So everybody thought. And a child cannot be unhappy forever when every one joins to dispel her sorrow. She thawed out very slowly. André hardly knew what to make of her, she was so grave and indifferent.
He had found employment in the mill and felt quite elated. Madame Valbonais liked him very much. There was one son a trapper, though he did not take very long journeys. Then there were two bright girls who were not averse to having such an attractive cousin.
Through them he came to know the Renauds, and Barbe he thought extremely winsome. Before a fortnight had passed he was in the merrymakings and dances, and having a most enjoyable time. It did not trouble him now that he had been in more than one peril of his life.
The lieutenant-governor who had proved himself so unworthy was recalled. M. Cruzat was fortifying the town more securely than it had ever been, but for some time any body of Indians going back and forth roused a feeling of distrust and fear. Pleasure parties were careful not to trust themselves too far away.
Mère Lunde begged Wawataysee to remain with them, as M. Marchand was taking charge of the business. When Mattawissa came in with her pretty work and various articles, many of which went down to New Orleans, she and the young wife made very good friends.
“She will take every one away from me,” thought the child with a swelling heart, and she grew more reserved. Even Mère Lunde had to yield to the sweetness of Wawataysee. Sometimes she sang really beautiful Indian songs and described vividly the dances and entertainments, though there were many in which only old women were allowed.
July began to ripen fruits and fill the farmers with joy at the prospect of abundant crops. But Renée counted the weeks sadly. She was growing pale and thinner, and roamed about like an unquiet ghost. She would not play with the children, but rambled desolately by herself and occasionally stole down to the end of the stockade and ventured out to see her grandfather. He seemed nearly always at home now, sitting outside his neglected-looking cabin smoking his pipe and patching his clothes or making moccasins, on which he put stout soles of skin. He would nod and occasionally push a stool to her, which was the round of a log, and motion her to be seated.
One day he said sharply: “Has anything been heard of Gaspard Denys? Some traders have come in.”
She knew that. They had been at the shop.
“They have not seen him,” she admitted sorrowfully.