Renée was not going to give any one an opportunity to consider her a lovelorn maiden this time. She was gay and bright, joining the pleasure parties and dancing, ready for canoeing or rowing about on the old mill-pond in the races. She never summoned the young men to her side and bade them fetch and carry, as she used to André; she sent her admirers to this girl and that one, but somehow they always found their way back and gathered as bees about the sweetest flower. They would spend whole evenings with Denys for the sake of watching her as she sat so demurely beside the fire, now and then raising her soft brown eyes that the flame seemed to burnish with gold, or smiling vaguely at some conceit of her own instead of what the visitor said. When they were alone on rare occasions she would bring Uncle Gaspard his flute and often sing dainty little songs in the sweetest voice imaginable. Then he would listen and dream of her mother, and it seemed as if she came and sat beside them. He could see her shadowy form, he believed he could touch her with his hand. There was no sin in loving her now, since she was free from the Count de Longueville. Then came winter again. Should they go to the king’s ball? “I’m too old,” said Uncle Gaspard. “I found a white hair in my beard this morning.” “Oh, think of the fathers and grandfathers! And they dance, too. Old, indeed!” She shook her slim finger at him. “I’ve grown lazy. M. Marchand is such an excellent partner that I have very little to do.” “Oh, and you were out skating a few days ago and distanced many of the younger men! I shall not go unless you do,” resolutely. “And you have never been a queen in your own right,” he remarked with a gleam of amusement. “You ought to try your luck.” “Before _I_ get old and have to wear a coif,” shaking her head in mock despair. “Oh, let us both go!” She had to coax a good deal and insist stoutly that she would not stir a step without him. And, of course, he had to yield. She listened to the songs and the solicitations, and sent Mère Lunde out with a generous contribution. This time she did not care so much about her gown. It was pretty enough. She had a beautiful necklace that Mattawissa had given her, made of blue and white shells that came from the southerly Atlantic coast and were held in high esteem among the Indians and considered of great value in the way of trade, as they were used in wampums. They were ground in a peculiar fashion, with a small hole drilled in them and strung on a chain. In dancing, as they touched each other the jingle had a peculiar musical sound. Madame Gardepier and one of her nieces cut the cake when the midnight bell sounded. “You _must_ have a piece, Renée,” said Madame Elise Borrie, who was plump and smiling and the mother of three children. “But,” in a mischievous whisper, “they will fight to be chosen king. We shall learn who is your favorite.” “I’ve never had any luck,” returned Renée in a tone of mock disappointment.