“No, I don’t mean that time,” with a shrug and a little curl of the lip. “Maybe—after a few years——” “Well?” in amused inquiry. “You might go to New Orleans and take me. Ma’m’selle Barbe has been, and she says it is so beautiful and gay.” “And you have been half over the world. Ma’m’selle has not been to Quebec nor Detroit.” “Oh, that is true enough,” laughingly. “Nor to France.” Two customers paused at the door, and he said, “Run away, dear.” So she went obediently, watched Mère Lunde at her work awhile, then strolled out to the garden spot, where two hired slaves were working. What should make them so different from white people? Where was Africa and the Guinea Coast that she heard spoken of at the Renauds’? Their lips were so thick and red and their hair so woolly. But they seemed very merry, though she could not understand a word they said; it was a queer patois. Uncle Gaspard came out presently. “Wouldn’t you like to have a flower garden?” he asked. “What is here?” She put out her small moccasined toe toward a rather stiff-looking plot of green plants. “Oh, that is Mère Lunde’s garden of herbs. All manner of things for potage, and the making of sundry remedies in which she has great faith. She will look after that.” “And must I look after mine?” “I will come and help you.” “Oh, then, I will have a garden!” she cried joyfully. CHAPTER IV THE SOWING OF A THORN It was only a short distance to the priest’s house, where the classes met. She ran off by herself. There was quite a throng of girls, though, as with most of the early Western settlers, education was not esteemed the one thing needful for girls. To make good wives was the greatest attainment they could achieve. Still, Father Lemoine labored with perseverance at the tillage of their brains on the two afternoons, and the tillage of their souls on Saturday. After the two hours were over the restless children had a run up to the Fort. The Guions there were Madame Renaud’s relatives. There was a great thicket of roses that covered the line of palings, and some ladies were having refreshments under a sort of arbor, little cakes and glasses of wine much diluted with water. “Oh, yes, come in,” exclaimed Sophie as Renée hung back. “You have been here before, you needn’t feel strange.” That was true enough. Then she had been Sophie’s guest. Now she had a curious hesitation. Elise was going around courtesying to the ladies, and answering their inquiries. Sophie stooped to play with the cat. An old lady nearest Renée handed her a plate of small spiced cakes. “You have gone to Monsieur Denys,” she said in a soft tone. “He is—” raising her eyes in inquiry. “He is my uncle.” Renée made a graceful little courtesy as she said this, and thanked the lady for the cake. “I suppose M. Denys means to settle down now,” said another. “It is high time. He ought to marry. There is nothing like a good wife.”