No one came during the evening. She heard the violins and singing up the street, the fiddles and dancing down below. The fire was all out; no one wanted it after the cooking was done. There were some black charred ends and piles of ashes. It had a melancholy appearance. And then she fancied herself as old as Mère Lunde, sitting by the chimney corner, only Mère Lunde had married the man of her choice—it seemed now to Renée that every one must have done so—and though her two sons were dead, she had had them once; and everybody must die some time. But to die without having been very happy, that made her shudder. And, then, to know that one had cast it away rather than give up a whim of will. So the next day passed and the next. Sunday she and Uncle Gaspard went to church. There would only be one Sunday more for André—ten days. For her—how many? Coming down the path they glanced at each other. What wonderful languages live in the depths of the eyes! André came to her side, and then she colored and the hand he took trembled, but she did not withdraw it. They walked on homeward. She never knew whether any one spoke or not. Uncle Gaspard was lingering behind, giving thanks that he was likely to get his heart’s desire. They paused at the garden gate. He opened it for her to pass. There was midsummer richness and bloom in it, the homely every-day herbs giving out a sweetness in their plain flowering that was reviving. He followed her, but she made a little pause at the vine-clad arbor. “I am wilful and delight in my own way,” she began, and the words trembled on the fragrant air. “I am like a briar that pricks you when you would gather the rose——” “But the rose is sweet for all that. And—I will take the rose.” Then he kissed her throbbing red lips, her fluttering eyelids, just as he had dreamed of doing many a time. And the bliss was sweeter than any dream. There was not much time to waste. Mère Lunde protested at first at being left alone, but there would be Chloe, and the Marchands to look after her, and neighbors were kindly. Not much fuss was made in those days over wedding trousseaus. Often one dress went through families, was even borrowed. But Renée had no need of that. So they went to church on Sunday and heard the banns called, and every one nodded to his next neighbor with the confident air of having known it all along. The next day Gaspard Denys gave his darling away, and the priest joined their hands and blessed them. Madame Chouteau gave them the wedding feast, which was a mid-day dinner in the grand old house, much the finest residence in St. Louis. It had not the boisterousness of most weddings, for only the better part of the community were invited. Madame Chouteau could do that.