the tone that
comforted the woman.

The next morning Detroit was at work betimes. There was no fashion of
loitering then; when the sun flung out his golden arrows that dispelled
the night, men and women were cheerfully astir.

"I must go and get some silk for Wenonah; she has some embroidery to
finish for the wife of one of the officers," exclaimed Jeanne. "And then
I will take it to her."

So if Pierre dropped in--

There were some stores down on St. Louis street where the imported goods
from Montreal and Quebec were kept. Laces and finery for the quality,
silks and brocades, hard as the times were. Jeanne tripped along gayly.
She would be happy this morning anyhow, as if she was putting off some
impending evil.

"Take care, child! Ah, it is Jeanne Angelot. Did I run over thee, or
thou over me?" laughing. "I have not on my glasses, but I ought to see a
tall slip of a girl like thee."

"Pardon, Monsieur. I was in haste and heedless."

"I have something for thee that will gladden thy heart--a letter. Let me
see--" beginning to search his pockets, and then taking out a great
leathern wallet. "No?" staring in surprise. "Then I must have left it on
my desk at home. Canst thou spend time to run up and get it?"

"Oh, gladly." The words had a ring of joy that touched the man's heart.

"It is well, Mam'selle, that it comes from the father, since it is
received with such delight."

She did not catch the double meaning. Indeed, Laurent was far from her
thoughts.

"Thank you a thousand times," with her radiant smile, and he carried the
bright face into his dingy warehouse.

She went on her way blithe as the gayest bird. A letter from M. St.
Armand! It had been so long that sometimes she was afraid he might be
dead, like M. Bellestre. The birds were singing. "A letter," they
caroled; "a letter, a l-e-t-t-e-r," dwelling on every sound with
enchanting tenderness.

The old Fleury house overlooked the military garden to the west, and the
river to the east. There had been an addition built to it, a wing that
placed the hall in the middle. It was wide, and the door at each end was
set open. At the back were glimpses of all kinds of greenery and the
fragrance of blossoming shrubs. A great enameled jar stood midway of the
hall and had in it a tall blooming rose kept through the winter indoors,
a Spanish rose growing wild in its own country. The floor was polished,
the fur rugs had been stowed away, and the curious Indian