Ah, if he had been brave enough at twenty to fly with Renée Freneau! But would she have dared an unblessed marriage? And then neither dreamed of such a result from the journey to Canada. “I shall not blame you,” Gaspard answered gravely. “And if you want a staunch friend, here he is,” springing up and holding out his hand. “A thousand thanks, Gaspard Denys. I wanted to tell you my story. It is not for every one, only the fact that I have loved and married her. And now it grows late. Good-night.” They clasped hands again cordially. Denys shut his shop door and went through to the other room. Mère Lunde was telling over some beads. Renée sat in the chimney corner, but the fire was out long ago. “Why did you let that man talk so long to you?” with pretty imperiousness. “And I grew very sleepy. But I wanted to say good-night.” “He had much to relate, a story you will like to hear sometime. And he is coming to-morrow to bring a pretty Indian wife that he found up by the Strait of Michilimackinac. That is a long name, is it not?” “And is the strait long—as long as to the end of the millpond?” “It is of more account. It connects the big Lake Michigan with Lake Huron.” Geography had not come to be one of the studies, and the only maps were the traders’ rough outlines of journeys. She was not considering the lakes. Her thoughts were as rapid as a bird’s flight. “Is she like Mattawissa?” “Oh, younger, much younger. Only a girl. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps. They will come to dinner to-morrow. Mère Lunde,” raising his voice a little, “we shall have guests to-morrow. Give us a good dinner.” “Guests! How many?” in a cheerful tone. “Oh, only two. A young trader and his wife, a pretty Indian girl. Unless, indeed, some one else drops in.” This often happened in a town where there were no inns, and sometimes led to rather amusing episodes when a traveller mistook the wide-open doors and a bountiful table for a hostelry. “Did you see her?” asked Renée, following out her own thoughts. “No, but I have known him some time. He was a young lad here in the town, François Marchand.” Mère Lunde shut down the cover of the box that held her beads, and picked up the end of her stout apron. It always seemed to assist her memory. “Marchand. And a boy. Had he very blue eyes?” “Yes, and he has them still,” laughed Denys. “Then I know. He was a nice lad. It is a thousand pities he has married an Indian. Yes, you shall have a good dinner. Renée, it is time thou went to bed.” Renée rose and kissed Uncle Gaspard. She had, ever since her illness, that seemed to have drawn them nearer together, if such a thing had been possible.