A Little Girl in Old Detroit

by Amanda M. Douglas

"But she belonged to the Church, you see. Woman, you have done her a great wrong and this is sent upon you for punishment. She should have been trained to love her Church. Yes, you must come every day and pray that she may be returned to the true fold, and that the good God will forgive your sin. You have been very wicked and careless and I do not wonder God has sent this upon you. When she comes back she must be given to the Church."

Pani turned away without asking about the relics. Her savage heart rose up in revolt. The child was hers, the Church had not all the right. And Jeanne had come to believe like the chapel father, who had been very friendly toward her. Perhaps it was all wrong and wicked, but Jeanne was an angel. Ah, if she could hold her in her old arms once more!

Father Gilbert went to see M. Loisel. What was it about the money the Indian woman and the child had? Could not the Church take better care of it? And if the girl was dead, what then?

M. Loisel explained the wording of the bequest. If both died it went back to the Bellestre estate. Only in case of Jeanne's marriage did it take the form of a dowry. In June and December it came to him, and he sent back an account of the two beneficiaries.

Really then it was not worth looking after, Father Gilbert decided, when there was so much other work on hand.

Madame De Ber and her coterie, for already there were little cliques in Detroit, shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows when Jeanne Angelot was mentioned.

She was such a coquette! And though she flouted Louis Marsac to his face, when he had really taken her at her word and gone, she might have repented and run after him. It was hardly likely a band of roving Indians would burthen themselves with a girl. Then she was fleet of foot and had a quick brain, she could have eluded them and returned by this time.

Rose De Ber had succeeded in captivating her fine lover and sent Martin about with a bit of haughtiness that would have become a queen. It was a fine wedding and Jeanne was lost sight of in the newer excitement.

Pani rambled to and fro, a grave, silent woman. When she grew strong enough she went to the forest and haunted the little creek with her plaints. The weather grew colder. Furs and rugs were brought out, and warm hangings for winter. Martin Lavosse came in and arranged some comforts for Pani, looked to see that the shutters would swing easily and brought fresh cedar and pine boughs for pallets. Crops were being gathered in, and there were merrymakings and church festivals, but the poor woman sat alone in her room that fronted the street, now and then casting her eyes up and down in mute questioning. The light of her life had gone. If Jeanne came not back all would be gone, even faith in the good God. For why should he, if he was so great and could manage the whole world, let this thing happen? Why should he deliver Jeanne into the hands of the man she hated, or perhaps let her be torn to pieces by some wild beast of the forest, when, by raising a finger, he could have helped it? Could he be angry because she had not sent the child to be shut up in the Recollet house and made a nun of?

Slavery and servitude had not extinguished the love of liberty that had been born in Pani's soul. She had succumbed to force, then to a certain fondness for a kind mistress. But it seemed as if she alone had understood the child's wild flights, her hatred of bondage. She had done no harm to any living creature; she had been full of gratitude to the great Manitou for every flower, every bird, for the golden sun that set her pulses in a glow, for the moon and stars, and the winds that sang to her. Oh, surely God could not be angry with her!