“You had better place your daughter in a convent,” said the amiable stepmother, who had never seen the little girl but twice. “The boys will be all we can care for. I hope heaven will not send me any daughters. They must either have a large dot or striking beauty. And I am sure this girl of yours will not grow up into a beauty.” Yet her mother had been beautiful the Count remembered. And he smiled when he thought of the dower he had exacted from the old trader. No doubt there was plenty of money still, and this grandchild had the best right to it. She might like it better than convent life. Marie’s lover had emigrated two years before, and had sent her money to pay her passage. Why, it was almost a miraculous opening. So Renée de Longueville was bundled off to the new country. And now she sat here, taking furtive glances at her grandfather, who did not want her. No one in her short life had been absolutely cross to her, and she was quite used to the sense of not being wanted until she met Gaspard Denys. Of the relationships of life she knew but little; yet her childish heart had gone out with great fervor to him when he said, “I loved your mother. I ought to have married her; then you would have been my little girl.” “Why did you not?” she asked gravely. Then with sweet seriousness, “I should like to be your little girl.” “You shall be.” He pressed her to his heart, and kissed down amid the silken curls. So now she did not mind her grandfather’s objection to her; she knew with a child’s intuition he did not want her. But she could, she _did_, belong to Uncle Gaspard, and so she was safe. A better loved child might have been crushed by the knowledge, but she was always solacing herself with the next thing. This time it was the first, the very first thing, and her little heart gave a beat of joy. Yet she was growing tired and sleepy, child fashion. The two men were talking about the fur trade, the pelts that had come in, the Indians and hunters that were loitering about. It had been a long day to her, and the room was warm. The small head drooped lower with a nod. There was a pile of dressed skins one side of the room, soft and silken, Freneau’s own curing. Gaspard paused suddenly, glanced at her, then rose and took her in his arms and laid her down on them tenderly. She did not stir, only the rosy lips parted as with a half smile. “Yes, tell me what to do with her,” Antoine exclaimed, as if that had been the gist of the conversation. “You see I have no one to keep house; then I am out hunting, going up and down the river, working my farm. I couldn’t be bothered with womankind. I can cook and keep house and wash even. I like living alone. I could send her to New Orleans,” raising his eyes furtively. “You will do nothing of the kind,” said the other peremptorily. “Antoine Freneau, you owe me this child. You know I was in love with the mother.” “You were a mere boy,” retorted the old man disdainfully.