their confession and their masses, and what not?"

"If I was the priest they should not come unless they reformed," and her eyes flashed. "But when I turn away something calls me, and when I go there I do not like it. They want me to go among the sisters, to be a nun perhaps, and that I should hate."

"At present you are doing a daughter's duty, let that suffice. Pani would soon die without you. When a new work comes to hand God will make the way plain for you."

Jeanne gave an assenting nod.

"She is a curious child," the minister said to his wife afterward, "and yet a very sweet, simple-hearted one. But to confine her to any routine would make her most unhappy."

There were all the Christmas festivities, and Jeanne did enjoy them. Afterward—some of the days were very long it seemed. She was tired of the great white blanket of snow and ice, and the blackness of the evergreens that in the cold turned to groups of strange monsters. Bears came down out of the woods, the sheep dogs and their masters had fights with wolves; there were dances and the merry sounds of the violin in every household where there were men and boys. Then Lent, not very strictly kept after all, and afterward Easter and the glorious spring.

Jeanne woke into new life. "I must go out for the first wild flowers," she said to Pani. "It seems years since I had any. And the robin and the thrush and the wild pigeons have come back, and the trees bud with the baths of sunshine. All the air is throbbing with fragrance."

Pani looked disturbed.

"Oh, thou wilt not go to the woods?" she cried.

"I will take Wenonah and one of the boys. They are sturdy now and can howl enough to scare even a panther. No, Pani, there is no one to carry me away. They would know that I should slip through their fingers;" and she laughed with the old time joyousness.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A HEARTACHE FOR SOME ONE.

"Jeanne," exclaimed Father Rameau, "thou art wanted at the Chapter house."

He stood in the doorway of the little cottage and glanced curiously at the two inmates. Pani often amused herself cutting fringe for Wenonah, under the impression that it was needed in haste, and she was very happy over it. A bowl of violets and wild honeysuckle stood on the table, and some green branches hung about giving the room the odor of the new season and an air of rejoicing.

"What now?" She took his wrinkled old hand in hers so plump and dimpled. "Have I committed some new sin? I have been so glad for days and days that I could only rejoice."

"No, not sin. It is to hear a strange story and to be happier, perhaps."

He looked curiously at her. "Oh, something has happened!" she cried. Was it possible M. St. Armand had returned? For days her mind had been full of him. And he would be the guest of the Fleurys.

"Yes, I should spoil it in the telling, and I had strict injunctions." There was an air of mystery about him.

Surely there was no trouble. But what could they want with her? A strange story! Could some one have learned about her mother or her father?

"I will change my attire in a moment. Pani, Margot will gladly come and keep you company."

"Nay, little one, I am not a baby to be watched," Pani protested.

Jeanne laughed. She looked very sweet and charming in her blue and white frock made in a plain fashion, for it did not seem becoming in her to simulate the style of the great ladies. A soft, white kerchief was drawn in a knot about her shoulders, showing the shapely throat that was nearer ivory than pearl. In the knot she drew a few violets. Head gear she usually disdained, but now she put over her curls a dainty white cap that made a delicious contrast with the dark rings nestling below the edge. A pretty, lissome girl, with a step so light it would not have crushed the grass under her feet, had there been any.

"There seems a great stir in the town," she said.

They had turned into St. Anne's street and were going toward the church.

"The new Governor General Hull is to come in a few weeks, and the officers have word to look him up a home, for governors have not lived in Detroit before. No doubt there will be fine times among the Americans."

"And there flies a white flag down at the river's edge—has that something to do with it?"

"Oh, the boat came in last evening. It is one of the great men up at the North, I think in the fur company. But he has much influence over the Indian tribes, and somehow there is a whisper that there may be disaffection and another union such as there was in Pontiac's time, which heaven forbid! He is called the White Chief."

"The White Chief!" Jeanne stopped short in a maze of astonishment.

"That has nothing to do with thee," said the priest. He preferred her interest to run in another channel.

"But—I was on his island. I saw his wife and children, you remember. Oh, I must see him—"

"Not now;"—and her guide put out his hand.

"Oh, no," and she gave a short laugh. "As if I would go running after a strange man; a great chief! But he is not an Indian. He is French."

"I do remember, yes. There seems a great commotion, as if all the ships had come in. The winter was so long and cold that business is all the more brisk. Here, child, pay a little attention to where you are going. There is a lack of reverence in you young people that pains me."

"Pardon me, father." Jeanne knelt on the church steps and crossed herself. She had run up here in the dark the first night she had been back in Detroit, just to kneel and give thanks, but she had told no one.

Then she walked decorously beside him. There was the Chapel of Retreat, a room where the nuns came and spent hours on their knees. They passed that, going down a wide hall. On one side some young girls sat doing fine embroidery for religious purposes. At the end a kind of reception room, and there were several people in this now, two priests and three woman in the garb of Ursuline nuns.

Jeanne glanced around. A sort of chill crept over her. The room was bare and plain except a statue of the Virgin, and some candles and crucifixes. Nearly in the center stood a table with a book of devotions on it.

"This is Jeanne Angelot," exclaimed Father Rameau. She, in her youth and health and beauty, coming out of the warm and glowing sunshine of May, brought with her an atmosphere and radiance that seemed like a sudden sunrise in the dingy apartment. The three women in the coif and gown of the Ursulines fingered their beads and, after sharp glances at the maid, dropped their eyes, and their faces fell into stolid lines.

Another woman rose from the far corner and her gown made a swish on the bare floor. She came almost up to Jeanne, who shrank back in an inexplicable terror, a motion that brought a spasm of color to the newcomer's face, and a gasp for breath.

