Years unmarked by any special events pass on almost unheeded. Trade came and went. A few new houses were built. Young people were married, new children were born. Families came from across the river, not liking their English neighbors over well. Occasionally there was an Indian alarm, but St. Louis had the good fortune to live mostly at peace with her red neighbors, while many of the Illinois towns suffered severely. One of the events of the summer that delighted Renée was the birth of Wawataysee’s baby. It was a great marvel to her, though there were plenty of babies about. It was more French than Indian. It had beautiful large dark eyes and was a very fine specimen of babyhood. It was named for Uncle Gaspard, who was its godfather, and Wawataysee pleaded that Renée should be godmother. “For you are the two people I love best after my husband,” said the Indian woman proudly. “You are like a little sister.” Renée was very glad to be that now. She was learning to rejoice in the happiness of others. Then Barbe Guion had a very pretty wedding, and the boat in which she was going to New Orleans was trimmed with flags. It was a long journey then, sometimes a dangerous one; less so at this season. And Barbe might be gone a whole year. There was a great turnout to wish her godspeed. She looked very bright and happy in her wedding gear. Renée took Uncle Gaspard’s hand and glanced up in his face, which was rather grave. “Are you sorry?” she asked. “Sorry? What a question, child! Why should I be sorry?” “She loved you very much,” was the answer, in a low tone. “Nonsense! I am old enough to be her father. And Barbe married of her own free will.” “I wish you had been my true father,” Renée subjoined gravely. And strange to say, she pitied Barbe in her secret heart, yet she was glad she had gone so far away. Renée went now and then to see her grandfather. It seemed as if he grew older and thinner and more morose, yet her sympathy went out to him curiously. She had heard the talk that he was suspected of being in league with the river pirates and supplying the Indians with rum, which was against the laws. One ship had been caught, the pirates overmastered, four of them sent to New Orleans in irons, and two had been wounded and drowned in an attempt to swim away. She felt a good deal troubled. He would not talk of the affair when she mentioned it. “But you are so lonely here outside the palisade. Why do you not come in?” she inquired. “It suits me well enough,” he answered roughly. “I did not ask you to stay here. And you need not come for my pleasure.” “But if the Indians should attack you some time?” “Bah! The Indians know me better,” with a scowl of disdain. “Is Antoine Freneau my grandfather really?” she asked that evening as she sat in the moonlight with Denys. “Why, yes,” in amaze at her question. “Then it would be wicked not to—to have some regard for him,” she remarked unwillingly.