w from his pocket a roll and held one of the leaves before her
eyes.

"Oh, that is old Temekwisa sitting out by the hut. And, M'sieu, he looks
half drunken, as he nearly always is. And that is Jacques Barbeau
breaking stone. Why, it is wonderful. And who else have you?"

There were several Indians in a powwow around the fire, there was a
woman with a papoose on her back, and a few partly done.

"And the Sieur--and your sister?" eagerly.

"I have tried dozens of times and cannot please myself. The Indians have
about the same salient points, and that lack of expression when they are
tranquil. They are easy to do. And I can sometimes catch the fierce
anger. At home I would have a teacher. Here I have to go by myself, try,
and tear up. Then I am busy with many other things."

Her resentment had mostly subsided. His gift, if it could be called
that, fascinated her. She had reproduced wonderful pictures in her
brain, but to do them with her hand would be marvellous, like the Sieur
writing his books.

They had reached the garden of the Gaudrions. Pierre was employed
regularly now and was studying the plans of the new fort. Marie was
seated on the grass, cutting leather fringe for garments and leggings.
You could use up otherwise useless bits that way. The Mere was farther
down pulling weeds from the carrot bed, and directing the labors of two
children, at whom she shook a switch now and then. Marie had a baby on
each side of her, tumbling about in the grass.

She looked up and nodded, while a heavy sort of smile settled about her
lips, the upper one protruding a little, on account of two prominent
teeth. Eustache had seen the peasant type at home, the low forehead, the
deep-set eyes, the short nose, flattened at the base, the wide mouth and
rather broad, unmeaning countenance, the type of women who bear burthens
without complaining and do not resent when they are beaten. Marie had an
abundance of blue-black hair, a clear skin, and a soft color in her
cheeks.

Boulle glanced from one to the other, the lithe figure, the spirited
face, the eyes that could flash and soften and sparkle with mirth almost
in a minute, it seemed. What a distance lay between them.

"Marie, this is"--then Rose paused and flushed, and glanced at her
unbidden companion.

"I am Eustache Boulle and my sister is the wife of the Governor de
Champlain. And though I have been up and down the river I have never
really visited Quebec before."

Marie