She was, perhaps, a little above the medium height, slim alway and now very thin. Her eyes were sunken, with grayish shadows underneath, her cheeks had a hollow where fullness should have been, her lips were compressed in a nearly straight line. She was not old, but asceticism had robbed her of every indication of youth, had made severity the leading indication in her countenance.

"Jeanne Angelot," she repeated. "You are quite sure, Father, those garments belonged to her?"

The poor woman felt the secret antipathy and she, too, seemed to contract, to realize the mysterious distance between them, the unlikeness of which she had not dreamed. For in her narrow life of devotion she had endeavored to crucify all human feelings and affections. That was her bounden duty for her girlhood's sin. Girls were poor, weak creatures and their wills counseled them wrongly, wickedly. She had come to snatch this child, the result of her own selfish dreams, her waywardness, from a like fate. She should be housed, safe, kept from evil. The nun, too, had dreamed, although Berthe Campeau had said, "She is a wild little thing and it is suspected she has Indian blood in her veins." But it was the rescue of a soul to the service of God, the soul she was answerable for, not the ardor of human love.

The father made a slow inclination of the head.

"They were upon her that night she was dropped in the Pani's lap, and the card pinned to her. Then two letters curiously wrought upon her thigh."

"Jeanne, Jeanne, I am your mother."

It was the woman who was the suppliant, who felt a strange misgiving about this spirited girl with resolute eyes and poise of the head like a bird who would fly the next moment. And yet it was not the entreaty of starved and waiting love, that would have clasped arms about the slim, proud figure that stood almost defiant, suspicious, unbelieving.

The others had heard the story and there was no surprise in their countenances.

Jeanne seemed at first like a marble image. The color went out of her cheeks but her eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the woman, their blue so clear, so penetrating, that she shrank farther into herself, seemed thinner and more wan.

"Your mother," and Father Rameau would fain have taken the girl's hand, but she suddenly clasped them behind her back. There was incredulity in the look, repulsion. What if there were some plot? She glanced at Father Gilbert but his cold eyes expressed only disapprobation.

"My mother," she said slowly. "My mother has been dead years, and I owe love and gratitude to the Indian woman, Pani, who has cared for me with all fondness."

"You do not as yet understand," interposed Father Rameau. "You have not heard the story."

She had in her mind the splendid motherhood of Miladi as she had seen it in that beautiful island home.

"A mother would not desert her child and leave it to the care of strangers, Indian enemies perhaps, and send a message that she was dead," was the proud reply.

Jeanne Angelot's words cut like a knife. There was no sign of belief in her eyes, no dawning tenderness.

The woman bowed her head over her clasped hands and swayed as if she would fall.

"It is right," she answered in a voice that might have come from the grave. "It is part of my punishment. I had no right to bring this child into the world. Holy Mother, I accept, but let me snatch her soul from perdition!"

Jeanne's face flamed scarlet. "I trust the good Father above," she declared with an accent of uplifted faith that irradiated her with serene strength. "Once in great peril he saved me. I will trust my cause to him and he will clear my way."

"Thou ignorant child!" declared Father Gilbert. "Thou hast no human love in thy breast. There must be days and weeks of penance and discipline before thou art worthy even to touch this woman's hand. She is thy mother. None other hath any right to thee. Thou must be trained in obedience, in respect; thy pride and indifference must be cast out, evil spirits that they be. She hath suffered for thy sake; she must have amends when thou art in thy right mind. Thou wert given to the Church in Holy Baptism, and now she will reclaim thee."

Jeanne turned like a stag at bay, proud, daring, defiant. It was some evil plot. Could a true mother lend herself to such a cruel scheme? Why was she not drawn to her, instead of experiencing this fear and repulsion? Would they keep her here, shut her up in a dark room as they had years ago, when she had kicked and screamed until Father Rameau had let her out to liberty and the glorious sunlight? Could she not make one wild dash now—

There was a shuffling of steps in the hall and a glitter of trappings. The Commandant of the Fort stepped forward to the doorway and glanced in. The priests questioned with their eyes, the nuns turned aside.

"We were told we should find Father Rameau here. There is some curious business. Ah, here is the girl herself, Mademoiselle Jeanne Angelot. There is a gentleman here desirous of meeting her, and has a strange story for her ear. Can we have a private room—"

"Mademoiselle Jeanne Angelot is in the care of the Church and her mother, who has come to claim her;" was the emphatic reply.

"Her mother!" The man beside the Commandant stepped forward. "Her mother is dead," he said, gravely.

"The Sieur Gaston de la Touche Angelot, better known by repute as the White Chief of the Island," announced the officer; and the guest bowed to them all.

The woman fell on her knees and bowed her head to the floor. The man glanced about the small concourse. He was tall, nearer forty than thirty, of a fine presence, and, though bronzed by exposure, was handsome, and not only that, but noble as to face; the kind of man to compel admiration and respect, and with the air of authority that sways in an unquestioning manner. His eyes rested on the girl. The same proud bearing, though with virginal softness and pliability, the same large steady eyes, both with the wondering look as they rushed to each other's glance.

"If the tale I have heard, or rather have pieced out from vague bits and suggestions, and the similarity of name be true, I think I have a right to claim this girl as my daughter, supposed dead for years. There were some trinkets found on her, and there were two initials wrought in her fair baby limb by my hand. Can I see these articles?"

Then he crossed to the girl and studied her from head to foot, smiled with a little triumph, and faced the astonished group.

"I have marked her with my eyes as well," he said with a smile. "Jeanne, do you not feel that the same blood flows through our veins? Does not some mysterious voice of nature assure you that I am your father, even before the proofs are brought to light? You must know—"

Ah, did she not know! The voice spoke with no uncertain sound. Jeanne Angelot went to her father's arms.

