No one knew whether the gold-fields of La Salle’s wild dreams lay in that direction or not. There were vague speculations. Parties had started and never returned. The hardy pioneers turned their steps northward for furs. And many who heard these wild dreams in their youth, half a century later crossed the well-nigh inaccessible mountains and found the gold. And before the century was much older ships were on their way to the East of dream and fable. Barbe and Madame Renaud were out on the porch in the moonlight, and it was very bright now. Denys would not stay, and soon said good-night to them, going back to his work by a pine torch. Renée counted the days, and every one seemed longer. But at last the joyful news came. “We shall run over often,” declared Sophie, who had a fondness for the little girl in spite of childish tiffs. Renée was busy enough placing her little store of articles about, discovering new treasures, running to and fro, and visiting Mère Lunde, who had a word of welcome every time she came near. “It will be a different house, petite,” she said, with her kindly smile. The garden could not compare with the Renauds in the glory of its gay flower-beds. Two slaves of a neighbor—they were often borrowed for a trifle—were working at it. A swing had been put up for the little lady. But somehow, when the afternoon began to lengthen, when Uncle Gaspard had gone up to the Government House on some business, and Mère Lunde was in a sound doze over the stocking she was knitting, Renée felt strangely solitary. She missed the gay chat of Madame Renaud and her sister and the merriment of the children. There seemed none immediately about here. She strolled around to the front of the store; the door was locked, and it looked rather dreary. She was glad to-morrow was the day for the classes to meet. Why, it was almost as lonesome as at the old château! That evening Uncle Gaspard brought out his flute, which filled her with delight. The violin was the great musical instrument in St. Louis—the favorite in all the French settlements. But the flute had such a tender tone, such a mysterious softness, that it filled her with an indescribable joy. And there was none of the dreadful tuning that rasped her nerves and made her feel as if she must scream. Then, it was strange to sleep alone in the room when she had been with Ma’m’selle Barbe and the two girls. They were versed in Indian traditions, and some they told over were not pleasant bed-time visions. But the comfort was that all these terrible things had happened in Michigan, or a place away off, called New England; and Sophie did not care what the Indians did to the English who had driven them out of the settlements on the Illinois. So, why should she? She was still more of a French girl, because she was born in France.