“Oh, Uncle Gaspard!” and she hid her face on his breast, while her arms went around his neck. “The best out of my life is hardly good enough for you. I give you my boy with my whole heart.” André Valbonais said the same thing. So the Governor and the priest settled all the legal points, and this, with the certificate of his birth and baptism and the will of his godfather, Gaspard Denys, were locked up in a strong box for any time that they might be needed. A bright, sturdy little fellow was Gaspard, extravagantly fond of his grandfather and his constant companion. He had his mother’s soft brown eyes and her curly hair. One afternoon when the sun had lain warm and golden all about, Renée Valbonais sat sewing on the wide porch that had been pushed out large enough for a room. Overhead and at the sides it was a cluster of vines and blossoming things that shook out fragrance with every waft of wind. The baby was tumbling about and chattering in both French and Spanish, for he picked up words easily. Sheba, the nurse, and Chloe were just outside in the garden. Mère Lunde was napping in her easy-chair. It was a pretty picture of comfort. Renée merely glanced up as a young man entered the gate and looked about him with a touch of uncertainty. Some message from her husband, doubtless. It was so tranquil they might go out in the canoe. He came up slowly and then paused, glanced hesitatingly at her, taking off his cap and bowing. His attire was well worn, but different from the common habiliments. His figure and air was that of the cities—she had seen such young men in New Orleans. “Is it—Madame Valbonais?” he asked. The voice was cultured and with a peculiar richness. The hand that held the cap was slim and white as a girl’s. His complexion was clear, with the faintest suggestion of olive, but rather pale, though the warmth had given a tint of color to the cheeks. “I am Madame Valbonais,” gently inclining her head with a charming graciousness. “And a De Longueville by birth?” The accent was such a pure musical French that this time she smiled as she nodded. “You do not know—at least you may not remember, but a long while ago, it seems, you came to Paris and were being sent to the New World, America. You were at the Hôtel de Longueville, and there were two little boys——” “Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes dilating as a sudden suspicion—knowledge, indeed—seemed to electrify her. “Oh, you are—” and her voice failed. “I am one of the little boys, the eldest, Robert de Longueville. And my father was your father also. Mine is a sad story, madame, though it began fair enough. I have come to the New World, where I have not a friend. All I knew was that you had a grandfather in St. Louis and were sent thither. You must pardon me, madame——” His voice broke a little and his eyes were downcast.