The little group were so astounded that no one spoke. The woman still knelt, nay, shriveled in a little heap.

"She has fainted," and one of the sisters went to her, "Help, let us carry her into the next room."

They bore her away. Father Gilbert turned fiercely to the Sieur Angelot.

"There might be some question as to rights in the child," he said, in a clear, cold tone. "When did the Sieur repudiate his early marriage? He has on his island home a new wife and children."

"Death ends the most sacred of all ties for this world. Coming to meet me the party were captured by a band of marauding Indians. Few escaped. Months afterward I had the account from one of the survivors. The child's preservation must have been a miracle. And that she has been here years—" he pressed her closer to his heart.

"Monsieur Angelot, I think you will not need us in the untangling of this strange incident, but we shall be glad to hear its ending. I shall expect you to dine with me as by previous arrangement. I wish you might bring your pretty daughter."

The Commandant bowed to the company and turned, attended by his suite. When their soldierly tread had ceased on the steps, Father Gilbert confronted the White Chief.

"Your wife," he began in an authoritative tone, fixing his keen eyes on the Sieur Angelot, "your wife whom you tempted from her vows and unlawfully married is still alive. I think she can demand her child."

Jeanne clung closer to her father and his inmost soul responded. But aloud he exclaimed in a horrified tone, "Good God!" Then in a moment, turning almost fiercely to the priest, "Why did she give away her child and let it be thought a foundling? For if the story is true she has been little better than a waif, a foundling of Detroit."

"She was dying and intended to send it to you. She had to intrust it to a kind-hearted squaw. What happened then will never be known, until one evening it was dropped in the lap of this Pani woman who has been foster mother."

"Is this so, Jeanne?" He raised the flushed face and looked into the eyes with a glance that would have been stern had it not been so full of love.

"It is so," she made answer in a soft, clear voice. "She has been a mother to me and I love her. She is old and I will never be separated from her."

"There spoke the loyal child. And now, reverend father, where is this wife? It is a serious complication. But if, as you say, I married her unlawfully—"

"You enticed her from the convent." There was the severity of the judge in the tone.

"Parbleu! It did not need much enticing," and a half smile crossed his handsome face while his eyes softened. "We were both in love and she abhorred the monotony of convent life. We were of different faiths; that should have made me pause, but I thought then that love righted everything. I was of an adventurous turn and mightily stirred by the tales of the new world. Huguenot faith was not in favor in France, and I resolved to seek my fortunes elsewhere. She could not endure the parting. Yes, Father, since she had not taken any vow, not even begun her novitiate, I overpersuaded her. We were married in my faith. We came to this new world, and in Boston this child was born. We were still very happy. But I could not idle my life doing things befitting womankind. We came to Albany, and there I found some traders who told stirring tales of the great North and the fortunes made in the fur trade. My wife did oppose my going, but the enthusiasm of love, if I may call it so, had begun to wane. She had misgivings as to whether she had done right in marrying me—"

"As a true daughter of the Church would," interrupted the priest severely.

"I was willing that she should return to her own faith, which she did. I left her in good hands. Fortune favored me. I liked the stir and excitement, the out-of-door life, the glamour of adventures. I found men who were of the same cast of mind. To be sure, there were dangers, there was also the pleasure and gratification of leadership, of subduing savage natures. When I had resolved to settle in the North I sent to my wife by a messenger and received answer that since I thought it best she would come to me. I felt that she had no longing for the wild life, but I meant to do my utmost to satisfy her. There was her Church at St. Ignace, there were kindly priests, and some charming and heroic women. With my love to shield her I felt she must be happy. There was a company to leave Albany, enough it was thought to make traveling safe, for Indians were still troublesome. I made arrangements for her to join them, and was to meet them at Detroit. Alas! word came that, while they were still some distance from their point of embarkation on Lake Erie, they were set upon and massacred by a body of roving Indians. Instead of my beloved wife I met one of the survivors in Detroit and heard the terrible story. Not a woman in the party had escaped. The Indians had not burthened themselves with troublesome prisoners. I returned to Michilimackinac with a heart bowed down with grief. There was the comfortable home awaiting my wife, made as pretty as it had been possible to do. I could not endure it and joined some members of the company going to Hudson Bay. I made some fresh efforts to learn if anything further had been heard, but no word ever came. It is true that I married again. It does not seem possible that a once wedded wife should have lived all these years and made no effort to communicate with her husband, who, after all, could have been found. And though for years I have been known as the White Chief, from a curious power I have gained over the Indians, the hunters, and traders, I am also known as the Sieur Angelot."

He stood proudly before them, his handsome, weather-bronzed face bearing the impress of truth, his eyes shining with the clearest, highest honor. The child Jeanne felt the stiffening of every muscle, and it went through her with a thrill of joy.

"It is a long story," began Father Rameau, gently, "a strange one, too. Through the courage and craftiness of a Miami squaw, who had been a sort of maid to Madame Angelot, she escaped death. They hid in the woods and subsisted on anything they could find until Madame could go no farther. She thought herself dying, and implored the woman to take her babe to Detroit and find its father, and she lay down in a leafy covert to die. In that hour she repented bitterly of her course in leaving the convent and listening to a forbidden love. She prayed God to believe if it were to do over again she would hearken to the voice of the Church, and hoped this fervent repentance would be remembered in her behalf. Then she resigned herself to death. But in the providence of the good All Father she was rescued by another party and taken to a farmhouse not far distant. Here were two devoted women who were going to Montreal to enter the convent, and were to embark at a point on Lake Ontario, where a boat going North would touch. They nursed her for several weeks before she was able to travel, and then she decided to cast in her lot with them. Her husband, no doubt, had the child. She was dead to the world. She belonged henceforward to the Church and to the service of God. Moreover, it was what she desired. She had tried worldly love and her own will, and been unhappy in it. Monsieur, she was born for a devotee. It was a sad mistake when she yielded to your persuasions. Her parents had destined her for the convent, and she had a double debt to pay. The marriage was unlawful and she was absolved from it."

