Rose lifted up her face. The kiss was on her forehead.
"Now, kiss me," and she touched the small shoulder with something like a shake, as she offered her cheek.
It was a cold little kiss from lips that hardly moved. Miladi laughed with a pretty, amused ripple.
"In good sooth," she said merrily, "some lover will teach you to kiss presently. Thou art growing very pretty, Rose, and when some of the gallants come over from Paris, they will esteem the foundling of Quebec the heroine of romance."
The child did not flush under the compliment, or the sting, but glanced down on the floor.
"Come, thou hast not wished me joy."
"Madame, as I have not been to France I do not know how they wish joy."
"Oh, you formal little child!" laughing gayly. "Do you not know what it is to be happy? Why, you used to be as merry as the birds in singing time."
"I can still be merry with the birds."
"But you must be merry for M. Destournier. He wishes you to be happy, and has asked me to be a mother to you. Why, I fell in love with you long ago, when you were so ill. And surely you have not forgotten when I found you on the gallery, in a dead faint. You were grateful for everything then."