ere were bits of old history, a volume
of Terence, another of Virgil, and out of what he knew and read he
reconstructed stories that charmed her. Most of all she liked to hear
about the King. The romances of Henry of Navarre fired her
rapidly-awakening imagination.

Destournier took several little excursions with the intrepid explorer
before the severest of the winter set in. What faith he had in this
wonderful new France that was to add so much glory and prosperity to the
old world! If its rulers could have but looked through his eyes and had
his aims. There was Tadoussac, there was the upper St. Charles, where
Jacques Cartier and his men had passed a winter that in spite of the
utmost heroism had ended in the tragedy of death. To the south there was
a sturdy band of Englishmen trying the same experiment, not merely for
their King and country, but also some reward for themselves. Neither
were they eager to plant the standard of religion; that was left for
Puritans and French missionaries.

It seemed to Destournier that the scheme of colonization was hardly
worth while. He had not Champlain's enthusiasm--there was much to do for
France, and that land had always to be on the defensive with England.
Would it not be so here in the years to come? And the Indians would be a
continual menace.

But there was a whole continent to convert, to civilize. He went back to
the times of Charlemagne and the struggles that had brought out a
glorious France. And no one had given up the passage to India. Lying
westward was a great river, and what was beyond that no one knew. It was
the province of man to find out.

It was a dull life for a little girl in the winter. Rose almost longed
for the garden, even if weeds did grow apace. In the old country Mere
Dubray had spun flax and wool, here there was none to spin. She had
learned a little work from the Indian women, but she was severely
plain. What need of fringes and bead work and laying feathers in rows to
be stitched on with a sort of thread made of fine, tough grass? And as
for cooking, one had to be economical and make everything with a view to
real sustenance, not the high art of cooking, though her peasant life
had inducted her into this.

The little girl made a playhouse in one corner of the cabin and stood up
sticks for Indian children to whom she told over what had been taught
her. They blundered just as she had done, but she had a curious patience
with them that would have