ng pie, sipping watered claret and
chatting until night came on and Madame Roussillon brought in a lamp.
Then he hurriedly snatched his cap from the floor beside him and got up
to go.

"Come and look at my handiwork," Alice quickly said; "my shelf of pies,
I mean." She led him to the pantry, where a dozen or more of the cherry
pates were ranged in order. "I made every one of them this morning and
baked them; had them all out of the oven before the rain came up. Don't
you think me a wonder of cleverness and industry? Father Beret was
polite enough to flatter me; but you--you just eat what you want and
say nothing! You are not polite, Monsieur Rene de Ronville."

"I've been showing you what I thought of your goodies," said Rene;
"eating's better than talking, you know; so I'll just take one more,"
and he helped himself. "Isn't that compliment enough?"

"A few such would make me another hot day's work," she replied,
laughing. "Pretty talk would be cheaper and more satisfactory in the
long run. Even the flour in these pates I ground with my own hand in an
Indian mortar. That was hard work too."

By this time Rene had forgotten the river house and the liquor. With
softening eyes he gazed at Alice's rounded cheeks and sheeny hair over
which the light from the curious earthen lamp she bore in her hand
flickered most effectively. He loved her madly; but his fear of her was
more powerful than his love. She gave him no opportunity to speak what
he felt, having ever ready a quick, bright change of mood and manner
when she saw him plucking up courage to address her in a sentimental
way. Their relations had long been somewhat familiar, which was but
natural, considering their youth and the circumstances of their daily
life; but Alice somehow had kept a certain distance open between them,
so that very warm friendship could not suddenly resolve itself into a
troublesome passion on Rene's part.

We need not attempt to analyze a young girl's feeling and motives in
such a case; what she does and what she thinks are mysteries even to
her own understanding. The influence most potent in shaping the
rudimentary character of Alice Tarleton (called Roussillon) had been
only such as a lonely frontier post could generate. Her associations
with men and women had, with few exceptions, been unprofitable in an
educational way, while her reading in M. Roussillon's little library
could not have given her any practical knowledge of manners and lif