Renée. You must grow rosy and stout in this new home.”

The men ate heartily enough. Everything was strange to her, though for that matter everything had been strange since leaving the old château. The post-chaise, the day in Paris, the long journey across the ocean, the city of Quebec with its various peoples, and the other journey through lakes and over portages. Detroit, where they had stayed two days and that had appeared beautiful to her; the little towns, the sail down the Illinois River to the greater one that seemed to swallow it up.

Marie Loubet had said her rich grandfather in the new country had sent for her, and that her father did not care for her since his sons were born. Indeed, he scarcely gave her a thought until it occurred to him that her American-French grandfather was well able to provide for her. Her mother’s dot had been spent long ago. He wanted to sell the old château and its many acres of ground, for court living was high, and the trend of that time was extravagance.

“You had better place your daughter in a convent,” said the amiable stepmother, who had never seen the little girl but twice. “The boys will be all we can care for. I hope heaven will not send me any daughters. They must either have a large dot or striking beauty. And I am sure this girl of yours will not grow up into a beauty.”

Yet her mother had been beautiful the Count remembered. And he smiled when he thought of the dower he had exacted from the old trader. No doubt there was plenty of money still, and this grandchild had the best right to it. She might like it better than convent life.

Marie’s lover had emigrated two years before, and had sent her money to pay her passage. Why, it was almost a miraculous opening. So Renée de Longueville was bundled off to the new country.

And now she sat here, taking furtive glances at her grandfather, who did not want her. No one in her short life had been absolutely cross to her, and she was quite used to the sense of not being wanted until she met Gaspard Denys. Of the relationships of life she knew but little; yet her childish heart had gone out with great fervor to him when he said, “I loved your mother. I ought to have married her; then you would have been my little girl.”

“Why did you not?” she asked gravely. Then with sweet seriousness, “I should like to be your little girl.”

“You shall be.” He pressed her to his heart, and kissed down amid the silken curls.

So now she did not mind her grandfather’s objection to her; she knew with a child’s intuition he did not want her. But she could, she did, belong to Uncle Gaspard, and so she was safe. A better loved child might have been crushed by the knowledge, but she was always solacing herself with the next thing. This time it was the first, the very first thing, and her little heart gave a beat of joy.

Yet she was growing tired and sleepy, child fashion. The two men were talking about the fur trade, the pelts that had come in, the Indians and hunters that were loitering about. It had been a long day to her, and the room was warm. The small head drooped lower with a nod.

There was a pile of dressed skins one side of the room, soft and silken, Freneau’s own curing.

Gaspard paused suddenly, glanced at her, then rose and took her in his arms and laid her down on them tenderly. She did not stir, only the rosy lips parted as with a half smile.

“Yes, tell me what to do with her,” Antoine exclaimed, as if that had been the gist of the conversation. “You see I have no one to keep house; then I am out hunting, going up and down the river, working my farm. I couldn’t be bothered with womankind. I can cook and keep house and wash even. I like living alone. I could send her to New Orleans,” raising his eyes furtively.

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said the other peremptorily. “Antoine Freneau, you owe me this child. You know I was in love with the mother.”

“You were a mere boy,” retorted the old man disdainfully.

“I was man enough to love her then and always. I have never put any one in her place. And the last time we walked together over yonder by the pond, I told her I was going up north to make money for her, and that in a year I should come back. I was twenty, she just sixteen. I can see her now; I can hear her voice in the unformed melody of the child’s. We made no especial promise, but we both knew. I meant to ask your consent when I came back. Seven months afterward, on my return, I found you had whisked her off and married her to the Count, who, after all, cared so little for her that her child is nothing to him. I don’t know what lies you told her, but I know she would never have given me up without some persuasion near to force.”

The old man knew. It had been a lie. He kept out of Gaspard’s way for the next two years, and it was well for him.

“There was no force,” he returned gruffly. “Do you not suppose a girl can see? He was a fine fellow and loved her, and she was ready to go with him. No one dragged her to church. Well, the priest would have had something to say. They are not wild Indians at Quebec, and know how to treat a woman.”

Gaspard had never forced more than this out of him. But he was sure some trickery had won the day and duped them both.

“Well, what have you gained?” mockingly. “You might have kept your daughter here and had grandchildren growing up about you, instead of living like a lonely old hermit.”

“The life suits me well enough,” in a gruff tone.

“Then give me the child that should have been mine. You don’t want her.”

“What will you do with her?”

“Have a home some day and put her in it.”

“Bah! And you are off months at a time!”

“There would be some one to look after her. I shall not lead this roving life forever. If she were less like her mother you might keep her, since you were so won by her father. And I am not a poor man, Antoine Freneau.”

“She is such a child.” Did Gaspard mean that some day he might want to marry her?

“That is what I want. Oh, you don’t know——”

He paused abruptly. Antoine could never understand the longing that had grown upon him through these weeks to possess the child, to play at fatherhood.

“No, I shall not be likely to marry,” almost as if he had suspected what was in Antoine’s pause, but he did not. “And I’ve envied the fathers of children. They had something to work for, to hope for. And now I say I want Renée because she is such a child. I wish she could stay like this just five years; then I’d be willing to have her grow up. But I know you, Antoine Freneau, and you won’t take half care of her; you couldn’t love her, it isn’t in you. But you shall not crowd her out of love.”

“You talk like a fool, Gaspard Denys! But if you want the child—I am an old man, and I tell you frankly that I don’t know what to do with her. I would have to change my whole life.”

“And I would be glad to change mine for such a cause. You must promise not to interfere in any way. We will have some writings drawn up and signed before the priest.”

Antoine gave a yawn. “To-morrow, or any time you like. What are you going to do now? It is late. If you will take a shakedown in the other room—you see, I’m not prepared for visitors.”

“Yes; I have slept in worse places. The child has a box of clothes at St. Charles. Hers will have to do for to-night.”

He straightened out the impromptu bed and fixed the child more comfortably. He was tired and sleepy himself. Antoine lighted a bit of wick drawn through a piece of tin floating in a bowl of oily grease and took it in the storeroom, where both men soon arranged a sort of bunk.

“Good-night,” said Antoine, and shut the door.

But he did not go to bed. The fire had mostly burned out, and now the torch dropped down and the room was full of shadows. He sat awhile on