It had been whitewashed, and the puncheon floor—laid in most houses, it being difficult to get flat boards—stained a pretty reddish color. The window had a curtain hung to it, some of the Canadian stuff. One corner had been partitioned off for a closet. There was a box with a curtain tacked around it, and a white cover over it, to do duty as a dressing-table. There were two rustic chairs, and some pretty Indian basket-like pouches had been hung around. “Oh, oh!” she cried in delight. “Why, it is as pretty as Ma’m’selle Barbe’s—almost as pretty,” correcting herself. “And can I not come at once?” “There must be a bed for you to sleep on, though we might sling a hammock.” “And Mère Lunde?” “Come through and see.” In one corner of this, which was the ordinary living room, was a sort of pallet, a long box with a cover, in which Mère Lunde kept her own belongings, with a mattress on the top, spread over with a blanket, answering for a seat as well. She had despoiled her little cottage, for Gaspard Denys had said, “It is a home for all the rest of your life if you can be content,” and she had called down the blessings of the good God upon him. So, here were shelves with her dishes, some that her mother had brought over to New Orleans as a bride; china and pewter, and coarse earthenware acquired since, and queer Indian jars, and baskets stiffened with a kind of clay that hardened in the heating. “Welcome, little one,” she exclaimed cheerfully. “The good uncle gets ready the little nest for thee. And soon we shall be a family indeed.” She lighted a torch and stood it in the corner, and smiled upon Renée. “Oh, I shall be so glad to come!” cried the child joyfully. “And my room is so pretty.” She looked with eager eyes from one to the other. “And the garden is begun. There are vines planted by ma’m’selle’s window. In a month one will not know the place. And it is near to the church and the good father’s house.” “But I wouldn’t mind if it was a desert, so long as you both were here,” she replied enthusiastically. “We must go back, little one. They will wonder about you. Just be patient awhile.” “And thou hast no cap,” said Mère Lunde. “Oh, that does not matter; the night is warm. Adieu,” taking the hard hand in her soft one. Then she danced away and caught Gaspard’s arm. “Let us walk about a little,” she pleaded. “The moon is so beautiful.” If they went direct to the Renauds’, he would sit on the gallery and talk to Barbe. “Which way?” pausing, looking up and down. “Oh, toward the river. The moon makes it look like a silver road. And it is never still except at night.”