She lighted a torch and stood it in the corner, and smiled upon Renée.

“Oh, I shall be so glad to come!” cried the child joyfully. “And my room is so pretty.”

She looked with eager eyes from one to the other.

“And the garden is begun. There are vines planted by ma’m’selle’s window. In a month one will not know the place. And it is near to the church and the good father’s house.”

“But I wouldn’t mind if it was a desert, so long as you both were here,” she replied enthusiastically.

“We must go back, little one. They will wonder about you. Just be patient awhile.”

“And thou hast no cap,” said Mère Lunde.

“Oh, that does not matter; the night is warm. Adieu,” taking the hard hand in her soft one. Then she danced away and caught Gaspard’s arm.

“Let us walk about a little,” she pleaded. “The moon is so beautiful.” If they went direct to the Renauds’, he would sit on the gallery and talk to Barbe.

“Which way?” pausing, looking up and down.

“Oh, toward the river. The moon makes it look like a silver road. And it is never still except at night.”

That was true enough. Business ended at the old-fashioned supper time. There was one little French tavern far up the Rue Royale, near the Locust Street of to-day; but the conviviality of friends, which was mostly social, took place at home, out on the wide porches, where cards were played for amusement. The Indians had dispersed. A few people were strolling about, and some flat boats were moored at the dock, almost indistinguishable in the shade. The river wound about with a slow, soft lapping, every little crest and wavelet throwing up a sparkling gem and then sweeping it as quickly away.

From here one could see out to both ends. The semi-circular gates terminated at the river’s edge, and at each a cannon was planted and kept in readiness for use. Now and then there would be vague rumors about the English on the opposite shore. The new stockade of logs and clay surmounted by pickets was slowly replacing the worn-out one.

Renée was fain to linger, with her childish prattle and touching gestures of devotion. How the child loved him already! That a faint tint of jealousy had been kindled would have amused him if he had suspected it.

When they turned back in the Rue Royale they met M. Renaud enjoying his pipe.

“Ah, truant!” he exclaimed; “they were beginning to feel anxious about you. Barbe declared you might stay all night. Was it not true you had threatened?”

“They would not have me,” she returned laughingly, her heart in a glow over the thought that when she did stay permanently, there would be no need of Uncle Gaspard going to the Renauds’.

“Was that it?” rather gayly. “The girls will miss thee. They are very fond of thee, Renée de Longueville.”

Then Renée’s heart relented with the quick compunction of childhood.

“M. Laclede’s fleet of keel boats will be up shortly, I heard to-day. The town must give him a hearty welcome. What a man he is! What energy and forethought! A little more than twenty years and we have grown to this, where there was nothing but a wild. Denys, there is a man for you!”

“Fort Chartres helped it along. I was but a boy when we came over. My mother is buried there, and it almost broke my father’s heart to leave her.”

“Those hated English!” said Renaud, almost under his breath. “The colonies have revolted, it is said. I should be glad to see them driven out of the country.”

“Yes, I heard the talk at Quebec and more of it as I came down the lakes. But the country is so big, why cannot each take a piece in content? Do you ever think we may be driven out to the wilderness?”

“And find the true road to India?” with a short laugh. “Strange stories are told by some of the hunters of inaccessible mountains. And what is beyond no one knows,” shrugging his shoulders.

No one knew whether the gold-fields of La Salle’s wild dreams lay in that direction or not. There were vague speculations. Parties had started and never returned. The hardy pioneers turned their steps northward for furs. And many who heard these wild dreams in their youth, half a century later crossed the well-nigh inaccessible mountains and found the gold. And before the century was much older ships were on their way to the East of dream and fable.

Barbe and Madame Renaud were out on the porch in the moonlight, and it was very bright now. Denys would not stay, and soon said good-night to them, going back to his work by a pine torch.

Renée counted the days, and every one seemed longer. But at last the joyful news came.

“We shall run over often,” declared Sophie, who had a fondness for the little girl in spite of childish tiffs.

Renée was busy enough placing her little store of articles about, discovering new treasures, running to and fro, and visiting Mère Lunde, who had a word of welcome every time she came near.

“It will be a different house, petite,” she said, with her kindly smile.

The garden could not compare with the Renauds in the glory of its gay flower-beds. Two slaves of a neighbor – they were often borrowed for a trifle – were working at it. A swing had been put up for the little lady.

But somehow, when the afternoon began to lengthen, when Uncle Gaspard had gone up to the Government House on some business, and Mère Lunde was in a sound doze over the stocking she was knitting, Renée felt strangely solitary. She missed the gay chat of Madame Renaud and her sister and the merriment of the children. There seemed none immediately about here. She strolled around to the front of the store; the door was locked, and it looked rather dreary.

