Now and then she had exchanged a word with Denys, but it seemed as if every one talked at once. He had in his mind the picture she made in the morning, but she did not look like that now. There were lines of care in her face, and the prettiness had deepened into womanly beauty. Not a question about her did Renée ask. After dinner she took some sewing and went to Madame Marchand’s, as she often did. François had been to the wharf, hurriedly constructed again, to see when the boats were likely to go down the river, since it was now considered safe. André Valbonais had told him he was going. “He came to see uncle this morning. I suppose that was what they talked about,” said Renée. The voice had the languor of indifference, and the little face, rather pale now, betrayed no emotion. It was always a busy time when a fleet of boats went down. Now, there was more talk than usual. Some of the stock had been quite spoiled by the overflow; indeed, not a little of it had been swept out of the storehouses and it had been impossible to save it. But men took their losses philosophically; they would recoup themselves another year. And they now thought it wisdom to build higher up, and leave the muddy bank to itself. André was very busy, and truth to tell, rather downhearted. He had been buoyant; it was his nature. But as he faced the actual now, and the careless demeanor of Renée, he felt like one roused from a dream and swung to the opposite verge. No, she did not care for him. Yet she had been so sweet at times! He was in and out. Mère Lunde was full of regrets. She was old and might never see him again. Renée said carelessly, “We shall all miss you. I don’t know what uncle would do if he did not have M’sieu Marchand.” She and Madame Marchand had gone to the Renauds’, as was proper. Wawataysee was charmed with the little Angelique, and they found Madame Gardepier quite different from the women of the town, except some of the higher ladies in the government circles, though she was very sweet and gracious. Renée’s heart swelled with a great jealousy. Barbe was beautiful and grand, she could not deny it. Her voice had a lingering cadence, like a rivulet in some forest depth, as if she might coax the heart out of one. Renée steeled hers in a sort of desperation. Surely she was distanced. She could not contend against these charms, any more than she could deny them. All her life was suddenly set in the shade. So she could not feel much sorrow for André’s going away; her own filled all her heart. He might have thought her quiet a sign of it, but his eyes seemed to have been curiously opened. “You will give me good wishes?” he said the last evening he came. “And—will you not say that you shall miss me?” “Of course, I shall miss you,” but the dreariness in the tone was not for him. “I shall be so much alone.” “M. Denys will be here—” He was a little puzzled. “Oh, yes! But, then——”