Years unmarked by any special events pass on almost unheeded. Trade came and went. A few new houses were built. Young people were married, new children were born. Families came from across the river, not liking their English neighbors over well. Occasionally there was an Indian alarm, but St. Louis had the good fortune to live mostly at peace with her red neighbors, while many of the Illinois towns suffered severely.
One of the events of the summer that delighted Renée was the birth of Wawataysee’s baby. It was a great marvel to her, though there were plenty of babies about. It was more French than Indian. It had beautiful large dark eyes and was a very fine specimen of babyhood. It was named for Uncle Gaspard, who was its godfather, and Wawataysee pleaded that Renée should be godmother.
“For you are the two people I love best after my husband,” said the Indian woman proudly. “You are like a little sister.”
Renée was very glad to be that now. She was learning to rejoice in the happiness of others.
Then Barbe Guion had a very pretty wedding, and the boat in which she was going to New Orleans was trimmed with flags. It was a long journey then, sometimes a dangerous one; less so at this season. And Barbe might be gone a whole year. There was a great turnout to wish her godspeed. She looked very bright and happy in her wedding gear.
Renée took Uncle Gaspard’s hand and glanced up in his face, which was rather grave.
“Are you sorry?” she asked.
“Sorry? What a question, child! Why should I be sorry?”
“She loved you very much,” was the answer, in a low tone.
“Nonsense! I am old enough to be her father. And Barbe married of her own free will.”