“Renée,” impetuously, “you have some sorrow. You are not like yourself. What has happened?” “Yes, I have some sorrow in my heart. I cannot tell any one,” and the red lips quivered. “And you were so gay a little while ago. Oh, my darling—” His full heart overflowed in his face. She held up her hand in entreaty. “Don’t,” she said in a half-irritated way. “I shall never be any one’s darling again. And,” in something of her old imperious tone, “if I cannot have the love I want I will not have any!” He looked at her in amaze. Did she love some one else, then? He was suddenly stunned. That had never entered his thoughts. “Oh,” she exclaimed with a burst of feeling, “you have been very good to me, André. You rescued me in that dreadful peril, and I shall always be grateful. And I wish you prosperity and happiness.” Then she vanished from the garden and shut herself in her room. When Uncle Gaspard begged her to come out, as this was André’s last evening, she said her head ached and she could not bear the sound of voices. They went down to see the boats off, and the air was almost rent with good wishes. This was always a great occasion. There in the foremost one was M. Pierre Chouteau and André beside him, both waving their hands in response to the “_Bon voyage!_” from a hundred throats. The Colonel stood beside his mother, who was a proud and happy woman, and who chatted in a charming fashion with her friends and had singled out Barbe, it seemed, who had come with her niece Sophie. The line rounded the curve and began to take in the turn, and the sailors’ shouts were mere echoes. To-day the water was tranquil enough, and the heavens so blue that all the atmosphere had an extraordinary brilliance. Madame Chouteau invited some of the friends to come and dine with her. “I do not want to,” Renée said, shrinking back. “But you go, Uncle Gaspard, and take my excuse. I am not well. I shall go to bed and make Mère Lunde doctor me, and be right by to-morrow.” What was the matter with the child? She had grown pale and heavy-eyed. He had been much engrossed with the boats and André’s perplexity, and the impression that she desired to evade him, so he had made it easy for her to do so. But if she were going to be ill! She threaded her way homeward and sat for awhile under her favorite tree, looking at the vision of Barbe smiling and Uncle Gaspard listening to her attractive manner of talking and smiling back. For all the summer sunshine she was cold, and her temples throbbed with a dull pain. She did not want to cry outwardly, but within her heart seemed weeping bitter tears, and its beating was like the dull thud of pounding on lead. She startled Mère Lunde when she came in so wan and spiritless. The good woman steeped some herbs, and she did really go to bed. Uncle Gaspard did not get home until almost supper-time, and some trappers were in the shop dickering about pelts.