"Then I was free also. It cannot bind on one side and loose on the other. I believe you have said rightly. She was not happy, though I think even now she will tell you that I did all in my power. I did not oppose her going back to her first faith, although then I would have fought against this disruption of the marriage tie."

"It was no marriage in God's sight, with a heretic," interposed Father Gilbert. "She repented her waywardness bitterly. God made her to see it through sore trial. But the child is hers."

"Not when you admit that she sent it to me, gave me the right," was the confident reply.

He pressed Jeanne closer and with a strength that said, "I will fight for you." The proud dignity of his carriage, the resolution in his face, indicated that he would not be an easy enemy to combat. There was a strange silence, as if no one could tell what would be the next move. He broke it, however.

"The child shall decide," he said. "She shall hear her mother's story, and then mine. She shall select with whom she will spend the coming years. God knows I should have been glad enough to have had her then. By what sad mistake fate should have traversed the mother's wishes, and given her these wasted years, I cannot divine."

They were only to guess at that. The Miami woman had grown tired of her charge, so unlike the papooses of the Indian mothers. Then, too, it was heavy to carry, difficult to feed. She met a party of her own tribe and resolved to cast in her destiny with them. They were going into Ohio to meet some scattered members of their people, and to effect a union with other Indian nations, looking to the recovery of much of their power. She went up to Detroit in a canoe, and, taking the sleeping child, reconnoitered awhile; finally, seeing Pani sitting alone under a great tree, she dropped the child into her lap and ran swiftly away, feeling confident the father would in some way discover the little one, since her name was pinned to her clothing. Then she rowed rapidly back, her Indian ideas quite satisfied.

"I wonder if I might see"—what should he call her?—"Jeanne's mother."

Word came back that the nun was too much enfeebled to grant him an interview. But she would receive the child. Jeanne clung to her father and glanced up with entreating eyes.

"I will wait for you. Yes, see her. Hear her story first." The child followed the sister reluctantly. Sieur Angelot, who had been standing, now took a seat.

"I should like to see the trinkets you spoke of—and the clothes," he said with an air of authority.

Father Rameau brought them. Father Gilbert and the sister retired to an adjoining room.

"Yes," the Sieur remarked, "this is our miniature. It was done in Boston. And the ring was my gift to the child when she was a year old; it was much too big," and he smiled. "And the little garments. You are to be thanked most sincerely for keeping them so carefully. Tell me something about the life of the child."

Father Rameau had been so intimately connected with it, that he was a most excellent narrator. The episode with the Bellestres and Monsieur's kindly care, the efforts to subdue in some measure the child's wildness and passion for liberty, which made the father smile, thinking of his own exuberant spirits and adventures, her affection for the Indian woman, her desultory training, that Father Rameau believed now had been a sinful mistake, her strange disappearance—

"That gave me the clew," interrupted his hearer. "By some mysterious chain of events she was brought to her father's house. I was up North at the time, and only recently heard the story. The name Jeanne Angelot roused me. There could not be a mistake. Some miracle must have intervened to save the child. Then I came at once. But you think she—the mother—believes her marriage was a sin?" What if she still cared?

The Sieur asked it with great hesitation. He thought of the proud, loving wife, the spirited, beautiful boys, the dainty little daughter—no, he could not relinquish them.

"She is vowed to the Church now, and is at rest. Nothing you can say will disturb her. The good Bishop of Montreal absolved her from her wrongful vow. While we hold marriage as sacred and indissoluble, it has to be a true marriage and with the sanction of the Church. This had no priestly blessing or benediction. And she repented of it. For years she has been in the service of the Lord."

He was glad to hear this. Down in his heart he knew how she had tormented her tender conscience with vain and rigorous questions and had made herself unhappy in pondering them. But he thought their new life together would neutralize this tendency and bring them closer in unison. Had she, indeed, made such a sad mistake in her feelings as to give him only an enthusiastic but temporary affection, when she was ready to throw up all the beliefs and the training of her youth? But then the convent round looked dreary to her.

Jeanne came from the room where she had been listening to her mother's story of self-blame and present abhorrence for the step she had so unwisely taken in yielding to one who should have been nothing to her.

"But you loved him then!" cried Jeanne, vehemently, thinking of the other woman whose joy and pride was centered in the Sieur Angelot.

"It was a sinful fancy, a temptation of the evil one. I should have struggled against it. I should have resigned myself to the life laid out for me. A man's love is a delusion. Oh, my child, there is nothing like the continual service of God to keep one from evil. The joys of the world are but as dust and ashes, nay, worse, they leave an ineradicable stain that not even prayer and penance can wash out. And this is why I have come to warn, to reclaim you, if possible. When I heard the story from a devoted young sister, whose name in the world was Berthe Campeau, I said I must go and snatch the soul of my child from the shadow of perdition that hangs over her."

Berthe Campeau! How strange it was that the other mother, nearing the end of life, should have plead with her child to stay a little longer in the world and wait until she was gone before she buried herself in convent walls!

