my work.

"Mademoiselle," he said gently, "pardon me, but is not this the home
of Hugo Chevet, the fur trader?"

I looked up into his face, and bowed, as he swept the earth with his
hat, seeing at a glance that he had no remembrance of me.

"Yes," I answered. "If you seek him, rap on the door beyond."

"'Tis not so much Chevet I seek," he said, showing no inclination to
pass me, "but one whom I understood was his guest--Monsieur Francois
Cassion."

"The man is here," I answered quickly, yet unable to conceal my
surprise, "but you will find him no friend to Sieur de la Salle."

"Ah!" and he stared at me intently. "In the name of the saints, what
is the meaning of this? You know me then?"

I bowed, yet my eyes remained hidden.

"I knew you once as Monsieur's friend," I said, almost regretting my
indiscretion, "and have been told you travel in his company."

"You knew me once!" he laughed. "Surely that cannot be, for never
would I be likely to forget. I challenge you, Mademoiselle to speak my
name."

"The Sieur Rene de Artigny, Monsieur."

"By my faith, the witch is right, and yet in all this New France I
know scarce a maid. Nay look up; there is naught to fear from me, and
I would see if memory be not new born. Saint Giles! surely 'tis true;
I have seen those eyes before; why, the name is on my tongue, yet
fails me, lost in the wilderness. I pray you mercy, Mademoiselle!"

"You have memory of the face you say?"

"Ay! the witchery of it; 'tis like a haunting spirit."

"Which did not haunt long, I warrant. I am Adele la Chesnayne,
Monsieur."

He stepped back, his eyes on mine, questioningly. For an instant I
believed the name even brought no familiar sound; then his face
brightened, and his eyes smiled, as his lips echoed the words.

"Adele la Chesnayne! Ay! now I know. Why 'tis no less than a miracle.
It was a child I thought of under that name--a slender, brown-eyed
girl, as blithesome as a bird. No, I had not forgotten; only the magic
of three years has made of you a woman. Again and again have I
questioned in Montreal and Quebec, but no one seemed to know. At the
convent they said your father fell in Indian skirmish."

"Yes; ever since then I have lived here, with my uncle, Hugo Chevet."

"Here!" he looked about, as though the dreariness of it was first
noticed. "Alone? Is there no other woman?"

I shook my head, but no longer looked at him, for fear he might see
the tears in my eyes.

"I am th