“Ma’m’selle Guion has the bravest king of them all,” said a neighbor. “He is a fine fellow. I wonder, Mère Renaud, you do not fan the flame into a blaze. He is prospering, too. Colonel Chouteau speaks highly of him and holds out a helping hand. If I had daughters no one would suit me better.” Madame Renaud smiled and nodded as if she had a secret confidence. Mothers in old St. Louis were very fond and proud of their daughters and were watchful of good opportunities for them. And those who had none rather envied them. It was the cordial family affection that made life in these wilderness places delightful. Barbe was being wound up in her veil so that her pretty complexion should suffer no ill at this coldest hour of the twenty-four, after being heated in the dance. She looked very charming, very tempting. If he had been a lover he would have kissed her. “You come so seldom now,” she said in a tone of seductive complaint. “And we were always such friends when you returned from your journeys. The children have missed you so much. And Lisa wonders—” “I suppose it is being busy every day. At that time you know there was a holiday between.” “But there is no business now until spring opens,” in a pleading tone. “Except for the householder, the shopkeeper. Oh, you have no idea how ingenious I have become. And the men drop in to talk over plans and berate the Governor because things are not in better shape. We would fare badly in an attack.” “Are we in any danger from the British?” “One can never tell. Perhaps they may take up Pontiac’s wild dream of driving us over the mountains into the sea. No,” with a short laugh, “I am not much afraid. And our Indians are friendly also.” “Come, Barbe,” counselled Madame Renaud, but she took her husband’s arm and marched on ahead like an astute general. Barbe clung closely to her attendant, for in some places it was slippery. “Next time you will transfer your attentions,” she said with a touch of regret. “I wonder who will be your queen for a night?” “The prettiest girl,” he said gayly. “Madame Marchand is beautiful.” “But she is no longer a girl.” “Oh, no. You see a good deal of her, though?” “They are over often. We are excellent friends.” “Renée is quite bewitched with her.” “Yes, they are very fond of each other.” And somehow she, Barbe, was no more fond of the child than the child was of her. Madame Renaud studied her sister’s face as they were unwinding their wraps. It was rather pale, not flushed and triumphant as she hoped. Gaspared Denys stirred the fire in his shop and threw himself on a pile of skins and was asleep in five minutes. It had been a long while since he had danced all night. They all slept late. There was no need of stirring early in the morning. They made no idol of industry, as the energetic settlers on the eastern coast did. Pleasure and happiness were enough for them. It ran in the French blood.