o sympathize with her,
Jeanne was repelled. Her mother did not want her for solace and human
love and sympathy, but simply to keep her from evil. Was affection such
a sin? She could love her father, yes, she could love M. St. Armand; and
the Indian woman with her superstitions, her ignorance, was very, very
dear. And she liked brightness, happy faces, the wide out-of-doors with
its birds' songs, its waving trees, its fragrant breathing from shrub
and flower that filled one with joy. Pani kissed her and clasped her to
her heart, held her in her arms, smoothed the tangled curls, sometimes
kissed them, too, caressed her soft, dainty hands as if they were
another human being. This woman was her mother, but there was no
passionate longing in her eyes, no tender possessing grasp in the hands
that lay limp and colorless on her black gown. And Jeanne would have
been still more horrified if she had known that those eyes looked upon
her as part of a sinful life she had overcome by nights of vigil and
days of solitude in work and prayer that she had once abhorred and fled
from. Yet she pitied her profoundly. She longed to comfort her, but the
nun did not want the comfort of human love.

"No, I cannot decide," Jeanne cried, and yet she knew in her soul she
had decided.

She came out to her father with tears in her eyes, but the shelter of
his arms was so strong and safe.

"Reverend fathers," the Sieur Angelot said, with a grave inclination of
the head, "I thank you for your patience and courtesy. I can appreciate
your feelings, too, but I think the law will uphold me in my claim to my
daughter. And in my estimation Jeanne de Burre committed no sin in
marrying me, and I would ever have been a faithful husband to her. But
the decision of the Church seems most in consonance with her feelings. I
have the honor of wishing you good day."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE HEART OF LOVE.

"And now," began the Sieur Angelot, when they were out in the sunshine,
the choicest blessing of God, and had left the bare, gloomy room behind
them, "and now, _petite_ Jeanne, let us find thy Indian mother."

Was there a prouder or happier girl in all Old Detroit than Jeanne
Angelot? The narrow, crooked streets with their mean houses were
glorified to her shining eyes, the crowded stores and shops, some of
them with unfragrant wares, and the motley crowd running to and fro,
dodging, turning aside, staring at this tall, imposing man, with his
grand, fre