"Oh, Mam'selle, it made a great stir. The neighbors and the guards went out and searched. Some wild beast might have devoured you, but they found no trace. And they thought of Indians. Poor Pani! But all will be well now. Nay, Mam'selle," as Jeanne would have stopped her, "there will be people in, for strange news travels fast."
That was very likely. In a brief while they had the room tidy. Then Jeanne fixed a seat at the other side of the fireplace, spread the fur rug over it, and led the unresisting Pani thither, wrapped her in a fresh blanket, and took off the cap, smoothing out the neglected hair that seemed strangely white about the pale, brown face. The high cheek bones left great hollows underneath, but in spite of the furrows of age the skin was soft.
The woman gave a low, pleased laugh, and nodded.
"Father Rameau will come," she said.
"Father Rameau! Has he returned?" inquired the girl.
"Oh, yes, Mam'selle, and so glad to get back to Detroit. I cannot tell you all his delight. And then his sorrow for you. For we were afraid you were no longer living. What a strange story!"
"It has happened before, being carried away by Indians. Some time you shall hear all, Margot."
The woman nodded. "And if you do not want me, Mam'selle—" for there was much to do at home.
"I do not need you so much just now, but come in again presently. Oh, I can never repay you!"
"Wenonah has done more than I."