urned her head to the fire. "But the
spring is two months off yet," he added.

"The spring?" she asked, puzzled, yet half afraid to speak.

"Yes, I'm going into my new house when Manette goes into her new
house--in the spring. And I won't go alone if--"

He caught her eyes again, but she rose hurriedly and said: "You must
sleep now. Good-night." She held out her hand.

"Well, I'll tell you the rest to-morrow-to-morrow night when it's quiet
like this, and the stars shine," he answered. "I'm going to have a home
of my own like this--ah, bien sur, Pauline."

That night the old Indian mother prayed to the Sun. "O great Spirit,"
she said, "I give thanks for the Medicine poured into my heart. Be good
to my white child when she goes with her man to the white man's home far
away. O great Spirit, when I return to the lodges of my people, be kind
to me, for I shall be lonely; I shall not have my child; I shall not
hear my white man's voice. Give me good Medicine, O Sun and great
Father, till my dream tells me that my man comes from over the hills for
me once more."

THE STAKE AND THE PLUMB-LINE

She went against all good judgment in marrying him; she cut herself off
from her own people, from the life in which she had been an alluring and
beautiful figure. Washington had never had two such seasons as those in
which she moved; for the diplomatic circle who had had "the run of the
world" knew her value, and were not content without her. She might
have made a brilliant match with one ambassador thirty years older than
herself--she was but twenty-two; and there were at least six attaches
and secretaries of legation who entered upon a tournament for her heart
and hand; but she was not for them. All her fine faculties of tact and
fairness, of harmless strategy, and her gifts of wit and unexpected
humour were needed to keep her cavaliers constant and hopeful to the
last; but she never faltered, and she did not fail. The faces of old men
brightened when they saw her, and one or two ancient figures who, for
years, had been seldom seen at social functions now came when they knew
she was to be present. There were, of course, a few women who said she
would coquette with any male from nine to ninety; but no man ever said
so; and there was none, from first to last, but smiled with pleasure
at even the mention of her name, so had her vivacity, intelligence, and
fine sympathy conquered them. She was a social artist by instinct. In
t