July began to ripen fruits and fill the farmers with joy at the prospect of abundant crops. But Renée counted the weeks sadly. She was growing pale and thinner, and roamed about like an unquiet ghost. She would not play with the children, but rambled desolately by herself and occasionally stole down to the end of the stockade and ventured out to see her grandfather. He seemed nearly always at home now, sitting outside his neglected-looking cabin smoking his pipe and patching his clothes or making moccasins, on which he put stout soles of skin. He would nod and occasionally push a stool to her, which was the round of a log, and motion her to be seated. One day he said sharply: “Has anything been heard of Gaspard Denys? Some traders have come in.” She knew that. They had been at the shop. “They have not seen him,” she admitted sorrowfully. “There would be news if he had been killed.” “Oh! oh!” A sharp pang went to the child’s heart. To have another put her dread into words was like confirming it. “That might be,” said the old man. “The pitcher may go to the spring without spout or handle, but it gets an unlucky knock at the last.” She was silent. “He made me give you to him. He bound me with signing a paper. Then if you are his, what he has comes naturally to you. There is the house and the garden. And the shop, with all its stores. Gaspard Denys has a strong box. There may be gold and silver in it. It belongs to you.” Renée stared at him. His skin was browner than ever, and his face wrinkled in every direction. His hair was unkempt, his eyes were so squinted up that they looked like two sparks merely. “Oh,” she cried, “what should I want with it all, and no Uncle Gaspard?” “It will be a good dot. It will make you a good marriage when the time comes. And they must not get it away from you.” “They? Who?” in surprise. “That man and his half-Indian wife. Ah, I have seen people before, men who can plan adroitly. And I tell you now he shall not have it. When the time comes I shall turn him out neck and heels, and we will see! I shall not have you cheated out of your rights, Renée de Longueville.” “I don’t understand. If it is M. Marchand you mean——” and she eyed the old man resolutely. “Who asked him to come in there? Gaspard Denys locked up his place, and he and that old woman opened it. They had no right, I say.” He struck the flat stone beside him with his fist, but it did not seem to hurt that member. “It was Mère Lunde’s home. And she looks for him every day. Oh, if word came that he was dead we should both die of grief!” Her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears. “Bah! No one dies of grief. And I will keep you out of that man’s clutches. I am your grandfather and I have some rights.”