But I think you will like Madame when you know
her. I am her brother, though I have not seen her for over two years."

She studied him attentively. The birds began to grow restless and
circled about her as if to warn off the intruder. Then she suddenly
listened. There was a familiar step climbing the rock.

M'sieu Destournier parted the hemlock branches.

"I thought I should find you here. Why did you run away? Ah, M. Boulle,"
but the older man frowned a little.

"She left the company because my sister was grown up and not the little
girl she imagined. Is she a product of the forest? Her very ignorance is
charming."

"I am not ignorant!" she returned. "I can read a page in Latin, and that
miladi cannot do."

"She is a curious child," explained Destournier, "but a sweet and noble
nature, and innocent is the better word for it. The birds all know her,
and she has a tame doe that follows her about, except that it will not
venture inside the palisade. I'm not sure but she could charm a wolf."

"The Loup Garou," laughed the younger man. "I think nothing would dare
harm her. But I should like my sister to see her. Oh, I am sure you will
like her, even if she is a woman grown."

"Come," said Destournier, holding out his hand.

The pigeons had circled wider and wider, and were now purplish shadows
against the serene blue. Rose sprang up and clasped Destournier's hand.
But she was silent as they took their way down.

"Whatever bewitched my august brother-in-law about this place I cannot
see. Except that the new fort will sweep the river and render the town
impregnable from that side. It will be the key of the North. But
Montreal will be a finer town at much less cost."

Rose was fain to refuse at the last moment, but M'sieu Ralph persuaded.
The few women of any note were gathered in the room miladi had first
occupied. Rose looked curiously at the daughter of M. Hebert--she was so
much taller than she used to be, and her hair was put up on her head
with a big comb.

"Thou art a sweet child," said Madame de Champlain. "And whose daughter
may she be?"

It was an awkward question. Destournier flushed unconsciously.

"She is the Rose of Quebec," he made answer, with a smile. "Her parents
were dead before she came here."

"Ah, I remember hearing the Governor speak of her, and learned that
there were so few real citizens in Quebec who were to grow up with the
town as their birthright. It is but a dreary-looking place,