"She is not dead. Dead people do not make such a noise. Maman, maman," the endearing term of childhood, "do not be so vexed. I will be a good son to you always, but I cannot make myself miserable by marrying one woman when I love another;" and he kissed her fondly, caressing her with his strong hands. The storm blew over presently. That evening when Pere De Ber heard the story he said, a little gruffly: "Let the boy alone. He is a fine son and smart, and I need his help. I am not as stout as I used to be. And, Marie, thou rememberest that thou wert my choice and not that of any go-between. We have been happy and had fine children because we loved each other. The girl is pretty and sweet." They came to neighborly sailing after a while. Jeanne knew nothing of the dispute, but one day on the river when Martin's canoe was keeping time with hers, and he making pretty speeches to her, she said:-- "It is not fair nor right that you should pay such devotion to me, Martin. Rose does not like it, and it makes bad friends. And I think you care for her, so it is only a jealous play and keeps me uncomfortable." "Rose does not care for me. She is flying at higher game. And if she cannot succeed, I will not be whistled back like a dog whose master has kicked him," cried the young fellow indignantly. "Rose has said I coquetted with you," Jeanne exclaimed with a roseate flush and courageous honesty. "I wish it was something more. Jeanne, you are the sweetest girl in all Detroit." "Oh, no, Martin, nor the prettiest, nor the girl who will make the best wife. And I do not want any lovers, nor to be married, which, I suppose, is a queer thing. Sometimes I think I will stay in the house altogether, but it is so warm and gets dreary, and out-of-doors is so beautiful with sunshine and fragrant air. But if I cannot be friends with anyone--" "We will be friends, then," said Martin Lavosse. CHAPTER XII. PIERRE. When Madame De Ber found that Pierre was growing moody and dispirited and talked of going up north again, her mother's heart relented. Moreover, she could not but see that Jeanne was a great favorite in spite of her wild forest ways and love of solitude with a book in hand. Her little nook had become a sort of court, so she went there no more, for some one was sure to track her. And the great oak was too well known. She would drop down the river and fasten her canoe in some sheltered spot, and finding a comfortable place sit and read or dream. The chapel parson was much interested in her and lent her some wonderful books,--a strange story in measured lines by one John Milton, and a history of France that seemed so curious to her she could hardly believe such people had lived, but the parson said it was all true and that there were histories of many other countries. But she liked this because Monsieur St. Armand had gone there.