A Little Girl in Old Detroit

by Amanda M. Douglas

And this was what Monsieur St. Armand found when he returned to Detroit, a grave girl instead of the laughing child, and an old town in ashes.

"I have news for you, too," he said to Jeanne, "partly sorrowful, partly consoling as well. Two days after reaching her convent home, your mother passed quietly away, and was found in the morning by one of the sisters. The poor, anxious soul is at peace. I cannot believe God means one to be so troubled when a sin is forgiven, especially one that has been a mistake. So, little one, if thou hadst listened to her pleadings thou wouldst have been left in a strange land with no dear friend. It is best this way. The poor Indian woman was nearer a mother to thee."

A curious peace about this matter filled Jeanne Angelot's soul. Her mother was at rest. Perhaps now she knew it was not sinful to be happy. And for her father's sake it was better. He could not help but think of the poor, lonely woman in her convent cell, expiating what she considered a sin.

"When Laurent comes we will go up to your beautiful island," he said. "I have bidden him to join me here."

Jeanne took Monsieur around to the old haunts: the beautiful woods, the stream running over the rocky hillside, the flowers in bloom that had been so fateful to her, the nooks and groves, the green where they put up the Maypole, and her brave old oak, with its great spreading branches and wide leaves, nodding a welcome always.

One day they went down to the King's wharf to watch a vessel coming up the beautiful river. The sun made it a sea of molten gold to-day, the air was clear and exhilarating. But it was not a young fellow who leaped so joyously down on to the dock. A tall, handsome man, looking something like his own father, and something like hers, Jeanne thought, for his eyes were of such a deep blue.

"There is no more Old Detroit. It lies in ashes," said M. St. Armand, when the first greetings were over. "A sorrowful sight, truly."

"And no little girl." Laurent smiled with such a fascination that it brought the bright color to her face. "Mademoiselle, I have been thinking of you as the little girl whose advice I disdained and had a ducking for it. I did not look for a young lady. I do not wonder now that you have taken so much of my father's heart."

"We can give you but poor accommodations; still it will not be for long, as we go up North to accept our cousin's hospitality. You will be delighted to meet the Sieur Angelot. The Fleury family will be glad to see you again, though they have no such luxuriant hospitality as before."

They all went to the plain small shelter in which the Fleurys were thankful to be housed, and none the less glad to welcome their friends. They kept Jeanne to dinner, and would gladly have taken her as a guest. M. Loisel had offered her a home, but she preferred staying with Wenonah. Paspah had never come back from his quest. Whether he had met with some accident, or simply found wild life too fascinating to leave, no one ever knew. To Wenonah it was not very heart-breaking.