"Did ever a French son talk so to his mother before? If this is northern manners and respect—"
Madame De Ber dropped into a chair and began to cry, and then, a very unusual thing it must be confessed, went into hysterics.
"Oh, you have killed her!" screamed Rose.
"She is not dead. Dead people do not make such a noise. Maman, maman," the endearing term of childhood, "do not be so vexed. I will be a good son to you always, but I cannot make myself miserable by marrying one woman when I love another;" and he kissed her fondly, caressing her with his strong hands.
The storm blew over presently. That evening when Père De Ber heard the story he said, a little gruffly: "Let the boy alone. He is a fine son and smart, and I need his help. I am not as stout as I used to be. And, Marie, thou rememberest that thou wert my choice and not that of any go-between. We have been happy and had fine children because we loved each other. The girl is pretty and sweet."
They came to neighborly sailing after a while. Jeanne knew nothing of the dispute, but one day on the river when Martin's canoe was keeping time with hers, and he making pretty speeches to her, she said:—
"It is not fair nor right that you should pay such devotion to me, Martin. Rose does not like it, and it makes bad friends. And I think you care for her, so it is only a jealous play and keeps me uncomfortable."
"Rose does not care for me. She is flying at higher game. And if she cannot succeed, I will not be whistled back like a dog whose master has kicked him," cried the young fellow indignantly.
"Rose has said I coquetted with you," Jeanne exclaimed with a roseate flush and courageous honesty.
"I wish it was something more. Jeanne, you are the sweetest girl in all Detroit."