But her throat improved and her voice cleared up, the fever grew lighter every day and she began to have some appetite. Friends came in to inquire and sympathize and bring delicacies. Madame Renaud offered her services, but no one was really needed, though the cordial, smiling face did Renée good. Ma’m’selle Barbe brought the two little girls, who looked awestricken at the pale face, where the eyes seemed bigger than ever. Uncle Gaspard made a sort of settle on which they could put some cushions and blankets so that she could be brought out to the living room and watch Mère Lunde at her work. Then he improved upon it and made it into a kind of chair with a back that could be raised and lowered by an ingenious use of notches and wooden pins. He was getting so handy that he made various useful articles, for in those days in these upper settlements there were so few pieces of furniture that could be purchased, unless some one died and left no relatives, which was very seldom. Proud enough one was of owning an article or a bit of china or a gown that was a family heirloom. “Oh,” he said one evening when she was comfortably fixed and the blaze of the great logs lighted up the room and made her pale face a little rosy, “I had almost forgotten—you have been so ill it drove most other things out of my mind. Your grandfather came up here on Christmas day and brought you a gift.” “A gift! Oh, what was it?” “Mère Lunde had not forgotten, but she had a superstitious feeling about it. I will get it for you,” Gaspard said. He returned from the adjoining room with the box in his hand. It was very securely fastened with a twisted bit of deerskin, which was often used for cord. “Open it,” she begged languidly. He cut the cord but did not raise the cover. She held it some seconds in her hand. “Uncle, do you remember you told me about a girl who opened a box and let troubles out all over the world?” “But she was bidden not to. Grandpère Antoine did not leave any such word as that,” smilingly. She raised the cover slowly. There was a bit of soft white fur in the bottom and on it lay a golden chain and a cross, with a pearl set where the arms and upright met. In the clasp was a smaller pearl. She held it up silently. “The good saints must have touched his soul!” ejaculated Mère Lunde. “A beautiful cross! It is gold?” with a questioning glance at Denys. Renée handed it to him. “Oh, yes, gold of course. And your grandfather seemed quite moved with pity for you. I saw him again this morning, but he said, ‘Oh, I did not think she would die.’” Renée’s eyes were wide open, with a startled light. “Did anybody think—that?” and her voice trembled. “You may be sure I did not,” exclaimed Denys with spirit, almost with joyousness. “I would not have let you go.” She held out both arms to him, and he clasped her to his heart. “But people are compelled to sometimes,” said Mère Lunde gravely.