r men trod the slushy trails, rough fellows
for the most part and silent, but with a tongue in each head to propose
a toast to host and hostess. From over the ridge, from French Valley,
from as far east as St. Croix and as far west as Dunvegan's Post, the
guests trooped in. Miners, trappers, little stock men; scions of old
French families with grand names, descendants of younger English sons
with riotous blood, Americans who had crossed the border with much
haste and scant baggage; many men whom the world had outlawed and whom
the North Woods had accepted as empire builders; men of pure blood
knocking elbows with swarthy "breeds," oddly alike in the matters of
keenly alert eyes and magnificent bodies.

As they filed through the Frenchman's door they entered not the store
at all but what was Pere Marquette's idea of a drawing room. The long
counters and shelves were there, but the barrels of pickled meat, the
piles of soap and tinned meats, the bags of flour, the stacks of men's
clothing, all this had been whisked away and out of sight as though by
magic. A strip of new red oilcloth upon one counter, a strip of blue
upon another, transformed both into auxiliary seats. Benches, recently
brought in from the rear storeroom by Pere Marquette's man, Jules, and
freshly dusted by him, lined the walls. Even Mere Jeanne's bedroom had
been robbed of chairs; boxes dressed gaily in gingham or perchance even
flaunting remnants of chintz, were amply good enough for the boys and
girls.

"My frien', you do me the honour," said Pere Marquette over and over as
some stranger upon whom his quick black eyes had never rested until now
accepted his hand and entered to be again welcomed by Mere Jeanne.
"You make mamma and me ver' happy."

Let the frontier push out as far and as fast as it pleases, the violin
always goes with it. Men march the more intrepidly to the scraping of
the skilful bow. There were two fiddles already going in the next
room; Pere Marquette had seen to that. And in the same room stood a
great, sturdy homemade table, crippled in one leg, yet standing
valiantly, like an old soldier home from the wars. Mere Jeanne's own
plump hands had placed the best tablecloth upon it, and there, in its
nest of field flowers, was the great bowl which had been the most
serviceable of the handful of wedding gifts fifty years ago. Since the
crisp sting had not yet gone out of the air the high red tide in the
bowl was steaming an