"I am here. It is so beautiful. Wanamee, did you ever feel that you must float away to some other world and learn things that seem to hover all about you, and yet you cannot grasp?"
"You cannot, child, until you are admitted to the company of the saints. And this life is very comfortable, to some at least. Thou hast no trouble, little one. But it is time for the bed."
"Why can I not sleep out here? The Indians sleep under the tree. So has M'sieu Ralph, and the Governor. Oh, I should like to and have just that great blue sky and the stars over me."
"They would not show under the tree branches. And there are wolves and strollers that it would not be safe to see at this time of the year, when there are so many drunken traders. So come in, child."
She rose slowly. A little room in the end of the Giffard house was devoted to her and Wanamee. Two small pallets raised a little above the floor, a stand with a crucifix, that the Governor's wife insisted was necessary, a box, in which winter bedding was stored, and that served for a seat, completed the simple furniture.
Rose knelt before the stand. There were two or three Latin prayers she often said aloud, but to-night her lips did not move. This figure on the cross filled her with a kind of horror just now.
"Mam'selle," said the waiting Wanamee.
The child rose. "You must pray for yourself to-night," she said in a soft voice, throwing her pliant body on the pallet. "I do not understand anything about God any more. I do not see why He should send His Son to die for the thousands of people who do not care for Him. The great Manitou of the Indians did not do it."
"Ma fille, ask the priest. But then is it necessary to ask God when we have only to believe?"
"I am afraid I don't even believe," was the hesitating reply.