“He was yesterday. M. Marchand saw him. Will you go?” “You had better have Mère Lunde. I am busy. But if I can find time I will walk down and meet you. And—Renée, do not go in.” “I will heed,” she answered smilingly. The road was hardly broken outside the stockade. Once or twice she slipped and fell into the snow, but it was soft and did not hurt her. Mère Lunde grumbled a little. “There is a smoke coming from the chimney,” Renée cried joyfully. “Let us go around to the kitchen door.” They knocked two or three times. They could hear a stir within, and presently the door was opened a mere crack. “Grandfather,” the child began, “I have come to wish you a good Christmas. I am sorry you were not at church to hear how the little babe Jesus was born for our sakes, and how glad all the stars were, even, so glad that they sang together. And I have brought you some small gifts, a cake I made for you, alone, yesterday. You made me such a beautiful gift last year when I was ill.” “And you’ve come for another! That’s always the way,” he returned gruffly. “No, grandfather, I do not want anything, only to give you this basket with good wishes and tell you that I am well and happy,” she said in a proud, sweet voice, and set the basket down on the stone at the doorway. “It would not be quite right for you to give me anything this year.” Her gray fur cloak covered her, and her white fur cap over her fair curls gave her a peculiar daintiness. “Good-by,” she continued, ”with many good wishes.” He looked after her in a kind of dazed manner. And she did not want anything! True, she had enough. Gaspard Denys took good care of her—_he_ was too old to be bothered with a child. But she skipped along very happily. The Marchands were coming in to supper, and in the meanwhile she and Mère Lunde would concoct dainty messes. She would not go out sledding with the children lest she should take cold again. It was all festival time now. It seemed as if people had nothing to do but to be gay and merry. Fiddling and singing everywhere, and some of the voices would have been bidden up to a high price in more modern times. And on New Year’s day the streets were full of young men who went from door to door singing a queer song, she thought, when she came to know it well afterward. Part of it was, “We do not ask for much, only the eldest daughter of the house. We will give her the finest of the wine and feast her and keep her feet warm,” which seemed to prefigure the dance a few days hence. Sometimes the eldest daughter would come out with a contribution, and these were all stored away to be kept for the Epiphany ball. In the evening they sang love songs at the door or window of the young lady to whom they were partial, and if the fancy was returned or welcomed the fair one generally made some sign. And then they said good-night to the master and mistress of the household and wished them a year’s good luck.