Was it a happy life, even a life of resignation, that had left such lines in her mother's face? She was hardly in the prime of life, but she looked old already. Instead of being drawn to sympathize with her, Jeanne was repelled. Her mother did not want her for solace and human love and sympathy, but simply to keep her from evil. Was affection such a sin? She could love her father, yes, she could love M. St. Armand; and the Indian woman with her superstitions, her ignorance, was very, very dear. And she liked brightness, happy faces, the wide out-of-doors with its birds' songs, its waving trees, its fragrant breathing from shrub and flower that filled one with joy. Pani kissed her and clasped her to her heart, held her in her arms, smoothed the tangled curls, sometimes kissed them, too, caressed her soft, dainty hands as if they were another human being. This woman was her mother, but there was no passionate longing in her eyes, no tender possessing grasp in the hands that lay limp and colorless on her black gown. And Jeanne would have been still more horrified if she had known that those eyes looked upon her as part of a sinful life she had overcome by nights of vigil and days of solitude in work and prayer that she had once abhorred and fled from. Yet she pitied her profoundly. She longed to comfort her, but the nun did not want the comfort of human love.

"No, I cannot decide," Jeanne cried, and yet she knew in her soul she had decided.

She came out to her father with tears in her eyes, but the shelter of his arms was so strong and safe.

"Reverend fathers," the Sieur Angelot said, with a grave inclination of the head, "I thank you for your patience and courtesy. I can appreciate your feelings, too, but I think the law will uphold me in my claim to my daughter. And in my estimation Jeanne de Burre committed no sin in marrying me, and I would ever have been a faithful husband to her. But the decision of the Church seems most in consonance with her feelings. I have the honor of wishing you good day."



CHAPTER XIX.

THE HEART OF LOVE.

"And now," began the Sieur Angelot, when they were out in the sunshine, the choicest blessing of God, and had left the bare, gloomy room behind them, "and now, petite Jeanne, let us find thy Indian mother."

Was there a prouder or happier girl in all Old Detroit than Jeanne Angelot? The narrow, crooked streets with their mean houses were glorified to her shining eyes, the crowded stores and shops, some of them with unfragrant wares, and the motley crowd running to and fro, dodging, turning aside, staring at this tall, imposing man, with his grand, free air and his soldierly tread, a stranger, with Jeanne Angelot hanging on his arm in all the bloom and radiance of girlhood. Several knew and bowed with deference.

M. Fleury came out of his warehouse.

"Mam'selle Jeanne, allow me to present my most hearty and sincere congratulations. M. St. Armand insisted if the truth could be evolved it would be found that you belonged to gentle people and were of good birth. And we are all glad it is so. I had the honor of being presented to your father this morning;" and he bowed with respect. "Mademoiselle, I have news that will give thee greatest joy, unless thou hast forgotten old friends in the delight of the new. The 'Adventure' is expected in any time to-day, and M. St. Armand is a passenger. I beg your father to come and dine with him this evening, and if thou wilt not mind old graybeards, we shall be delighted with thy company. There will be my daughter to keep thee in countenance."

"M. St. Armand!" Jeanne's face was in an exquisite glow and her voice shook a little. Her father gave a surprised glance from one to the other.

M. Fleury laughed softly and rubbed his hands together, his eyes shining with satisfaction.

"Ah, Monsieur," he exclaimed, "thou wilt be surprised at the friends Mam'selle Jeanne has in Old Detroit. I may look for thee at five this evening?"

They both promised.

Then Jeanne began to tell her story eagerly. The day the flag was raised, the after time when she had seen the brave General Wayne, the interest that M. St. Armand had taken in having her educated, and how she had struggled against her wild tendencies, her passionate love of freedom and the woods, the birds, the denizens of the forests. They turned in and out, the soldiers at the Citadel saluted, and here was Pani on the doorstep.

"Oh, little one! It seemed as if thou wert gone forever!"

Jeanne hugged her foster mother in a transport of joy and affection. What if Pani had not cared for her all these years? There were some orphan children in the town bound out for servants. To be sure, there had been M. Bellestre.

Pani did not receive the Sieur Angelot very graciously. Jeanne tried to explain the wonderful things that had happened, but Pani's age and her limited understanding made it a hard task. "Thy mother was dead long ago," she kept saying. "And they will take thee away, little one—"

"Then they will take you, too, Pani; I shall never leave you. I love you. For years there was no one else to love. And how could I be ungrateful?"

She looked so charming in her eagerness that her father bent over and kissed her. If her mother had been thus faithful!

"I shall never leave Detroit, little one. You may take up a sapling and transplant it, but the old tree, never! It dies. The new soil is strange, unfriendly."

"Do not tease her," said her father in a low tone. "It is all strange to her, and she does not understand. Try to get her to tell her story of the night you came."

At first Pani was very wary with true Indian suspicion. The Sieur Angelot had much experience with these children of the forests and wilderness. He understood their limited power of expansion, their suspicions of anything outside of their own knowledge. But he led her on skillfully, and his voice had the rare quality of persuasion, of inducing confidence. In her French patois, with now and then an Indian word, she began to live over those early years with the unstudied eloquence of real love.

"Touchas is dead," interposed Jeanne. "But there is Wenonah, and, oh, there is all the country outside, the pretty farms, the houses that are not so crowded. In the spring many of them are whitewashed, and the trees are in bloom, and the roses everywhere, and the birds singing—"

She paused suddenly and flushed, remembering the lovely island home with all its beauty.

He laughed with a pleasant sound.

"I should think there would need to be an outside. I hardly see how one can get his breath in the crowded streets," he answered.

"But there is all the beautiful river, and the air comes sweeping down from the hills. And the canoeing. Oh, it is not to be despised," she insisted.

"I shall cherish it because it has cherished thee. And now I must say adieu for awhile. I am to talk over some matters with your officers, and then—" there was the meeting with his wife. "And at five I will come again. Child, thou art rarely sweet; much too sweet for convent walls."

