August came in. Pears and plums were ripening, and various articles were being put by for winter use. Sometimes the season was long and cold, and it was well to be prepared. Men worked in the fields to gather the early crops, and the young people had merry dances at night. The days began to grow a little shorter already.
Some one said as she stepped out of church one afternoon: “There is a small fleet coming down the river. Pierre Chouteau expects one of his in next week, but that will have a dozen or more.”
“That is only Latour’s. He has been up to St. Charles,” was the answer. “They have a great abundance of corn this season.”
Next week! Renée’s little heart beat with a great bound of joy. And after that boats would be coming in weekly, Indians with canoes full of furs, dried venison and fish from the lakes. If one of them brought Uncle Gaspard!
She went down to the rise of ground, almost like an embankment, long since worn away. She could see over the small throng. The first boat was moored; it had bales of something. The second had some passengers, women among them. A man was standing up, and suddenly he waved his hand. Who was it? It was waved again.
“Oh! oh!” She dropped down. All the air was full of sparks, and the river seemed turning round and getting mingled with the sky. When the mist cleared away she saw a confused throng of people, some leaping ashore, and a hurly-burly of voices. Had that brief vision been a dream? She felt strangely weak, then she laughed without knowing why and her eyes overflowed with tears.
A tall form came climbing up the hill with long strides, and then she was clasped in strong arms, she felt kisses on her forehead, she was lifted off her feet.
“Little one!” the voice said; and only one thing in her after life sounded as sweet. “Little one, oh, thank heaven you were saved!”
Then they sat down on the grass the sun had scorched into a dried mat.
“Did you come thinking to meet me?”