There was always a big kettle standing on the coals with four short legs holding it up. Mère Lunde raked out the ashes and pushed the flaming brands under it. Gaspard exhumed an armful of corn from a big box in the shop. “Drop them in,” she said. “A dozen or so.” “Oh, yes, I know now.” He nodded in a satisfied fashion, for he had faith in the remedy. Soon the water bubbled up and the fragrance of the steaming corn diffused itself about the room. Mère Lunde went to the bed and put a thick blanket under the child. Then the ears were laid about her and she was rolled up like a mummy. The woman raised her head a trifle and forced a potion down her throat that almost strangled her. Spreading blankets over her, she tucked her in securely, and, patting the top one, meant for love to the child, she turned away. “Well people must eat for strength, and Christmas day is no time for fasting. Come.” But Gaspard Denys was in no mood for eating. He had never thought of Renée being ill. He knew of some children who had died, and there was Monsieur Laclede who looked strong enough to live to a hundred years, who had gone out of life with a fever. Oh, he could not give up his little girl! “Is that all?” he asked presently. Mère Lunde understood. “There’s no use running in and out like the mill stream, for it’s the flour that is getting ground,” she said sententiously. “Wait a bit.” He had large patience with most events of life, but here was breathless with suspense. If she had been drooping for days, but she was so merry last night. Rosalie came to the door. The children were going to Chouteau pond to skate and slide. Would not Renée join them? “Alas! Renée was very ill.” “But she must get better by to-morrow,” nodding hopefully and laughing. After that Grandpère Freneau came up, which startled Gaspard, for he had never deigned to visit his grandchild. He was sober and comparatively well dressed, and had a little gift for her, a curious inlaid box, with a trinket a girl might like. She would be well again in a few days. Children were tough and sturdy, it was the old people who had to think about ills. As for him, he was strong enough yet. Then he made a clumsy sort of bow and retreated. “I hope it will bring no bad luck,” exclaimed Mère Lunde. “But he has not a good name. I should throw the gift into the fire!” “I dare say it is of no great value.” He shook the box. “Some bits of silver with which he salves his conscience.” Mère Lunde crossed herself. He put it away in his desk. He was not superstitious, but he wished it had not happened this morning. It was quite late, but he unbarred his shop door. There was no trade now. The fall business had lasted longer than usual on account of the fine, open weather. When the cold once set in it often lasted steadily for three months. But there was plenty of pleasure. The regular trappers had gone off, but hunting parties often sallied out and returned laden with game.