"Is it unkind in me? I cannot make her seem my mother. Oh, I should love her, pity her!"

There were tears in Jeanne's eyes, and her breath came with a great, sorrowful throb.

"We will talk of all that to-morrow."

"Thou wilt not go?" Pani gave her a frightened, longing look, as if she expected her to follow her father.

"Oh, not now. It is all so wonderful, Pani, like some of the books I have read at the minister's. And M. St. Armand has come back, or will when the boat is in. Oh, what a pity to be no longer a child! A year ago I would have run down to the wharf, and now—"

Her face was scarlet at the thought. What made this great difference, this sense of reticence, of waiting for another to make some sign? The frank trust was gone; no, it was not that,—she was overflowing with trust to-day. All the world was loveliness and love. But it must come to her; she could not run out to it. There was one black shadow; and then she shivered.

She told Pani the story of the morning.

The Indian woman shook her head. "She is not a true mother. She could not have left thee."

"But she thought she was dying. And if I had died there in the woods! Oh, Pani, I am so glad to live! It is such a joy that it quivers in me from head to foot. I am like my father."

She laughed for very gladness. Her mercurial temperament was born of the sun and wind, the dancing waters and singing birds.

"He will take thee away," moaned the woman like an autumnal blast.

"I will not go, then," defiantly.

"But fathers do as they like, little one."

"He will be good to me. I shall never leave you, never."

She knelt before Pani and clasped the bony hands, looked up earnestly into the faded eyes where the keen lights of only a few years ago were dulling, and she said again solemnly, "I will never leave you."

For she recalled the strange change of mood when she had repeated her full name to Miladi of the island. She was her father's true wife now, and though Jeanne could not comprehend the intricacies of the case, she could see that her father's real happiness lay in this second marriage. It took an effort not to blame her own mother for giving him up. That handsome woman glowing with life in every pulse, ready to dare any danger with him, proud of her motherhood, and, oh, most proud of her husband, making his home a temple of bliss, was his true mate. But though Jeanne could not have explained jealousy, she felt Miladi would not love her for being the Sieur Angelot's daughter. It would be better for her to remain here with Pani.

The Sieur had a deeper gravity in his face when he returned to the cottage.

The interview with Sister Veronica had been painful to both, yet there was the profounder pity on Angelot's side. For even before her husband had gone to the North she had begun to question the religious aspect of her marriage. If it was unholy, then she had no right to live in sin. And during almost two years' absence her morbid faith had grown stronger. She would go to him and ask to be released. She would leave her child in her place to make amends for her sad mistake.

Circumstances had brought about the same ending by different means. Her nurse and companion on her journey had strengthened her faith in her resolve. Arrived at Montreal she received still further confirmation of the righteousness of her course. She had been an unlawful wife. She had sinned in taking the marriage vow. It was no holy sacrament, and she could be absolved. So she began her novitiate and was presently received into the order. She fasted and prayed, she did penance in her convent cell, she prayed for the Sieur Angelot that he might be converted to the true faith. It was not as her husband, but as one might wrestle for any sinful soul. And that the child would be well brought up. She had known Berthe Campeau, sister Mary Constantia, a long while before she heard the story of the little girl who had come so mysteriously to Detroit, and who had been wild and perverse beyond anything. One day her name had been mentioned. Then she asked the Abbe to communicate with Father Rameau for particulars and had been answered. Here was a new work for her, to snatch this child from evil ways and bring her up safely in the care of the Church. She gained permission to go for her, and here again circumstances seemed to play at cross purposes.

The Sieur Angelot understood in a little while that whatever love had inspired her that night she had besought him to rescue her from a life that looked hateful to her young eyes, the passion that influenced her then was utterly dead, abhorrent to her. Better, a thousand times better, that it should be so. He could not make that eager, impetuous girl, whose voice trembled with emotion, whose kisses answered his, whose soft arms clung to his neck, out of this pale, attenuated, bloodless woman. Perhaps it was heroic to give all to her Church. Even men had done this.

"And thou art happy and satisfied in this calling, Mignonne," he half assumed, half inquired.

Did the old term of endearment touch some chord that was not quite dead, after all? A faint flush brought a wavering heat to her face.

"It is my choice. And if I can have my child to train, to keep from evil—" her voice trembled.

He shook his head. "Nay, I cannot have her bright young life thrust into the shadow for which she has no taste. She would pine and die."

"I thought so once. I should have died sooner in the other life. It is God and his holy Son who give grace."

"She will not forsake her duty to the one who has taken such kindly care of her, the Pani woman."

"She can come, too. Give me my child, it is all I ask of you. Surely you do not need her."

Her voice was roused to a certain intensity, her thin hands worked. But it seemed to him there was something almost cruel in the motion.

"I cannot force her will. It is as she shall choose."

And seeing Jeanne all eager interest in the doorway of the old cottage, he knew that she would never choose to shut herself out of the radiant sunlight.

"Here is the old gift for you, my child;" and he clasped the chain with its little locket round her neck.

Pani came and looked at it. "Yes, yes," she said. "It was on thy baby neck, little one. And there are the two letters—"

"It was cruel to prick them in the soft baby flesh," the Sieur said, smilingly. "I wonder I had the courage. They alone would prove my right. And now there is no time to waste. Will you make ready—"

"I am not often asked among the quality," and her face turned scarlet. "I have no fine attire. Wilt thou be ashamed of me?"

She looked so radiant in her girlish beauty, that it seemed to him at the moment there was nothing more to desire. And the delicious archness in her tone captivated him anew. Consign her to convent walls—never!

Mam'selle Fleury took charge of Jeanne at once and led her through the large hall to a side chamber. Not so long ago she was a gay, laughing girl, now she was a gravely sweet woman, nursing a sorrow.

