nterests in that
wonderful Southern town, New Orleans, where it is said oranges and figs
and strange things grow all the year round. Mademoiselle Bellestre was
jealous, too, she did not like her father to make much of you. So he
gave me the little house where we have lived ever since and twice he has
sent by some traders to inquire about you, and it is he who sees that we
want for nothing. Only you know the good priest advises that you should
go in a retreat and become a sister."

"But I never shall, never!" with emphasis, as she suddenly sprang up.
"To be praying all day in some dark little hole and sleep on a hard bed
and count beads, and wear that ugly black gown! No, I told Father Rameau
if anyone shut me up I should shout and cry and howl like a panther! And
I would bang my head against the stones until it split open and let out
my life."

"O Jeanne! Jeanne!" cried the horror-stricken woman. "That is wicked,
and the good God hears you."

The girl's cheeks were scarlet and her eyes flashed like points of
flame. They were not black, but of the darkest blue, with strange,
steely lights in them that flashed and sparkled when she was roused in
temper, which was often.

"I think I will be English, or else like these new colonists that are
taking possession of everything. I like their religion. You don't have
to go in a convent and pray continually and be shut out of all beautiful
things!"

"You are very naughty, Mam'selle. These English have spoiled so many
people. There is but one God. And the good French fathers know what is
right."

"We did well enough before the French people came, Pani," said a soft,
rather guttural voice from the handsome half-breed stretched out lazily
on the other side of the tree where the western sunshine could fall on
him.

"You were not here," replied the woman, shortly. "And the French have
been good to me. Their religion saves you from torment and teaches you
to be brave. And it takes women to the happy grounds beyond the sky."

"Ah, they learned much of their bravery from the Indian, who can suffer
tortures without a groan or a line of pain in the face. Is there any
better God than the great Manitou? Does he not speak in the thunder, in
the roar of the mighty cataract, and is not his voice soft when he
chants in the summer night wind? He gives a brave victory over his
enemies, he makes the corn grow and fills the woods with game, the lakes
with fish. He is good enough God for me