She was glad to-morrow was the day for the classes to meet. Why, it was almost as lonesome as at the old château!

That evening Uncle Gaspard brought out his flute, which filled her with delight. The violin was the great musical instrument in St. Louis – the favorite in all the French settlements. But the flute had such a tender tone, such a mysterious softness, that it filled her with an indescribable joy. And there was none of the dreadful tuning that rasped her nerves and made her feel as if she must scream.

Then, it was strange to sleep alone in the room when she had been with Ma’m’selle Barbe and the two girls. They were versed in Indian traditions, and some they told over were not pleasant bed-time visions. But the comfort was that all these terrible things had happened in Michigan, or a place away off, called New England; and Sophie did not care what the Indians did to the English who had driven them out of the settlements on the Illinois. So, why should she? She was still more of a French girl, because she was born in France.

But the world looked bright and cheery the next morning, and the breakfast was delightful, sitting on the side toward Uncle Gaspard, and having Mère Lunde opposite, with her gay coif and her red plaid kerchief instead of the dull gray one. Her small, wrinkled face was a pleasant one, though her eyes were faded, for her teeth were still white and even, and her short upper lip frequently betrayed them. She poured the coffee and passed the small cakes of bread, which were quite as good as Madame Renaud’s.

The lines were not strictly drawn in those days between masters and servants. And Mère Lunde had been her own mistress for so many years that she possessed the quiet dignity of independence.

Then Renée inspected her room afresh, ran out of doors and gathered a few flowers, as she had seen Ma’m’selle Barbe do. She ventured to peep into Uncle Gaspard’s abode.

“Come in, come in!” he cried cheerily. “There is no one to buy you up, like a bale of merchandise.”

“But – you wouldn’t sell me?” Her eyes had a laughing light in them, her voice a make-believe entreaty, and altogether she looked enchanting.

“Well, it would take a great deal of something to buy you. It would have to be more valuable than money. I don’t care so much for money myself.”

He put his arm about her and hugged her up close. He was sitting at a massive old desk that he had bought with the place. It seemed crowded full of various articles.

“But you love me better than any one else?”

“Any one else? Does that mean ever so many people love you? The Renaud children, and Ma’m’selle Barbe, and – perhaps – your grandfather?”

“Oh, you know I don’t mean that!” Her cheek flushed with a dainty bit of vexation. “The others like me well enough, but you – how much do you love me?”

“The best of any one. Child, I do not think you will ever understand how dear you are to me. There is no measurement for such love.”

That was the confession she wanted. Her face was radiant with delight – a child’s pleasure in the present satisfaction.

She glanced around. “Do you mean to sell all these things?” she asked wonderingly.

“Oh, yes and many more. I ought to be down on the Rue Royale, where people could find me easily. But I took a fancy to this old place, and the man was in my debt; so he paid me with it. It would not be so pleasant to live down there, on the lower side, by the levee. But I shall stay here and wait till the people come to me. After all, for a few years, if we get enough to eat and a little to wear, it will suffice.”

“And what then?” with captivating eagerness.

“Why, then – ” he hesitated. Why should he think of this just now? He did not want her grown up into a charming mademoiselle, even if she resembled her mother still more strongly.

“Yes; what then? Isn’t it just the same afterward, or do people come to a time when they stop eating?” and a gleam of mischief crossed her face.

“That is at the end of life, child – sixty or eighty years.”

“No, I don’t mean that time,” with a shrug and a little curl of the lip. “Maybe – after a few years – ”

“Well?” in amused inquiry.

“You might go to New Orleans and take me. Ma’m’selle Barbe has been, and she says it is so beautiful and gay.”

“And you have been half over the world. Ma’m’selle has not been to Quebec nor Detroit.”

“Oh, that is true enough,” laughingly. “Nor to France.”

Two customers paused at the door, and he said, “Run away, dear.” So she went obediently, watched Mère Lunde at her work awhile, then strolled out to the garden spot, where two hired slaves were working. What should make them so different from white people? Where was Africa and the Guinea Coast that she heard spoken of at the Renauds’? Their lips were so thick and red and their hair so woolly. But they seemed very merry, though she could not understand a word they said; it was a queer patois.

Uncle Gaspard came out presently. “Wouldn’t you like to have a flower garden?” he asked.

“What is here?” She put out her small moccasined toe toward a rather stiff-looking plot of green plants.

“Oh, that is Mère Lunde’s garden of herbs. All manner of things for potage, and the making of sundry remedies in which she has great faith. She will look after that.”

“And must I look after mine?”

“I will come and help you.”

“Oh, then, I will have a garden!” she cried joyfully.