"It was a sudden summons," she explained. "And we could not expect to know just when the child grew into a maiden. Therefore you will not feel hurt, that I, having a wider experience, prepared for the occasion. Let me arrange your costume now. I had this frock when I was of your age, though I was hardly as slim. How much you are like your father, child!"

"I think he was a little hurt that I had nothing to honor you with," Jeanne said, simply.

"Monsieur Loisel was saying that you needed a woman's hand, now that you were outgrowing childhood."

She drew off Jeanne's plain gown; and though this was simple for the fashion of the day, it transformed the child into a woman. The long, pointed bodice, the square neck, with its bordering of handsome lace, showing the exquisite throat sloping into the shoulders and chest, the puffings that fell like waves about the hips and made ripples as they went down the skirt, the sleeves ending at the elbow with a fall of lace, and her hair caught up high and falling in a cascade of curls, tied with a great bow that looked like a butterfly, changed her so that she hardly knew herself.

"O, Mam'selle, you have made me beautiful!" she cried, in delight. "I shall be glad to do you honor, and for the sake of M. St. Armand; but my father would love me in the plainest gown."

Mam'selle smiled over her handiwork. But Jeanne's beauty was her own.

She had grown many shades fairer during the winter, and had not rambled about so much nor been on the water so often. Her slim figure, in its virginal lines, was as lissome as the child's, but there was an exquisite roundness to every limb and it lent flexibility to her movements. A beautiful girl, Mademoiselle Fleury acknowledged to herself, and she wondered that no one beside M. St. Armand had seen the promise in her.

The Sieur Angelot had been presented to the guest so lately returned from abroad.

"I desire to thank you most heartily, Monsieur St. Armand," M. Angelot began, "for an unusual interest in my child that I did not know was living until a few weeks ago. She is most enthusiastic about you. Indeed, I have been almost jealous."

St. Armand smiled, and bowed gracefully.

"I believe I shall prove to you that I had a right, and, if my discovery holds good, we are of some distant kin. When I first heard her name a vague memory puzzled me, and when I went to France I resolved to search for a family link almost forgotten in the many turns there have been in the old families in my native land. Three generations ago a Gaston de la Touche Angelot gave his life for his religious faith. Those were perilous times, and there was little chance for freedom of belief."

"He was my grandfather," returned the Sieur Angelot gravely. "We have been Huguenots for generations. More than one has died for his faith."

"And he was a cousin to my father. I am, as you see, in the generation before you. And I am glad fate or fortune, as you will, has brought about this meeting. When I learned this fact I said: 'As soon as I return to America I shall search out this little girl in Old Detroit and take her under my care. There will be no one to object, no one who will have a better right.' I am all curiosity to know how on your side you made the discovery."

There was a rustle of silken trains in the hall. Madame Fleury entered in a stiff brocade and a sparkle of jewels, Mam'selle in a softer, though still elegant attire, and Jeanne, who stood amazed at the eyes bent upon her; even her father was mute from very surprise.

"Oh, my sweet Jeanne," began M. St. Armand, smilingly, "thou hast strangely outgrown the little girl I used to know. Memory hath cheated me in the years. For the child that kept such a warm place in my heart hath grown into a woman, and not only that, but hath a new friend and will not need me."

"Monsieur, no one with remembrance in her heart can so easily give up an old friend who made life brighter and happier for her, and who kindled the spark of ambition in her soul. I think even my father owes you a great debt. I might still have been a wild thing, haunting the woods and waters Indian fashion, and, as one might say, despising civilized life," smiling with a bewitching air. "I thank you, Monsieur, for your interest in me. For it has given me a great deal of happiness, and no doubt saved me from some foolish mistakes."

She had proffered him her dainty hand at the beginning of her speech, and now with a charming color she raised her eyes to her father. One could trace a decided likeness between them.

"Monsieur St. Armand has done still more," subjoined her father. "He has taken pains while in France to hunt up bygone records, and found that the families are related. So you have not only a friend but a relative, and I surely will join you in gratitude."

"I am most happy." She glanced smilingly from one to the other. Mam'selle Fleury watched her with surprise. The grace, ease, and presence of mind one could hardly have looked for. "It is in the blood," she said to herself, and she wished, too, that she had made herself a friend of this enchanting girl.

Then they moved toward the dining room. M. Fleury took in Jeanne as the honored guest, and seated her at his right. The Sieur Angelot was beside the hostess. The conversation in the nature of the startling incidents was largely personal and between the two men. Mam'selle Fleury was deeply interested in the adventures of the Sieur Angelot, detailed with spirit and vivacity. Jeanne's varying color and her evident pride in her father was delightful to witness. That he and this elegant St. Armand should have sprung from the same stock was easy to believe. While the gentlemen sat over their wine and cigars Mam'selle took Jeanne to the pretty sitting room that she had once visited with such awe. It was odorous with the evening dew on the vines outside and the peculiar fragrance of sweetbrier.

"What an odd thing that you should have been carried off by Indians and taken to your father's house!" she began. "And this double marriage—though the Church had annulled your mother's. We have heard of the White Chief, but no one could have guessed you were his child. It is said—your mother desires you—" Mam'selle hesitated as if afraid to trench on secret matters, and not sure of the conclusion.

"She wishes me to go into the convent. But I am not like Berthe Campeau. I should fret and be miserable like a wild beast in a cage. If she were ill and needed a nurse and affection, I should be drawn to her. And then, I am not of the same faith."

