A Little Girl in Old Detroit. Amanda M. Douglas

a woman. And Jean is prospering. We need not worry about our old age unless these Americans overturn everything."

      Pani was a good listener and Madame Ganeau loved to talk when there was no one to advance startling ideas or contradict her. Her life had been prosperous and she took the credit to herself. Jean Ganeau had been a good husband, tolerably sober, too, and thrifty.

      The two older girls chatted when they were not singing. It was seldom Marie had a holiday, and this was full of delight. Would she ever have a lover like Jacques Graumont, who would look at her with such adoring eyes and slyly snatch her hand when her mother was not looking?

      Jeanne was full of enjoyment and capers. Every bird that flashed in and out of the trees, the swans and wild geese that squawked in terror and scuttled into little nooks along the shore edge as the boats passed them, the fish leaping up now and then, brought forth exclamations of delight. She found a stick with which she beat up the water and once leaned out so far that Louis caught her by the arm and pulled her back.

      "Let go. You hurt me!" she exclaimed sharply.

      "You will be over."

      "As if I could not care for myself."

      "You are the spirit of the river. Are your mates down there? What if they summon you?"

      "Then why should I not go to them?" recklessly.

      "Because I will not let you."

      He looked steadily into her eyes. His were a little blurred and had an expression that did not please her. She turned away.

      "If I should go down and get the gold hidden under the sands—"

      "But a serpent guards it."

      "I am not afraid of a snake. I have killed more than one. And there are good spirits who will help you if you have the right charm."

      "But you do not need to go. Some one will work for you. Some one will get the gold and treasure. If you will wait—"

      "Well, I do not want the treasure. Pani and I have enough."

      She tossed her head, still looking away.

      "Do you know that I must go up to Micmac? I thought to stay all summer, but my father has sent."

      "And men have to obey their fathers as girls do their mothers;" in an idly indifferent tone.

      "It is best, Jeanne; I want to make a fortune."

      "I hope you will;" but there was a curl to her lip.

      "And I may come back next spring with the furs."

      She nodded indifferently.

      "My father has another secret, which may be worth a good deal."

      She made no answer but beat up the water again. There was nothing but pleasure in her mind.

      "Will you be glad to see me then? Will you miss me?"

      "Why—of course. But I think I do not like you as well as I used," she cried frankly.

      "Not like me as well?" He was amazed. "Why, Jeanne?"

      "You have grown so—so—" neither her thoughts nor her vocabulary were very extensive. "I do not think I like men until they are quite old and have beautiful white beards and voices that are like the water when it flows softly. Or the boys who can run and climb trees with you and laugh over everything. Men want so much—what shall I say?" puzzled to express herself.

      "Concession. Agreement," he subjoined; "that is right," with a decisive nod. "I hate it," with a vicious swish in the water.

      "But when your way is wrong—"

      "My way is for myself," with dignity.

      "But if you have a lover, Jeanne?"

      "I shall never have one. Madame Ganeau says so. I am going to keep a wild little girl with no one but Pani until—until I am a very old woman and get aches and pains and perhaps die of a fever."

      She was in a very willful mood and she was only a child. One or two years would make a difference. If his father made a great fortune, and after all no one knew where she came from—he could marry in very good families, girls in plenty had smiled on him during the past two months.

      Was it watching these lovers that had stirred his blood? Why should he care for this child?

      "Had we not better turn about?" said Jacques Graumont, glancing around.

      There were purple shadows on one side of the river and high up on the distant hills and a soft yellow pink sheen on the water instead of the blaze of gold. A clear, high atmosphere that outlined everything on the Canadian shore as if it half derided its proud neighbor's jubilee.

      Other boats were returning. Songs that were so gay an hour ago took on a certain pensiveness, akin to the purple and dun stealing over the river. It moved Jeanne Angelot strangely; it gave her a sense of exaltation, as if she could fly like a bird to some strange country where a mother loved her and was waiting for her.

      When Louis Marsac spoke next to her she could have struck him in childish wrath. She wanted no one but the fragrant loneliness and the voices of nature.

      "Don't talk to me!" she cried impatiently. "I want to think. I like what is in my own mind better."

      Then the anger went slowly out of her face and it settled in lovely lines. Her mouth was a scarlet blossom, and her hair clung mistlike about brow and throat, softened by the warmth.

      They came grating against the dock after having waited for their turn. Marsac caught her arm and let the others go before her, and she, still in a half dream, waited. Then he put his arm about her, turned her one side, and pressed a long, hot kiss on her lips. His breath was still tainted with the brandy he had been drinking earlier in the day.

      She was utterly amazed at the first moment. Then she doubled up her small hand and struck the mouth that had so profaned her.

      "Hah! knave," cried a voice beside her. "Let the child alone! And answer to me. What business had you with this canoe? Child, where are your friends?"

      "My business with it was that I hired and paid for it," cried Marsac, angrily, and the next instant he felt for his knife.

      "Paid for it?" repeated the other. "Then come and convict a man of falsehood. Put up your knife. Let us have fair play. I had hired the canoe in the morning and went up the river, and was to have it this afternoon, and he declared you took it without leave or license."

      "That is a lie!" declared Marsac, passionately.

      "Jeanne! Jeanne!" cried Pani in distress.

      The stranger lifted her out. Jeanne looked back at Marsac, and then at the young man.