are
kin to thee. But the French part should rule."

Jeanne threw up her head with a proud gesture.

"I should not mind. I often feel that they must be. They like liberty,
so do I. We are like birds and wild deer."

Then the child ran back before any reply could be made. Yet she was not
as indifferent as she seemed. She had not minded it until lately, but
now when it came in this sort of taunt she could not tell why a
remembrance of Louis Marsac should rise before her. After all, what did
a little Indian blood matter? Many a girl smiled on Louis Marsac, for
they knew his father was a rich fur trader. Was it the riches that
counted?

"He will not come," she said half angrily to Pani. "The big ladies are
very proud to have him. They wear fine clothes that come from France,
and they can smile and Madame Fleury has a harp her daughters play upon.
But they might be content with the young men."

"It is not late yet," trying to console her darling.

"Pani, I shall go outside the gates. I am so tired. I want to run races
to get my breath. It stops just as it does when the fog is in the air."

"No, child, stay here a little longer. It would be sad to miss him. And
he is going away."

"Let him go. I think all men are a great trouble! You wait and wait for
them. Then, if you go away they are sure to come."

Pani laughed. The child was brimming over with unreason. Yet her eyes
were like stars, and in an uncomprehended way the woman felt the charm
of her beauty. No, she would never part with her.

"O Pani!" The child sprang up and executed a _pas seul_ worthy of a
larger audience. Her first impulse was to run to meet him. Then she
suddenly subsided from some inexplicable cause, and a flush came to her
cheek as she dropped down on a seat beside the doorway, made of the
round of a log, and folded her hands demurely, looking out to the
barracks.

Of course she turned when she heard the steps. There was a grave
expression on her face, charming innocence that would have led anyone
astray.

Pani rose and made an obeisance, and brought forward a chair.

"Or would Monsieur rather go in doors?" she inquired.

"O no. Little one--" he held out his hand.

"I thought you had forgotten. It is late," she said plaintively.

"I am a busy man, my child. I could wish for a little of the freedom
that you rejoice in so exuberantly, though I dare say I shall have
enough on my journey."

What a companion this gay, chattering child wou