She turned away, then stopped. “Ah! But I forget!” she exclaimed. “Le pauvre garcon has the fatigue, yes,” she turned to Alagwa. “Come with me, jeune monsieur,” she said; “and you shall rest. Oh! but it is that you remind me of my own son, he who has gone to the blessed angels. Come!” Without waiting for comment the big French woman threw her arm around Alagwa’s shoulders and hurried her into the house, past the eating men, who regarded her not at all, and on into another room. There she turned on the girl, holding out her arms. “Ah! Ma petite fille!” she cried. “Think you Fantine did not know you when you looked at her out of the face of that dear, dead Monsieur Delaroche. Have I hold you in my arms when you were the one small bebée to forget you now. Ah! non! non! non! Ah! But the men are of a blindness. The wise young man he search, search, and not know he have found already.” Alagwa’s heart melted. Suddenly she realized the strain under which she had been for the last four days. With a sob of relief she slipped into the French woman’s arms and wept her heart out on the latter’s motherly bosom. The latter soothed her gently. “There! There! Pauvre bebée,” she murmured. “Fear not! All will be right. But what has happened that you are thus?” She glanced at the girl’s masculine attire. “Ah! But it must be the great tale. Tell Fantine about it. Tell your old nurse, who adores you!” Between sobs Alagwa obeyed, pouring out the tale of all that had befallen her since the day when Captain Brito had sought her out. She held back only the real object with which she had come into the American lines. “Tecumseh sent me to find the young white chief from the far south,” she ended. “But, ma cherie,” the French woman interrupted. “Have you not found him? Why do you not tell him who you are?” The girl shook her head in panic. “Oh! No! No!” she cried. “He must not know.” “But why not?” “Because--because”--Alagwa cast about desperately for an excuse. “He would be ashamed of me,” she said. “I am so different from the women he has known.” Fantine’s eyes twinkled. Emphatically she nodded. “Different? Yes, truly, you are different,” she cried, scanning the dark, oval face, the scarlet lips, the rich hair that tangled about the broad brow. “Ah! But yes, of a truth you are different! In a few months you will be very different. But, monsieur the wise young man will not complain.” Alagwa’s eyes widened. “You--you think I will be pretty like--like the white women he has known?” she asked, shyly. “Pretty! Mother of God! She asks whether she will be pretty? Ah! Rascal that you are; to jest with your old nurse so. But--but it is not proper that you should be clothed thus--” again Fantine glanced rebukingly at the girl’s nether limbs--“or that you should travel alone with a young man. That becomes not a demoiselle of France.” The terror in the girl’s eyes came back. “But I must,” she cried. “Please--please----” “But why?”