A Little Girl in Old Quebec

by Amanda M. Douglas

She burst into a passion of weeping. In spite of her struggles he clasped her to his heart and kissed the throbbing temples, that seemed as if they would burst.

"Oh, Rose, my little one, whom I love as a child, and always shall love, listen to me and be comforted."

"She will not let you love me. She will want me to be sent to France and be put in a convent. Father Jamay said that was what I needed. Oh, you will see!"

The sobs seemed to rend her small body. He could feel the beating of her heart and all his soul was moved with pity, although he knew her grief was unreasonable.

"And you are willing to make me very unhappy, to spoil all my pleasure in the new home. Oh, my child, I hardly thought that of you."

She made another struggle and freed herself. She stood erect, it seemed as if she had grown inches. "You may be happy with her," she said, with a dignity that would have been amusing if it had not been sad, and then she dashed out of the room.

He sat down and leaned his elbow on the table, his head on his hand. He had gathered from several things miladi had suggested, that she was rather indifferent to the child, but he did not surmise that Rose had felt and understood it. No one had a better right than he, since in all probability her parentage would remain unknown. He would not relinquish her. She should be a daughter to him. He realized that he had a curious love for the child, that she had attracted him from the first. In the years to come her beauty and winsomeness would captivate a husband, with the dowry he could give her.

For several days he saw very little of her. He was busy and miladi was exigent. Rose wandered about, sometimes to the settlement, watching the busy women dressing skins, making garments, cutting fringes, and embroidering wampum for the braves. The tawny children played about, the small papooses, strapped in their cases of bark, blinked and occasionally uttered wearisome cries. Or she rowed about in her canoe, often with Pani, for the river current was rather treacherous. Then she scudded through the woods like a deer, winding in and out of the stately columns that were here silver-gray, there white; beech and birch, dark hemlocks, that not having space to branch out, grew up tall with a head almost like a palm. Insects hummed and shrilled, or whirred like a tiny orchestra. Now and then a bird flung out a strain of melody, squirrels ran about, and the doe came and put its nose in her hand. She had tied a strip of skin, colored red, about its neck, that no one might shoot it. The rich, deep moss cushioned the ground. Occasionally an acorn fell. She would sit here in dreamy content by the hours, often just enjoying, sometimes puzzling her brains over all the mysteries that in the years to come education would solve. So few could read, indeed books were only for the few.

Then she ran up and down the rocks, hid in the nooks, came out again in dryad fashion. She had been wont to laugh and make echoes ring about, but now her heart, in spite of all she could do, was not light enough for that. Wanamee was sore troubled by her reticence, for she was too proud to make any complaint. Indeed, she did not know what to complain of. In her childish heart everything was vague, she could not reason, she could only feel that something had been snatched out of her life and set in another's. She would henceforth be lonely.

"Miladi wants to see you," said Wanamee one morning. "She wonders why you do not run in as you used. And she has something joyful to tell you."