uge stomach as though the idea had its origin there.

"I've seen a lot of fancies come to pass," gloomily returned her friend.
"It's a funny world. I don't know what to make of its sometimes."

"And that girl of his, the strangest creature, as proud as a peacock,
but then as kind as kind to the children--of a good heart, surelee. They
say she has plenty of gold rings and pearls and bracelets, and all like
that. Babette Courton, she saw them when she went to sew. Why doesn't
Ma'm'selle wear them?"

Christine looked wise and smoothed out her apron as though it was a
parchment. "With such queer ones, who knows? But, yes, as you say, she
has a kind heart. The children, well, they follow her everywhere."

"Not the children only," sagely added the other. "From Lebanon they
come, the men, and plenty here, too; and there's that Felix Marchand,
the worst of all in Manitou or anywhere."

"I'd look sharp if Felix Marchand followed me," remarked Christine.
"There are more papooses at the Reservation since he come back, and
over in Lebanon--!" She whispered darkly to her friend, and they nodded
knowingly.

"If he plays pranks in Manitou he'll get his throat cut, for sure. Even
with Protes'ants and Injuns it's bad enough," remarked Dame Thibadeau,
panting with the thought of it.

"He doesn't even leave the Doukhobors alone. There's--" Again Christine
whispered, and again that ugly look came to their faces which belongs to
the thought of forbidden things.

"Felix Marchand'll have much money--bad penny as he is," continued
Christine in her normal voice. "He'll have more money than he can put
in all the trouser legs he has. Old Hector, his father, has enough for a
gover'ment. But that M'sieu' Felix will get his throat cut if he follows
Ma'm'selle Druse about too much. She hates him--I've seen when they met.
Old man Druse'll make trouble. He don't look as he does for nothing."

"Ah, that's so. One day, we shall see what we shall see," murmured
Christine, and waved a hand to a friend in the street.

This conversation happened on the evening of the day that Fleda Druse
shot the Carillon Rapids alone. An hour after the two gossips had had
their say Gabriel Druse paced up and down the veranda of his house,
stopping now and then to view the tumbling, hurrying Sagalac, or to
dwell upon the sunset which crimsoned and bronzed the western sky. His
walk had an air of impatience; he seemed disturbed of mind and restless
of body.

He ga