Renounce the world? The dear, friendly world of St. Placide, the gay, joyous world of Quebec? As well might one enter the convent; for there, at least, one would have the society of the good sisters, the occupation of teaching, and the joy of devotion and worship when the congregation lift up their hearts and voices unto God. What could one do in the forest during the long winter with no books, no games, no music, no society? The ancestors were satisfied? True, but times had changed, and a new generation had arisen. Why go back to those half-savage days? Love? That was all very well now and then; but there were times when one did not wish to love, nor to be loved; when one might wish to cry, perhaps, and there would be no comforter, no one to console. Work? Yes, one might do that--cook, for example; or make garments of fur; or mend the traps; or chop wood for the fire. Yes, that was what Jean wanted--a wife to do the work of a slave, to grow old with toil and hardship. Well, let him find an Indian squaw for that; and not ask a girl from a comfortable home to share his savage existence in the wilderness. As Jean talked on, in his idealistic, unpractical way, about the glories of life in the forest, the crude realities of that life were borne in upon Gabrielle; and her heart was hardened against one who could, in the name of love, demand so great a sacrifice and offer so little in return. The smile faded from her lips, the colour from her cheeks, and the love-light from her eyes; while a grey cloud passed over the sun; and a chill breath from the North swept over the lake. Gabrielle shuddered. "Take me back, Jean. I am cold." "But, Gabrielle, it is so lovely here." "I do not find it so. Take me back to the shore." "But the sun will be shining again in a moment; and the lake, the forest, the hills, will be all aglow in the morning light." "It will not. I detest your lake, your mountains, your forest. It is a desolation, and I hate it all--all." Without a word Jean turned the prow of the canoe toward the shore; and when they reached the landing-place Gabrielle stepped out unassisted, and walked swiftly up the path, past the cabin, and on up the hill down which she had come an hour before. Jean noted the way she was going; and a few moments later he took up his pack and rifle, and with long, swift strides followed her trail up the ridge, and down the long slope on the other side. Presently he caught a glimpse of her through the trees, as she tripped along, lithe and active as a deer; and it was with no little difficulty that he kept her in sight until she came to the foot of the slope, and began to climb the shoulder of another hill. There Gabrielle slackened her pace, and turned on her pursuer with flushed face and angry eyes. "Jean, Monsieur Giroux, I will trouble you to cease following me." "I am sorry, Gabrielle, but I cannot let you go this way alone. It is dangerous at times."