tudy the
writing. She was quite pretty, Jeanne thought, though rather pale, and
her silken gown looped up at the side with a great bow of ribbon, fell
at the back in a long train. Her movements were so soft and gliding that
the girl was half enchanted.

"You still live with--with the woman?"

"M. Bellestre gave her the house. It is small, but big enough for us
two. Yes, Mademoiselle. Thank you," as she placed the letter in Jeanne's
hand, and received in return an enchanting smile. With a courtesy she
left the room, and walked slowly down the path, trying to think. Some
girl, for there was gossip even in those days, had said that Mam'selle's
lover had proved false to her, and married some one else in one of the
southern cities. Jeanne felt sorry for her.

Lisa Fleury wondered why so much beauty had been given to a girl who
could make no use of it.

Jeanne hugged her letter to her heart. It had been so long, so long that
she felt afraid she would never hear again. She wanted to run every step
of the way, last summer she would have. She almost forgot Wenonah and
the silk, then laughed at herself, and outside of the palisades she did
run.

"You are so good," Wenonah said. "Look at this embroidery,--is it not
grand? And that I used to color threads where now I can use beautiful
silk. It shines like the sun. The white people have wonderful ways."

Jeanne laughed and opened her letter. She could wait no longer. Oh,
delightful news! She laughed again in sheer delight, soft, rippling
notes.

"What is it pleases thee so, Mam'selle?"

"It is my friend who comes back, the grand Monsieur with the beautiful
white beard, for whose sake I learned to write. I am glad I have learned
so many things. By another spring he will be here!"

Then Jeanne forgot the somber garment of womanhood that shadowed her
last night, and danced in the very gladness of her heart. Wenonah smiled
and then sighed. What if this man of so many years should want to marry
the child? Such things had been. And there was that fine young De Ber
just come home. But then, a year was a good while.

"I must go and tell Pani," and she was off like a bird.

Oh, what a glad day it was! The maypole and the dancing were as nothing
to it. After she had told over her news and they had partaken of a
simple meal, she dragged the Indian woman off to her favorite haunt in
the woods, where three great tree boles made a pretty shelter and where
Pani always fell asleep.