As a great honor the next day, she brought out her pretty bowl and filled it with flowers. Uncle Gaspard had made a small table with a drawer that held Mère Lunde’s beads and some other choice articles, and had a shelf low down on which was kept a work-basket with sewing materials, for at times Renée was seized with a fit of devotion to her needle. On the top of the table she set the bowl. Curious eyes had followed François Marchand down the Rue de l’Eglise. For with a vanity quite natural the young girl had taken in her flight her beautifully ornamented dress that would have adorned any Indian bride. Long afterward in the Marchand family they used to display grandmère’s exquisitely worked suit. Gaspard Denys with Renée by the hand went out to the gate to bid them welcome. Renée almost stared. A slim, graceful figure of medium height, with a face that in some towns would have attracted more attention than the attire. Large, soft eyes of dusky, velvety blackness, a complexion just tinted with Indian blood, the cheeks blossoming in the most exquisite rose hue, while the lips were cherry red. Her long hair was brushed up from her straight, low brow, held with a band of glittering bead work, and falling about her shoulders like a veil, much softer and finer than ordinary Indian hair. Her short skirt had a band of shining white feathers overlapping each other, with here and there a cluster of yellow ones that resembled a daisy. The fine, elegantly dressed fawnskin was like velvet. The bodice was wrought with beads and variously colored threads and a sort of lace the Indian women made, though it was an infrequent employment, being rather tedious. Over her shoulders a cape of soft-dressed, creamy skin, with designs worked here and there in fine detail. She colored daintily on being presented to M. Denys, and he in turn brought forward his little protégé, who held up her head proudly and felt almost as tall. But a second glance conquered Renée. She proffered both hands cordially. “Oh, I am sure I shall like you,” she cried frankly. How could any one help adoring so much beauty! For Renée was not envious of beauty alone. The young wife took the hands with glad pressure, and they went in together. “Here is a friend who remembers you,” said Denys to Marchand. “Her son died, and at that juncture I wanted a housekeeper. She fits in admirably.” Mère Lunde trembled with delight when he shook her hand so heartily and expressed his pleasure at seeing her again, declaring that she had grown younger instead of older, which was true enough, so great a restorer is freedom from care and fear of coming want. “But the child?” said Marchand with curiosity in his eyes.