“I do not think we are in much danger. Farther to the east the Indians are joining tribes, stirred up by the English fighting the colonists. But we have nothing to do with their quarrels. And this attack was a mortification to them. Few, if any, of our friendly Indians were concerned in it. Oh, little one, thank God that you and Wawataysee are safe.” “But M. Marchand thanks God for Wawataysee!” she said, with a touch of resentment. He smiled at that. When she was older she would demand every thought of one’s heart. “Shall we go down now?” “Mère Lunde will be so glad.” She arose and hopped gleefully on one foot, holding his hand as she went part of the way around him. The last rays of golden light in the sky made bewildering shadows and gleams about her and she looked like a fairy sprite. The town was already lapsing into quiet. No one had need to grumble at the length of working days in this pastoral town and time. Others had come in from journeys, and in more than one home feasting had begun. The boats had been fastened securely, the river was growing dark with shadows, and purple and gold clouds were drifting across the heavens. “Let us go this way,” Renée said. This way was up to the Rue de l’Eglise, and she turned into that. Here and there a friend caught his hand and he had to pause for a few words of cordial welcome. “What now, little one?” as she drew him aside. She looked up with a sweetly serious expression, though a flush of half-embarrassment wavered over the small face. “I went to church every afternoon to say a prayer for you that you might come home. I thought the good God would rather hear it in His own house—” “Did you, my little darling?” he exclaimed, deeply touched. “And now”—she hesitated—“I think I ought to go and thank Him. Men do that when the Governor grants their wishes.” “Yes, yes! And I will go, too.” Ah! there was much to be thankful for, and he felt a little conscience-smitten that he had not made more of a point of it. The church was quite dark, with a candle burning on each side of the high altar. She led him clear up to the chancel steps, and there they knelt together. The little girl might not have understood all the fine points of belief that the world had fought over since Christ had died for all, and was still warring about, but her gratitude was sincere and earnest if not spiritual, at least in a devout spirit. Gaspard Denys was moved by something he had never experienced before, and touched by the child’s tender, fervent faith. Coming out, they met old Père Rierceraux, leaning on his cane. He had been godfather to little Mary Pion, the first child baptised by Father Meurin when there had been no church at all and only a tent in the woods. The rude little building was a temple to him, and thither he came every night to see that no harm was likely to befall it, and commend it to the watchful care of God.