Miladi sat out on the gallery in her chair, that could be moved about with ease by a small lever at the side. Looking down at the youthful figures, the thought beset her that haunts all women, that here was material for a very fortunate match. He was much superior to Pierre Gaudrion.
"The trophies of the hunt," Boullé exclaimed gayly. "The huntress and the most delicious harvest. I have seen nothing like it."
"I found some plums, a tree quite by itself, and only two branches of fruit. We must send some of the best pits to M. Hébert. And I shall plant a row in the Sieur's garden."
She brought out a dish and took them carefully from the birch-bark receptacle. The exquisite bloom had not been disturbed.
"I will get a dish for yours," she said to the young man.
"Mine were the gleanings," he laughed.
Miladi's eyes glowed at the sight of the feast. Rose had not emptied all of hers out, and now she laid three beauties in the corner of the cupboard, looking around until she espied a pan. Wooden platters were mostly used, even the Indian women were handy in fashioning them.
The young man had taken a seat and a plum, and was regaling his hostess with the adventure.
"Curious that I should find the place so easily," and he smiled most beguilingly. "Sometimes one seems led in just the right way."
For several reasons he preferred not to say he had heard the singing.