Pani improved, but she had been feeble a
long while and the shock proved too much for her. She did not seem to
suffer but faded gently away, satisfied when Jeanne was beside her.

Tony Beeson, quite outside of the fire, opened his house in his rough
but hospitable fashion to his wife's people. Rose had not fared so well.
Pierre was his father's right hand through the troublous times. Many of
the well-to-do people were glad to accept shelter anywhere. The Fleurys
had saved some of their most valuable belongings, but the house had gone
at last.

"Thou art among the most fortunate ones," M. Loisel said to Jeanne a
week afterward, "for thy portion was not vested here in Detroit. I am
very glad."

It seemed to Jeanne that she cared very little for anything save the
sorrows and sufferings of the great throng of people. She watched by
Pani through the day and slept beside her at night. "Little one," the
feeble voice would say, "little one," and the clasp of the hand seemed
enough. So it passed on until one day the breath came slower and
fainter, and the lips moved without any sound. Jeanne bent over and
kissed them for a last farewell. Father Rameau had given her the sacred
rites of the Church, and said over her the burial service. A faithful
woman she had been, honest and true.

And this was what Monsieur St. Armand found when he returned to Detroit,
a grave girl instead of the laughing child, and an old town in ashes.

"I have news for you, too," he said to Jeanne, "partly sorrowful, partly
consoling as well. Two days after reaching her convent home, your mother
passed quietly away, and was found in the morning by one of the sisters.
The poor, anxious soul is at peace. I cannot believe God means one to be
so troubled when a sin is forgiven, especially one that has been a
mistake. So, little one, if thou hadst listened to her pleadings thou
wouldst have been left in a strange land with no dear friend. It is best
this way. The poor Indian woman was nearer a mother to thee."

A curious peace about this matter filled Jeanne Angelot's soul. Her
mother was at rest. Perhaps now she knew it was not sinful to be happy.
And for her father's sake it was better. He could not help but think of
the poor, lonely woman in her convent cell, expiating what she
considered a sin.

"When Laurent comes we will go up to your beautiful island," he said. "I
have bidden him to join me here."

Jeanne took Monsieur around to the old haunts: th