dal about it," rejoined the mother
scornfully.

"But Father Rameau disproved that. And, whatever she is, even if she
were half Indian, I love her! I have always loved her. And I shall marry
her, even if I have to take her up north and spend my whole life there.
I know how to make money, and we shall do well enough. And that will be
the upshot if you and my father oppose me, though I think it is more you
and Rose."

"Did ever a French son talk so to his mother before? If this is northern
manners and respect--"

Madame De Ber dropped into a chair and began to cry, and then, a very
unusual thing it must be confessed, went into hysterics.

"Oh, you have killed her!" screamed Rose.

"She is not dead. Dead people do not make such a noise. Maman, maman,"
the endearing term of childhood, "do not be so vexed. I will be a good
son to you always, but I cannot make myself miserable by marrying one
woman when I love another;" and he kissed her fondly, caressing her with
his strong hands.

The storm blew over presently. That evening when Pere De Ber heard the
story he said, a little gruffly: "Let the boy alone. He is a fine son
and smart, and I need his help. I am not as stout as I used to be. And,
Marie, thou rememberest that thou wert my choice and not that of any
go-between. We have been happy and had fine children because we loved
each other. The girl is pretty and sweet."

They came to neighborly sailing after a while. Jeanne knew nothing of
the dispute, but one day on the river when Martin's canoe was keeping
time with hers, and he making pretty speeches to her, she said:--

"It is not fair nor right that you should pay such devotion to me,
Martin. Rose does not like it, and it makes bad friends. And I think you
care for her, so it is only a jealous play and keeps me uncomfortable."

"Rose does not care for me. She is flying at higher game. And if she
cannot succeed, I will not be whistled back like a dog whose master has
kicked him," cried the young fellow indignantly.

"Rose has said I coquetted with you," Jeanne exclaimed with a roseate
flush and courageous honesty.

"I wish it was something more. Jeanne, you are the sweetest girl in all
Detroit."

"Oh, no, Martin, nor the prettiest, nor the girl who will make the best
wife. And I do not want any lovers, nor to be married, which, I suppose,
is a queer thing. Sometimes I think I will stay in the house altogether,
but it is so warm and gets dreary, and out-of-do