"But—a mother—"

"O Mam'selle, she doesn't seem like my mother. My father kissed me and held me in his arms at once and my whole heart went out to him. I feel strange and far away from her, and she thinks human love a snare to draw the soul from God. O Mam'selle, when he has made the world so beautiful with all the varying seasons, the singing birds and the blooms and the leaping waters that take on wonderful tints at sunrise and sunset, how could one be shut away from it all? There is so much to give thanks for in the wide, splendid world. It must be better to give them with a free, grateful heart."

"I have had some sorrow, and once I looked toward convent peace with secret longing. But my mother and father said, 'Wait, we both shall need thee as we grow older.' There is much good to be done outside. And one can pray as I have learned. I cannot think human ties are easily to be cast aside when God's own hand has welded them."

"And she sent me to my father. I feel that I belong to him;" Jeanne declared, proudly.

"He is a man to be fond of, so gracious and noble. And his island home is said to be most beautiful."

Jeanne gave an eloquent description of it and the two handsome boys with their splendid mother. Mam'selle wondered that there was no jealousy in her young heart. What a charming character she had! Why had not she taken her up as well, instead of feeling that M. St. Armand's interest was much misplaced? She might have won this sweet child's affection that had been lavished upon an old Indian woman. At times she had hungered for love. Her sister was away, happily married, with babies clinging to her knees, and the sufficiency of a gratified life.

Jeanne was sitting upon a silken covered stool, her round arm daintily reclining on the other's knee. The elder bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You belong to love's world," she said.

Then the gentlemen entered. Mam'selle played on the harpsichord, and there was conversation until it was time to go.

"You will come again," she exclaimed. "I shall want to see you, though I know what your decision will be, and I think it right. And now will you keep this gown as a little gift from me? You may want to go elsewhere. My mother and I will be happy to chaperon you."

Jeanne looked up, wide-eyed and grateful. "Every one has always been so good to me," she rejoined. "Then I will not take it off. It will be such a pleasure to Pani. I never thought to look so lovely."

Both gentlemen attended her home, and gave her a tender good night.

Pleasant as the evening was Pani hovered over a handful of fire. Jeanne threw some fir twigs and broken pieces of birch bark on the coals, and the blaze set the room in a glow. "Look, Pani!" she cried, and then she went whirling round the room, her eyes shining, her rose red lips parted with a laugh.

"It is a spirit." Pani shook her head and her eyes, distended, looked frightened in the gleam of the fire. "Little Jeanne has gone, has gone forever."

Yes, little Jeanne had gone. She felt that herself. She was gay, eager, impetuous, but something new had stolen mysteriously over her.

"Little Jeanne can never go away from you, Pani. Make room in your lap, so; now put your arms about me. Never mind the gown. Now, am I not your little one?"

Pani laughed, the soft, broken croon of old age.

"My little one come back," she kept repeating in a delighted tone, stroking the soft curls.

The next morning M. St. Armand came for a long call. There was so much to talk over. He felt sorry for the poor mother, but he, too, objected strenuously to Jeanne being persuaded into convent life. He praised her for her perseverance in studying, for her improvement under limited conditions. Then he wondered a little about her future. If he could have the ordering of it!

That afternoon Father Rameau came for her. A ship was to sail the next day for Montreal, and her mother would return in it. But when he looked in the child's eyes he knew the mother would go alone. Had he been derelict in duty and let this lamb wander from the fold? Father Gilbert blamed him. Even the mother had rebuked him sharply. Looking into the child's radiant face he understood that she had no vocation for a holy life. Was not the hand of God over all his children? There were strange mysteries no one could fathom. He uttered no word of persuasion, he could not. God would guide.

To Jeanne it was an almost heart-breaking interview. Impassioned tenderness might have won, to lifelong regret, but it was duty, the salvation of her soul always uppermost.

"Still I should not be with you," said Jeanne. "I should take up a strange life among strangers. We could not talk over the past, nor be the dearest of human beings to each other—"

"That is the cross," interrupted the mother. "Sinful desires must be nailed to it."

And all her warm, throbbing, eager life, her love for all human creatures, for all of God's works.

Jeanne Angelot stood up very straight. Her laughing face grew almost severe.

"I cannot do it. I belong to my father. You sent me to him once. I—I love him."

The mother turned and left the room. At that instant she could not trust herself to say farewell.



CHAPTER XX.

THE LAST OF OLD DETROIT.

The Sieur Angelot was gladly consulted on many points. The British still retained the command of the Grand Portage on Lake Superior, and the Ottawa river route to the upper country. By presents and subsidies they maintained an influence over the savages of the Northwest. The different Indian tribes, though they might have disputes with each other, were gradually being drawn together with the desire of once more sweeping the latest conquerors out of existence.

The fur company endeavored to keep friendly with all, and the Indians were well aware that much of their support must be drawn from them. The new governor was expected shortly, and Detroit was to be his home.

The Sieur Angelot advised better fortifications and a larger garrison. Many points were examined and found weak. The general government had been appealed to, but the country was poor and could hardly believe, in the face of all the treaties, there could be danger.

There was also the outcome of the fur trade to be discussed with the merchants, and new arrangements were being made, for the Sieur was to return before long.

Jeanne had spent a sorrowful time within her own soul, though she strove to be outwardly cheerful. June was upon them in all its glory and richness. Sunshine scattered golden rays and made a clarified atmosphere that dazzled. The river with rosy fogs in the morning, the quivering breath of noon when spirals of yellow light shot up, changing tints and pallors every moment, the softer purplish coloring as the sun began to drop behind the tree tops, illuminating the different shades of green and intensifying the birches until one could imagine them white-robed ghosts. The sails on the river, the rambles in the woods, were Jeanne's delight once more, and with so charming a companion as M. St. Armand, her cup seemed full of joy.