A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

by Amanda M. Douglas

Ah! there was much to be thankful for, and he felt a little conscience-smitten that he had not made more of a point of it.

The church was quite dark, with a candle burning on each side of the high altar. She led him clear up to the chancel steps, and there they knelt together. The little girl might not have understood all the fine points of belief that the world had fought over since Christ had died for all, and was still warring about, but her gratitude was sincere and earnest if not spiritual, at least in a devout spirit.

Gaspard Denys was moved by something he had never experienced before, and touched by the child’s tender, fervent faith.

Coming out, they met old Père Rierceraux, leaning on his cane. He had been godfather to little Mary Pion, the first child baptised by Father Meurin when there had been no church at all and only a tent in the woods. The rude little building was a temple to him, and thither he came every night to see that no harm was likely to befall it, and commend it to the watchful care of God.

“It is Gaspard Denys!” he said in a voice a little broken by the weight of years. “So thou hast come home from perils and hast devotion enough to thank God and the saints for it. There will be merry hearts to-night, quite unmindful of this. Ma’m’selle, I have noted thy devoutness also. The Holy Mother have thee in her keeping.”

It was quite dusk now and the houses were lighted up. At the Pichous’ they were playing already on the fiddles. Then there was this turn.

The good news had preceded Denys. The household had come out to meet him and there was great joy. Mère Lunde had already set a little feast, and they wondered at the loitering.

There had never been any welcome like this in his life before, no one to be greatly glad when he came or sorrowful when he went. It was like a new life, and his heart expanded, his pulses thrilled with a fervent joy. The beautiful Indian wife who smiled at him and then turned her eyes to her husband with an exquisite tenderness; the little girl whose gladness was so true and deep that her eyes had the soft lustre of tears now and then, and smiles that went to his heart; Mère Lunde’s happy, wrinkled old face, in her best coif and kerchief; and presently, neighbors coming in with joyous greetings. For in those days they shared each other’s joys and sorrows.

The remembrance of the cruel May day vanished. Flowers were growing over the graves of the dead in the little churchyard. Many of the captives had found their way back; some, indeed, lay in silent places far from kindred. They did not forget, but they were a light-hearted people, and their religion was not of the morbid, disquieting kind. Conscience with them had a few salient points of right and wrong, the rest did not touch their simple lives.

There was a gay autumn, with wine-making and brewing of spiced or plain beer, of meat and fish salted and dried, of corn gathered and wheat ground and the thrifty preparations for winter. All the meadow lands were abloom with autumnal flowers, the trees were gorgeous in all the coloring sun and winds and dew could devise, and the haze of the resplendent Indian summer hung over it all. There were nutting parties to the woods, but they were cautious and went well protected.