Renée tossed her pretty head. For the girls in those days gossiped pretty much as they do now, and were just as eager for pleasure. André Valbonais dropped in as he often did. He was a great favorite, and now that he was doing so well under the very eyes of M. Chouteau, he could afford to have a steady sweetheart. Early marriages were much in vogue, and though a dot was very good, many a nice girl was married with only some household articles and bedding. Truth to tell, André had been very much captivated with Madame Marchand. Her bravery through those wearisome days and nights of the return, her sweetness and patience with the little one, had made her an angel to be adored. M. Marchand’s gratitude knew no bounds; indeed, he had been treated with brotherly affection by them both. Suddenly his eyes had been opened. It was an insult to any sweet, honorable woman to covet her, especially when she loved her husband as Wawataysee did. And André struggled to cast the sin out of his heart. She never even dreamed of such a thing, and for worlds he would not have incurred her displeasure. But this it was that had made him care less for the young girls about. He could not offer any of them a heart that was half another’s. So in a certain fashion he had been devoted to Renée because she was such a child, and there was no danger he believed. “There will be a great time, I suppose, at the ball,” he said, sitting by the splendid log fire at Gaspard Denys’. “One of my cousins is to dance with the new Secretary, Monsieur Rivé. He came to the mill with the Governor.” M. Cruzat was often styled that, but the real Governor of all Louisiana had his capital at New Orleans. This was the Lieutenant. “And is he very handsome?” “Oh, good-looking enough,” indifferently. “M. Laflamme will take the winning card. Renée, do not get a heartbreak over him. Take warning.” “I shall not get a heartbreak over anybody,” with a saucy smile. “Ah, your time has not yet come!” blowing out wreaths of delicate smoke. “André, I want you to dance the first dance with me.” “I am at your service, ma’m’selle. But three new young men and a pretty girl—you do me great honor,” and he made a bow, with an odd, amused smile. “Do you suppose I am going to stand around and cast wistful eyes at these strangers?” she cried with pretty, mock indignation. “And I shall be in the very first dance, too.” “I am made supremely happy, ma’m’selle.” “And if there is any—if you see me looking—well, disconsolate, you will ask me again.” There was a charming imperiousness in her tone. “I will obey, ma’m’selle, with great delight.” “And—André, who will be the prettiest girl there?” “Merci! Little one, how can I make a choice?” “I will tell you: Lucie Aubry, and she will dance with the Secretary the first thing.” “Lucie Aubry has not all the beauty of St. Louis.” “Oh, if she had, what would be left for us?” and Renée made a mirthfully despairing face. “You need not feel alarmed.”