“Ah, André!” Denys said, turning. “Come and tell this girl the welcomes that filled the air this morning, the finding of the castaways and all. You were there, and she can have it first-hand. Meanwhile, I will run down to the Renauds’ and see if Madame Gardepier is any the worse for her journey.” Renée could have cried out with vexation. Denys did not even stop to light his pipe. “Let us go in the garden, ma’m’selle. It is so beautiful in the starlight, and the air is fragrant with a hundred sweet scents. I wish you could have had the sail last night. It was the kind of thing to fill one’s soul with rapture.” “I am tired!” she cried pettishly. “That was why I refused to go with uncle. And I don’t care so much about the rescue. People are crazy, as if nothing ever happened in St. Louis before. And my head aches. I believe I will go to bed.” She sprang up impatiently. “I am sorry——” “There are plenty of girls who will be glad to have you talk to them,” she flung out, and the next moment had vanished. André looked after her. He was very much in love with her now. He had been more than charmed with the young Indian girl. He had even thought if it was true M. Marchand was dead, he would try to comfort her, to win her. But when he witnessed her love for her husband, her entire devotion, and the tone in which she once said: “I think I must have had the hope in my heart all the time that my husband was alive, and that gave me strength when it seemed as if I must drop by the wayside. And if I had not found him I should have died, because there would have been no further desire to live,” he believed her then. He knew now that must have been the end. To be loved like that! Could Fate bestow anything better? But last winter a different feeling had taken possession of him. First it was an effort to save Renée from a possible danger. He had seen considerable of Monsieur Laflamme and had no faith whatever in him. He was quite sure it was her fortune that had attracted him, for he was paying an equivocal sort of devotion to several others, or else he was just trifling with them all, taking what amusement he could in the simple pleasures of the place. And now he knew that he had a desire quite for himself! True he would have saved her from any possible evil, but he wanted her, the smiles and the sweetness she lavished on Uncle Denys and Mère Lunde, the radiance and charm that she flung here and there. He would have liked to go about and gather them up as if they were tangible things. And yet—she did not care for him. Why, then, did she claim him in dozens of dainty ways? Why did she put him between herself and other gallants when their devotion became too pronounced? André Valbonais was simple and straightforward, and had a very limited knowledge of the twists and turns in the feminine mind. Complex characters are not usual where people live truly rather than take continual thought about living.